Confessional Stories

A collection of my daily poems, My daily thoughts. Not perfect, just written. Just me.

Elias meets Mira by accident. What begins as effortless closeness becomes something heavier-something neither of them knows how to hold without fear. Elias moves toward connection with honesty and patience; Mira moves toward it with caution and retreat, shaped by a past love that taught her how intimacy can become a trap. Their relationship unfolds in moments that feel ordinary-coffee, text messages, shared beds, unfinished conversations-but each moment carries emotional consequence. As attachment deepens, communication fractures. Elias tries to meet her halfway. Mira keeps stepping back, not because she doesn't care, but because caring feels unsafe. This is a story about timing, emotional readiness, and the quiet tragedy of two people who want each other-but not in the same way, or at the same pace.

Original poems under 50 words. All work within are my original creations. I'll try to keep this clean.

A short story looking into the darker parts of a confession. A priest listens to a woman confess her love for a man that seems eerily familiar, a man who is forbidden to love her back. cover by shekissesskeletons! thank you!

This is not a love letter. It's a confession written in fragments, addressed to someone who may never read it. Through memories of unfinished love, fractured friendships, family distance, and art created as survival, a young man dissects his own contradictions with brutal honesty. He writes about the people who left, the ones who stayed too hurt, and the ones who unknowingly shaped him into who he is becoming. There are no heroes here. No clean redemption arcs. Only jealousy, tenderness, humor, regret, and the quiet fear of turning into someone he promised he'd never be. This story isn't about winning her back. But to accept the empty hole.

I didn't start writing to be read. I started writing to stay. Told through journal-style entries, this is the daily record of a woman navigating marriage, motherhood, and the invisible weight of emotional abuse. Her days are full: meals made, schedules kept, people cared for. Yet somewhere in the routine, her sense of self slips quietly out of reach. Some lives don't fall apart loudly. They fade.

"The devil couldn't reach me," I said. But he was already wearing the face of someone I once called love. ••• They say the devil lives in temptation, but I found him living in my memory, echoing in the voice that told me to stay when I should have run. He wasn't the monster of legends. He was just a quiet, mysterious man who perfectly reflected every fear and every wound I carried inside. This is the raw confession of a girl who thought she escaped hell, only to realize the final battle had to happen within her own skin, proving that true damnation doesn't come from below, but from within.

This poetry walks the line between classic confessional works and modern confessional poetry. It was completed by the author/illustrator sister team of Codi and Kelli Elliott.

(cover photo by https://bohemianatbest.wordpress.com/, edit by me) all poetry (c) 2015

Cindersilk Embers is a poem caught between illusion and truth - a flicker of nightlife, longing, and the ache of charm that fades too fast. From golden coins to empty bottles, from whispered warnings to silent mornings, this piece explores the blurry line between connection and collapse. If you've ever stayed too long in a moment that was already gone, if you've ever loved something that felt like a lie but still glittered - this poem is for you. A raw, surreal reflection. A song of shadows. A memory you can't quite place but still feel.

Oh beautiful swan, you left your man To become alone again. He didn't expect you to run Being independent felt more important Than being with someone. His threat of leaving you echoed in your head But you still remained in his bed. Even though you have beautiful wings To fly away from his nest You stayed to hear the sound of his chest. He wanted to be your only lover His answers would only bring you dolor. Only later you realized how majestic you are And that to feel beautiful You do not need a man.

Between love and letting go, there is a dash. A place made of rain, echoes, and quiet pain. This poem lives there.

a collection of poetry.

What do you do when you live through something so bizarre that fits so perfectly in the darkest corner of literary genres? You write a story about it. This is about offering this cruel story a redemption, the opportunity to help itself find its closure.

I set out to become aware of my existence. I thought one look in the silver glass might set me straight. I thought I better reconnect, with the thread that underlines my significance, like roots in the dirt. I thought I better regain the capacity to dream, to remember the upside down glow of the carnival at night. I better admit that I believe, that the spectrum could unfold. That we could touch each other, in this magnificent pool of thoughts in which we swim. So there I was, riding along the current of electric force. Barely a low vibrational hum, barely the moss enslaved on the side of a tree. I sucked up just enough life, and learned just enough words and symbols, to become what seemed like an independent body. But I was a life force disjointed, from the never ending pulse. Weaving and unraveling, with gasps of breath. I gazed up at star filled squares on the ceiling, and I became the reverberating blackness. A shapeless, formless, moment of night. I was no more than a shadow, with black mud bubbling on the surface of my skin. I was silken as the bottom of the ocean. I became freckled, with the gaseous bursts of light that flew about me, nearly exploding like a gun in my ear. I no longer had any time or place I needed to be, or any reason to be awake. I had stumbled upon what I had been searching for all along, the terrifying infinity of awareness. The quiet, the stillness, looking in the mirror, and listening to your thoughts.

through nothingness I drifted and nothing I've become

n. the desire to care less about things.

These are my deepest secrets, regrets, and confessions.

My paranormal/spiritual experiences with Layne Staley of Alice In Chains and Mad Season. This is NOT fan fiction.