I went looking for my old poems like a man digging through ashes after the fire trucks leave. Thought maybe one survived. One line. One crooked little verse still breathing under the rubble. But memory is a thief with soft hands. It doesn’t kick the door in it slowly empties the house while you’re distracted trying to survive life. Some poems were written on napkins stained with coffee, some on receipts, some in notebooks swollen from rain, some typed at 2 a.m. while the world slept and my heart refused to. And now? Gone. Vanished into old phones, dead laptops, lost accounts, boxes buried somewhere between moving trucks and heartbreak. I used to think poetry was permanent. Turns out paper burns, ink fades, hard drives fail, and sometimes grief hits harder than memory can hold. There was one poem I wrote years ago damn, it was good too. The kind that makes you stop breathing for half a second after the last line. Now all I remember is the feeling of writing it. Like hearing an old song through the wall of another room. You can almost make out the words, but not enough to sing along. Maybe that’s the cruel joke of being a poet. We spend our lives trying to preserve moments that life itself is determined to erase. But here’s the strange thing Even though the poems disappeared, the man who wrote them didn’t. The loss stayed. The love stayed. The scars stayed. The stories stayed. And maybe poems are less like photographs and more like campfires. They were never meant to last forever. The Poems I Couldn't Save By Jason Strickland

I don’t know why I can’t do anything, my spirit like a fog, drifting through days, where millions of emotions collide, a tempest within, crying, screaming, yet silent, the world sees only a shadow, a figure of unending stillness. Each dawn breaks with a flicker of hope, a fragile whisper nudging me, reminding me of things I long to do for my parents, the weight of their dreams resting upon my weary shoulders, like an unyielding stone. And yet, I step into the abyss, numbness enveloping me, as if I’m wading through a river of lost opportunities, my heart pounding against the cage of despair, longing to soar, but tethered. The echoes of my insides play a symphony of turmoil, those choruses of frustration, a cacophony of doubt, where hope gleams bright only to shatter like glass kissed by a heavy hand, shards glittering cruelly in the promise of a better tomorrow. Oh, how I beg for strength, to fight this battle within, the duel of light and dark, to silence the voices that drown my will, to focus my heart on one noble cause, an anchor in this storm. I want to pour my love like rain over parched earth, to see their smiles bloom as flowers awaken after the frost, to wrap my arms around them, filled with the warmth of purpose, to be their fortress in a world that often feels too cold. But every step feels heavy, like trudging through quicksand, tangled thoughts pull me under, and I gasp for breath, searching the horizon for a sign, a light, something to cling to when the nights grow long and shadows threaten to consume. I wish to be the sun, breaking through the clouds, shining down on their weary faces, lifting their burdens with the softness of my heart, to whisper softly, “I see you, I love you, I am here. ” But these chains of doubt, they grip me tight; I feel them gnaw, tearing at the edges of my resolve, and each time I gather strength, they pull me back, reminding me of all I have yet to become. Oh, kind universe, bring me clarity, help me to channel this flood of emotion,