POETRY

Language under pressure until it turns radiant.

It does not float above the world; it bores into it, cutting to seams prose can’t expose. It is both echo and spark, holding what passes, igniting what lies dormant.

It is the forge where silence and sound collide, where a fragment can weigh more than volumes of explanation.

A poem contracts like a star before flaring into vision, dense, unstable, unforgettable. And yet it can also wander, playful, absurd, chasing what refuses capture.

To call it ornament is to betray its gravity. Poetry is not adornment but distillation, a vessel for what slips through ordinary speech: the tremor of loss, the astonishment of clarity, the pulse of the unspoken finally given shape.

What it demands of us is not reverence but presence. To read or write a poem is to pause in the torrent, to let perception shift, to stand inside language until the world itself feels rearranged.

About Writing

Writing, for me, is an act of restoration. It is a way to breathe more deeply, to listen inward, and to honor the moments that shape us quietly. Each sentence is a return to what we’ve learned, a small journey back to awareness, gratitude, and truth.

I write to discover what is still alive beneath the noise all around us. Sometimes for one another, sometimes for just one person, sometimes for myself, the self that has been waiting to be found again. When the words come, they feel less written than revealed, like the tide ebbing to show what was always there beneath the surface.

This is what I call #RestorativeWriting, the slow practice of turning emotion into clarity, and experience into peace. It is the space where tears are welcome, laughter arrives unforced, and meaning rises naturally from the ordinary.

If the work leaves you steadier, quieter, or more awake to your own life, then we have already met in the place these words were meant to take us.