There are some truths too quiet to say out loud. They live beneath the surface, dressed in competence and success, hidden behind the applause, the promotions, the practiced smile. This poem speaks to one of those truths—the relentless, invisible weight of never feeling good enough. Not because of failure, but in spite of achievement. It's written without the word I , but make no mistake—it’s personal. For anyone who’s ever worn the shape the world asked for and still felt like an imposter beneath it, Chameleon Skin is for you. Chameleon Skin Not for lack of effort, nor talent braided into bone. The hands did what was asked. The voice bent in every key. Smiles were painted precise. Mirrors practiced them well. In boardrooms, applause. At home, a quiet too vast for words. Always the first in, last to leave. Deadlines dissolved under fingertips worn thin. Still— not enough. A name on plaques, a corner office view, the slow nod of respect that never pierced the shell. Each rung climb...

 Strings We enter this world as fallen puppets, limbs sprawled across the stage of existence— no strings to lift us skyward, no master's hand to guide our dance. Born frail and feeble, we draw strength from those around us, grasping at invisible threads that promise to pull us upright, to steady us as we move through the world. The first string to attach, for the fortunate, anchors in the heart of a loving mother— silver-spun and strong as steel. It lifts our chin, straightens our spine, teaches us what it means to stand. Then comes family, bound by blood or bond— the strings longer, more flexible, but still supportive. Friendship’s golden wire finds hold next: laughter’s crimson cord, the emerald thread of first love that makes us leap and spin. We gather strings like promises, each one a reason to rise— mentors who guide our gestures, passions that animate our purpose. For a while, we dance beautifully, suspended in a web of care. Every movement gr...

 As I embrace the life of a hermit, a recluse, and a writer , I find myself engaging more deeply with the world through ideas , not presence. These ideas don’t always arrive fully formed—they come in fragments, in twilight hours, in dreams I half-remember. You’ll find them in my books, my quiet thoughts, and sometimes, in poems like this one. Photo by Pixabay: https://www.pexels.com/photo/sunset-across-seat-301494/ Worlds Between Worlds I’ve lived my life, Many lives, In the twilight. Not that space Between day and night, When the sun escapes Over the horizon, And the moon shuffles To its nightly observation post— But the space between my eyelids, Blocking out the day, Preparing to transition me from one world to the next— From the world of the living, To the world of the subconscious. The twilight is the world that exists Between those. It is that world In which I have so many lives. A rancher, a recluse, A holy man, a hermit, A lover, a fighter, A man of power, a man of me...