Poetry Monday
The Depth of Me: A Quiet Ache for Connection
By Carlos Mass
There’s a weight to the depth I carry,
one that feels both infinite and isolating.
It’s not just that I think deeply—it’s that I feel the world in ways that seem to escape others.
Every glance, every word spoken, every silence—
it’s all magnified in my mind,
a web of meaning that ties everything together
and pulls me into places
I can’t always explain.
I see patterns where others see chaos,
connections where others see nothing at all.
But with that gift comes the ache
of knowing my mind is a universe
that few, if any, will ever explore.
The loneliness isn’t just about being alone.
It’s in those moments
when I try to share a part of myself
and feel the subtle distance in someone’s eyes—
the way their understanding falls short,
not because they don’t care,
but because they can’t see what I see.
It’s in the emptiness of a hug
that doesn’t quite hold all of me,
in conversations that skim the surface
while my soul waits—
yearning for someone to dive deep.
and the sadness…
it’s a quiet storm
every love that never bloomed.
It’s the ghosts of the past,
whispering of what was
and what will never be again.
I carry so much inside—
thoughts, emotions, dreams, pain—
and sometimes it feels
like I’m drowning in a sea of my own creation,
longing for someone
who can swim beside me,
someone who can feel the same tides,
someone who doesn’t just float above the waves
but dives into the depths with me.
But for now, it’s just me—the weight of my mind,
the ache of my heart,
and the quiet, relentless hope
that maybe, someday,
someone will see me.
Not the surface.
Not the mask.
But me.
All of me.
The Underwood Manifesto
by Rafael C. Castillo
We refuse the algorithms.
We gather in the hush of ribbon and ink.
Our index fingers,
blackened by carbon,
strike letters that thud
into paper like drumbeats
recalling our ancestors.
We remember the sacredness
Of words,
When “send”
meant sealing an envelope,
licking the flap,
entrusting it to the postal winds
each journey
a pilgrimage,
each Address
a sacred place.
Now, the glowing embers of surveillance
Stare: from every screen,
every direction,
A giant eyeball.
We take refuge in clack and bell,
in the metal hymns of old Underwoods.
That sacred machine is our temple,
the page our altar.
We write in forgotten codes:
Runes from ancient tongues,
Nahuatl syllables carved from obsidian memory.
We speak to one another across the centuries
messages hidden in myth,
in the cadence of ancient prayers,
in the laughter of gods who outlived empires.
For techno-eyes can scan data
but not dreams,
Archive our words
but not our meanings.
This is the Underwood Manifesto.
Resistance born from sovereignty
Ink-bound,
hand-born,
gloriously analog.
past the algorithms,
past the watchers,
past the age of forgetting.
We refuse to kneel.
This is a powerful poem. Thank you for publishing it.