Aspen Writes Poetry

 They say,   "Love thy neighbour,"   Yet preach hate instead.   They say,   "Be yourself,"   But only if yourself   Fits in a box   They understand.   They want   To see you   In a mirror   That reflects   Their world,   But not   Your truth.   How many times   Can you break   And mend   And break again   Before you decide   To live whole?   To the ones   Who choose   To transform,   To align   Their soul   With their skin—   Know this:   You are not   The cracked pieces   They tried to shatter,   But the mosaic   You crafted   From their shards.   You are not   Their whispers   Of sin,   But the symphony   O...

Deleted: A Journey Through Erased Layers in Art In art, the deleted holds as much significance as the created. We often speak of creation as the ultimate expression, but what about deletion? What about the layers we decide to erase, the elements we choose to cover up, the deleted strokes of a brush that never make it to the final canvas? We start with a blank space, full of potential. Deleted decisions, deleted brushstrokes, and deleted thoughts create the foundation of our work. Every artist, regardless of medium, faces moments where the eraser becomes as vital as the pencil, where the backspace key outweighs the forward motion of typing. Deletion is part of the process. Think about the manuscripts with words deleted. The writer chooses to delete to make the prose more powerful. In painting, an artist might paint over a section, deleted it from the viewer’s eye, yet it remains part of the composition’s history. The deleted layers add depth, even when they’re no longer visible. Why do ...

 Tell them   You are strong,   With or without a job.   Tell them   Your worth is not tied   To a paycheck or title.   You are a force,   A flame,   A beacon of resilience.   Your purpose   Is to carve a path,   To make it better   For the next soul.   You carry the light   Of those who came before,   And for those   Yet to come.   Stand tall   In your truth,   And remember—   You are enough,   Just as you are.  

You paint me   In shades of chaos,   As if I am the storm   That craves the drama.   But it is your hands   Digging in the dirt,   Unearthing stories   That never existed.   You imagine me   Mentally sound,   Seeking only eyes   To feed on my performance.   But I know   This stage is yours,   And your scripts are written   In misunderstandings.   You say I don’t love   Your friend   For the essence of him,   As though my heart   Is a shallow well.   But you don't see   How deep it runs,   How it overflows   With the truth of us.   Fortunately,   I am not the mirage   You created   In your fractured lens.   I am here   With open hands   And a heart that beats   With sinceri...

You know who you are you sent darkness to my door wrapped in threats and venom pretending to care about people's health your facade crumbles under the weight of your lies you egged me on to die with words dipped in poison how dare you your concern is a masquerade a hollow echo in an empty room I pity your friends bearing the brunt of your practised cruelty their mental health a fragile flower under your unkind gaze I see through you your intentions as clear as shattered glass you know who you are and now so do I

 It's one of those days again. You know the kind. The kind where the sky looks like a dull, washed-out canvas, and every sound seems muffled, like life itself is bored of making noise. The tea's gone cold, the bed's a mess, and there's an overwhelming sense that maybe, just maybe, none of this really matters. I keep thinking, What am I doing? But it's more than that, isn't it? It's more like, Why am I doing? What’s the point in the ritual of waking up, brushing teeth, pretending to care about what shirt goes with what jeans, only to fall back into bed with nothing really changed? I feel like I'm a character in a book who’s lost the plot, and I’m flipping through pages that are blank, no narrative, no purpose. It’s like I’m just waiting for something or someone to scribble a reason into the margins. It's this gnawing feeling, like an itch that I can’t scratch. The kind of tired that sleep doesn’t fix. I’m sick of the monotony, the same old small talk ...

Finding Strength in the Struggle: A Journey Through Health Tiny Turtle Shells Tiny turtle shells  hide the weight  of ancient oceans  on their backs like you and I  carry our worlds  behind fragile smiles slow steps  through time’s tide  seeking shorelines  we can’t yet see but oh, the strength  in each weary stride  and in the knowing  that we are enough even when burdened  by the heaviest waves  we carry on small, steady  and unbreakable --- Life has a way of testing our resilience in ways we never imagined. Lately, I have been grappling with challenges that have made each day feel like an uphill battle. My physical and mental health have been put to the test, leaving me feeling vulnerable and, at times, overwhelmed.  The poem above resonates deeply with my current state. Just like the tiny turtles, we often bear the weight of our worlds on our backs, hidden behind smiles that don't always reveal the full exten...

 Life is not, A series of checkboxes, Ticked off on a list.   It is a winding path,  Of wildflowers and thorns,   Of sunsets and storms.   The world tells us, To measure our worth, By the milestones,  We've reached.   But know this:   Your value,   Is not in the medals, Hung on your wall,   But in the laughter   That escapes your lips,   In the quiet moments, When you feel whole.   Some dreams,   Bloom late,   Some seeds,  Take time,   To break through,   The soil—   And that's okay.   Do not rush,   The beauty, Of your becoming.   Do not fret, Over timelines,   Drawn by others.   Trust that the universe,  Has a plan,   For your unique journey.   Celebrate the steps,   No matter how small.   Breathe in,  The present,...