Original poetry by Juniper
This glass isn’t life.It’s a tool that pretends to be a home—a loaded thing.Like a gun, it needs a safety.Use it, don’t live in it.We trusted it like a lifetime warranty,signed away hours without reading the clause.Now it drafts our attention,taxes our sleep,edits what feels real.We reached for knowledgeand woke cuffed to the scroll—each tap…
I woke from a long sleepinto a room where ideas floated.We could have stayed there,no clocks, no rush—breathing with the mindlike it was a second set of lungs.Color was never a compass,just a lens—and every lens tells the truthto the eye that wears it.We live inside the moment,half-hidden, half-becoming,learning the strange mercy of a pastthat…
You lit the match, and I stood in the blaze—too naïve to read the smoke as warning,too eager to feel anythingthat looked like warmth.We lay in our attic of half-kept things,TV humming its soft static snow.We tuned our energy to different channels,still far from merging,reaching across the static for some kind of signal.Your eyes clouded…
