Ryan's Poetry

06/17/2026

06/16/2026

It's you

06/16/2026

I used to shrink myself for people who weren't even watching.
Changed my dreams. Softened my opinions. Apologized for wanting things that didn't look like what everyone else wanted.
And the wild part? The people I was shrinking for — they still had something to say.
They always do.
That's the thing nobody tells you when you're young and still trying to earn your place in a room. It doesn't matter how carefully you live. It doesn't matter how quietly you walk or how many edges you sand off yourself. Someone will always have a critique. A raised eyebrow. A "are you sure about that?"
Poets know this better than most.
Every poet who ever put something real on a page had someone tell them it was too much. Too emotional. Too honest. Too strange. Too simple. Too complicated. Too personal. Not personal enough.
Sylvia Plath was told her work was hysterical.

Walt Whitman self-published because nobody wanted him.

Emily Dickinson published fewer than a dozen poems in her lifetime — not because she stopped writing, but because the world wasn't ready.
And yet.
They kept writing the truest thing they knew how to write. Not the safest thing. The truest thing.
That's what poetry demands of you. It sits across from you and asks — what would you say if you weren't afraid of how it lands?
And slowly, if you let it, it teaches you to ask that question about your whole life.
What would you do?

Where would you go?

Who would you love?

What would you build?
If you already knew people were going to have something to say — and you did it anyway.
Because here's what I've learned from living inside language long enough:
The critics don't remember what they criticized.

But the poet always remembers what they wrote.
The person who judged your choices five years ago has moved on to judging someone else's.

But you — you're still carrying the weight of the road you didn't take because you were afraid of what they'd say.
That's the real cost of living for other people's opinions.
Not their judgment. Your unlived life.
So write the poem that scares you.

Live the life that excites you.

Take the path that makes sense to nobody but you.
People will always have something to say.
Give them something worth talking about. 🖤

06/16/2026

There's a quiet difference between holding something close and truly caring for it. One is about the moment; the other is about the journey.

When you're drawn to something new, it's easy to get caught up in the excitement. You want to possess it, to claim it, to make it yours. It feels good in the moment—like a rush of warmth that makes you forget everything else. But that feeling can fade just as quickly as it came, leaving you wondering what you were so drawn to in the first place.

But when you genuinely value something, when it matters beyond the surface, you show up differently. You don't just admire it from afar or take it for granted. You pay attention to the small things—the little signs that tell you it needs care, attention, time. You don't walk away when it's not perfect. You stay when it's hard. You nurture it even when no one is watching.

One is about how something makes you feel. The other is about what you're willing to give.

One asks, "What can this do for me?" The other asks, "What can I do for this?"

And maybe that's the real measure of meaning in anything—whether it's a person, a dream, or a quiet corner of your life that you've chosen to protect. The things that last aren't the ones we grab. They're the ones we hold gently, water daily, and choose again and again, even when the novelty fades.

Because at the end of the day, it's not about what you take. It's about what you're willing to build.

06/16/2026

What is the difference between "I like you" and "I love you" ? 🥀

One plucks. The other waters daily.