A Broth of Acquired Emotions

In the course 

of the day

there is a glut 

of emotions ingested 

The grumbling of waking 

to even the sweetest alarm 

the reluctant resolve 

to face the day 

Sleepwalking through the ritual 

using the barest minimum of thought—

out the door, into the car,

praying for a drive devoid of event 

A successful, uneventful drive 

The usual parking spot 

The walk into the building 

elevator to 4, unlock the door 

Food and drinks to the fridge 

everything else on the desk 

Then the gamut begins—

coworkers, customers 

reliving the latest news and gossip 

ingesting joy, hope, despair, hatred 

bombarded by word‑images 

I think I might just explode one day

as the space within fills to capacity 

stretched thin by everything I’ve swallowed 

one more thing and something gives 

One more joyous event

One more sob story

One more political rant

One more broken heart — 

I will vomit out a word salad

thick with joy and sorrow

love and hate 

hope and despair — 

highs and lows 

all scrambled together

When the vessel finally overflows 

it won’t be rage or silence

but a spill of everything I’ve carried—

the sweet, the bitter, the half‑chewed stories 

the laughter that wasn’t mine 

the grief I never asked for 

A broth of acquired emotions

simmering past the edge 

Such are poems 

and other lies I tell 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 31, 2026 

Answers

There are always answers 

We don’t always receive them 

Sometimes we refuse to ask 

because we already know

and cannot bear the knowing 

Other times the answer stands before us 

plain, unblinking—

and we turn away 

The answer for now

is not the answer for tomorrow 

But today still demands its truth 

We cannot step into better tomorrows

while denying the ground beneath our feet 

Answers are not always light 

Sometimes they arrive 

as storm

as shadow 

as the ache 

before the healing 

Few answers are final 

Sorrow, pain, grief—

they are part of the truth we seek 

Deny them 

and we remain suspended

between what was

and what could be 

Answers are stepping stones 

Refusing one

does not erase it 

Accept it 

Build from it 

Only then

can the answer change 

And from the stones of tomorrow 

we may find a different question 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 30, 2026

Unfinished Rooms

We build excuses
when our reasons no longer comfort us—
thin shelters stitched from fear
skins stretched over truths
we cannot bear to touch 

They are the armor we wear
when our weaknesses feel too loud
They shine like strength
until someone looks closely
and sees the seams 

They are the masks we lift
when our shortcomings ache
They mimic completeness
a polished façade
over unfinished rooms 

We are imperfect creatures
forever patching the cracks
forever painting over the places
where the truth shows through 

And everyone you meet today
is carrying their own fractures—
some hidden
some healing
some still learning
how to stop pretending 

We are all
trying to navigate
our own unfinished rooms 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 29, 2026 

The Distance Between Skins

We think we are an island 

a solitary shape rising from the water 

self‑made, self‑contained 

untouched by the tides that carry other lives 

But we are not 

We are archipelagos—

separate only at the surface 

connected by the quiet bridges

we pretend not to need 

We all search for someone 

though we rarely admit it 

Someone to share the weight

of our unspoken hours 

someone to hold the pieces

we scatter behind us like breadcrumbs

for the brave or the curious 

We offer fragments of ourselves

to those who drift near—

a story here, a confession there 

a truth trimmed down

to something safe enough to survive 

We never give the whole 

Not because we are false 

but because 

we are fragile 

Everyone enters our life by degrees 

Circles within circles 

thresholds within thresholds 

Some remain at the periphery 

shadows moving along the outer ring 

Some step closer 

but never close enough

to hear the tremor beneath our voice 

We are Russian nesting dolls 

layered by caution 

painted by experience 

hollowed by the things

we cannot say aloud 

Each shell a version of ourselves—

the polite one 

the guarded one 

the one who smiles through the ache 

the one who knows exactly

where the fractures are 

And at the center 

the smallest figure 

the truest one—

the self we rarely let breathe 

the self we hope

someone will one day reach

without breaking us open 

It is not a hardship

to maintain the façade 

It is the etiquette of survival 

the cost of coexistence 

the quiet choreography

of being human 

Still, beneath every layer 

beneath every practiced mask 

we are waiting—

for the one presence

we will trust with the final door 

the one who will see us

without translation 

the one who will know

the distance between our skins

and choose to stay 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 27, 2026 

The Edge of the World

 Every man takes the limits of his own field of vision for the limits of the world — Arthur Schopenhauer 

The Edge of the World 

I used to believe the horizon—

that clean line 

where sky meets earth—

was honest 

From here, it looks like a promise 

a boundary the world agreed upon 

But walk toward it 

and the lie reveals itself 

The line retreats 

The world widens 

And I begin to see

how impossibility 

is often nothing more

than distance misunderstood 

What I called “the world”

was only the portion

my sight could bear 

Truth asks more of me:

to admit that other eyes

see other worlds 

that beyond my horizon

are landscapes

I have never earned 

So I test the fences

I once trusted 

I question the walls

that call themselves impossible 

I learn the map

is only a sketch 

a fragile guess

at a territory too large

for any single witness 

And growth—

real growth—

is the widening of vision:

listening to voices

I do not yet understand 

walking roads

I did not know existed 

letting other histories

complicate my own 

Without effort,

the world shrinks

to the size of my habits 

my culture 

my comfort 

And I will mistake 

that shrinking

for truth 

So I remind myself:

perspective is partial 

Vision is provisional 

Every worldview

is a draft 

I have mistaken 

the edge of my sight 

for the edge of the world 

There is no view 

from nowhere — 

only the angle

from which I stand 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

August 17, 2026