There Are Always Words

People say

there are no words.

There are always words.

Sometimes they move

at a frequency too fine

for the ear to register—

a kind of silent screaming,

a whisper loud enough

to rattle bone.

There are always words.

They strike the heart,

cascade through the mind,

detonate in the soul.

And still,

we do not hear them.

We do not listen.

We do not speak.

We gather them instead—

tucking them into the coffers

we carry inside the body,

holding them

until we are ready

to face what they’ve been saying

all along.

There are always words.

Free them.

Speak them.

Hear them.

There are always

words.

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

September 5, 2026 

The Storyteller

My body tells stories

I never agreed to—

a tightening in the chest

that whispers danger

when all I’m facing

is an ordinary morning 

It lies in the language

of trembling hands,

in the sudden quickening

of breath

that insists

I am still standing

in yesterday’s fire 

My pulse rehearses old scripts,

repeating scenes

I no longer believe 

It remembers wounds

I worked hard to forget 

and calls them warnings

even when the room is quiet 

My body lies

because it cannot distinguish

memory from threat 

ache from warning 

fatigue from failure  

It tells me

I am breaking

when I am only bending 

It tells me

I am alone

when I am only afraid 

It tells me

this pain is permanent

because it cannot imagine

anything but now 

And still—

I listen 

Because beneath the lies

is a truth my body

cannot articulate:

it is trying

to keep me alive 

Even when it shakes 

even when it misremembers 

even when it mistakes 

tenderness for danger 

silence for abandonment 

love for loss— 

my body lies

only because

it learned too early

how fragile I was 

And I forgive it—

every time 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

September 3, 2026 

Still Here

We all make mistakes 

Some end the conversation 

Some become the place 

where people choose to leave 

Life lies to us in those moments 

whispering that this 

is what we deserve —

a love measured by performance 

a mold we must fit 

or be discarded 

And when we slip 

when we fall short of the shape

someone else demanded 

we become—

in their eyes—

unlovable 

That lie feeds the old hunger:

we err 

we shrink 

we stop loving ourselves 

stop caring for the body

that carries our grief 

stop tending the soul

that still wants to live 

So I need you to stop 

Step outside the box

you were folded into 

See yourself as you are:

loved not despite your mistakes 

but including them 

Worthy of compassion 

Worthy of care 

Worthy of staying 

Stop 

Step out 

I am still here 

I am still loving 

I am still caring 

You are more than the moment

that tried to define you 

More than the choice

you wish you could take back 

More than the story

shame keeps trying to tell 

Reach out 

We are still here 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

September 2, 2026