The Marine Corps taught me how to survive. How to steady my breath in the middle of gunfire. How to hit a moving target at 500 yards without a scope, like death was just math and muscle memory. They trained my hands to solve problems before my mind could panic. Trained my eyes to scan every rooftop, every shadow. Trained my voice to stay calm when the world turned to fire. But they never trained me for Gethsemane. They never showed me what to do when the enemy was inside my own skin. When the battlefield followed me home and pitched a tent in my chest. No one said that stillness could feel like danger. That silence could sound like war. That peace could feel like betrayal to a system built on survival. There was no manual for 2:17 a.m. in a kitchen dim with refrigerator light, where I stand barefoot and haunted— my daughter asleep, my soul still scanning rooftops. They taught me how to fight. But not how to hold a child without flinching. Not how to answer the door without imagining breach and clear. They taught me to survive the fire. But not how to live in the absence of it. Not how to sleep in a bed that doesn’t breathe danger but still wakes me up soaked in sweat, gripping grace like a last weapon. Jesus didn’t give me a drill manual either. But He met me somewhere between memory and mercy. He didn’t bark orders— He knelt beside me. Didn’t flinch at the blood on my hands— He showed me His. He didn’t say, “Get over it.” He said, “I was wounded too.” He didn’t rush my healing. He just stayed. Stayed when I couldn’t feel my own pulse. Stayed when the scripture made no sense but the silence between verses did. I came home with every limb intact. But sometimes I look in the mirror and can’t find the man who left. Sometimes I still wear my boots around the house— not out of nostalgia, but because peace still feels too soft, and I don’t trust softness. But He’s teaching me. Not how to forget— but how to carry it differently. How to unclench my fists without losing the strength that got me through.

"I breathe" I crave my thoughts I long to roam I mourn the body I've called home I miss my smile I miss my friends I miss attending Fun events I long to write I ache to read I mourn my mind’s Lost complexity I long to swim They miss the key I mourn the mum I wished to be I miss the cows I miss the boots I miss the meadows And my roots And I breathe... I miss my family And humanity And the fantasy Of financially Independently wishing sanity And a gravity That isn’t captivity Not an analogy But brutality Rising agony Because the hospitality Of the mentality That brings casualty And normality To this brutality Of depravity, Loss of capacity, Is in reality A communal mortality. And I breathe... I long to run I ache to think I mourn being A missing link I want to help I want to give I mourn knowing How to fully live I miss the world I long to see My own reflection I mourn me ...And. I. breathe. #MECFS #Longcovid

What do you want to see more of in this group? What would get you excited to be part of our circle? What do you want from me as admin? What would make you more interested in posting your poems and providing feedback to others?

A few errors repeated daily create a massively different life compared to a few good disciplines repeated daily. It's like a couple planes flying across a continent at 1 degree different directions. Even that small of a difference when compounded across long periods of time create night and day different results. What do you want to course correct in your daily habits? What do you want to double down on and repeat? Sharing is caring, let's talk!

My soul is thirsty for music, Not just to hear the notes, but to taste them and run my fingers through their hair as they emerge from my being. I’ve long taken for granted that I am an instrument of God, What then shall be my instrument this moment? Dare I say it could be different in the next. I am not bound to material tools, I am endlessly transmorphing and individuating in sound. Tunes thread through my mind with images spurring them forth. Ragas fill my heart and caress my soul with sweet buttermilk and Moonlight, And each night vibrates with the bliss of Saraswati’s cooing. 2024-0505