poetry

a poem by matt ⭒ august 25, 2026

if hope really is a dangerous thing,
then I would be standing on the cliffside—
not staring bleakly into the abyss below,
but gazing at the great horizons ahead:
eyes still teary with childlike wonder,
head spinning with cautious optimism,
heart full of emotion I'd never once felt.

if happiness really is like a butterfly,
then it would rest gently on my fingertips—
wings glistening delicately in the sunrise,
finally free to flutter away into this world:
and if they come with their webs and nets,
it would land back into my warm embrace,
blooming more new flowers in my mind.

and as I stroll memory lane one last time,
innocent hope and happiness intertwine—
inviting me away from the familiar path,
into an ivy-lined garden of butterflies:
where four years of wanderlust await
beyond the grand wrought-iron gates.
and walking in, I realize, that's my Place.

a poem by matt ⭒ july 12, 2026

the girl who stands under the silver cloud
curses the rain and cries for clear skies.
the boy who walks below the boiling sun
begs for thunder and the mercy of the rain.

the girl ignores the boy's desperate pleas
and insists that he is spoiled by his sun.
yet in her lifetime, she will never know
that all the grass had withered in his world.

the boy never believes in the girl's suffering
and scorns her for not cherishing her rain.
yet in his lifetime, he will never know
that all the grass had flooded in her world.

and such is the story of their tragic existence:
the girl under the cloud, the boy below the sun,
each doomed to think the other's grass is greener
when no grass could grow anywhere in this world.

a poem by matt ⭒ july 10, 2026

one hour and sixty-one minutes past infinity,
chromatic dust shimmers on a dim phone screen;
I stare into imagined memories on the ceiling,
but with every blink they instantly disappear,
vanishing into the emptiness of my bedroom air—

there's always an unsettling comfort in staying up so late,
watching misty images of my past reanimate and dissipate:
smoke and shadows drifting through faded childhood halls,
two familiar yet younger figures with the same lovely smiles,
holding so softly the hands of a boy no older than five—

and he looked like me! some spirit suddenly jolts me
into this liminal sensation between sleep and reality:
I half-consciously extend my hands toward the ceiling,
hoping to even momentarily grasp that long-lost memory,
but I feel nothing but the stillness of that bedroom air—

and the strange regret of remembering something that was never there.

a poem by matt ⭒ july 7, 2026

the worst thing we could wish for
is to be able to fast-forward our lives.
too often may we find it tempting
to never have to wait in line,
to escape another sleepless night,
to know everything in an instant
without a second of wasted time.

but with every minute we skip,
and every moment we miss,
we are betraying our own reality,
we are killing our limited time,
and we start losing what it truly means
to fear, to despair, to love, to hope,
to be human in our wonderful lives.

so I hope you will experience everything:
every imperfection in your routine,
every wrong you learn to right,
every nightmare and every dream,
every morning and every midnight,
because the best thing we could wish for
is to be able to live in the moment
and enjoy the great ride of life.

a poem by matt ⭒ june 22, 2026

it's against my better judgment,
but it's always been my dream:
to take the road not taken,
to see and love the unseen,
and travel from here to infinity,
even though I'm just eighteen.

I'd bring only a small backpack
and a heart full of cautious hope;
I'll step aboard the midnight train
before you would ever know:
and there I'll sit by the window
watching the starlit landscape go.

I'd soon start drifting into sleep
as the train speeds up the coast,
but I'll always be awakened again
by those thoughts of you alone:
and with every unknown town I pass,
I know I'll still miss home.

if only you were a wanderer too,
you would sit right next to me,
and when we arrive by sunrise
at the magical city by the sea,
we'd stroll the streets together,
nowhere worse nor better to be.

a poem by matt ⭒ june 14, 2026

not a single streetlight
stays lit in this neighborhood.
not a single ice cream van
now drives down these streets.
and not a single summer night slips by
without thoughts of childhood joy.

when the frogs still hummed
by the backyard pond,
when the mourning doves still sung
on maple trees above,
when the streetlights were still on
and we danced under them every night,
playing tag and sharing jokes
that only us neighborhood kids would know,
until nine o'clock came
and we were called home,
when we waved each other goodbye
and all said, "see you tomorrow!"

but someday not too long ago,
those "tomorrows" stopped,
and all of our little jokes,
we dropped and forgot,
and we started moving away
to places we never imagined,
with no time for goodbyes,
before the trucks headed west,
the ice cream vans drove off,
and our street lost its lights.

yet here I stand this summer night
under those same streetlights,
the ones that raised me
that have now turned dark.
but even in the darkness,
I still hear us laughing,
savoring our childhoods
that we once thought
would never end.

a poem by matt ⭒ june 14, 2026

in my mind lies an infinite lavender field,
and in the field lies a boy looking like me:

he spends his nights dreaming,
beneath the embrace of a lone willow tree:
sometimes staring at the moon,
eyes reflecting the night sky,
hoping that, someday soon,
he will escape the endless fields,
to sail across the cosmic seas,
all on his own, silently alone,
unbothered, unbounded,
unseen.

he spends his days wandering,
between the rows (and rows) of purple flowers:
sometimes staring at the sun,
half-blinded by her brightness,
yet still admiring her anyway,
for he sees celestial love in her light,
his warmest longing in his waking life,
to stay in the lavender fields forever,
with another, an unknown lover,
together.