The Brutal Beauty of Life

Every day 

I am confronted 

by the brutal beauty 

of life 

Life is sharp 

Love is messy 

Joy is costly 

Sorrow is heavy 

Grief is ugly 

And still life keeps arriving 

uninvited 

unfiltered 

unapologetic 

It breaks you 

kneads you 

shapes you 

molds you 

presses its fingerprints 

into the softest parts of you 

It does not relent 

simply because 

I wish it would

nor pause 

to ask permission 

before making me 

again 

Yet in its jagged edges

I find the places

where light catches

and refuses to let go—

thin seams of brightness 

threaded through 

the fractures 

Sometimes 

I mistake the breaking 

for punishment 

until I see 

how the shattered pieces 

rearrange themselves 

into something 

I can finally recognize 

And somehow 

all of it belongs 

to the radiance 

of that brutal beauty—

the way life wounds, 

the way life heals, 

the way it insists 

on being both 

 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

September 1, 2026 

Again

She says, we will be okay,

as if history were a shelter

and not a storm she has learned

to brace herself against 

She says, we’ve been here before,

as though repetition 

were proof of endurance

and not a map of wounds

she has memorized too well 

There is a tremor in her hope—

small, almost polite—

the kind that comes 

from loving someone

who keeps falling

through the same doorway 

Her heart speaks in loyalty,

in the language of vows

that do not dissolve

just because a body stumbles 

Her mind speaks in caution,

in the quiet arithmetic

of relapse and return 

She stands between them,

holding both truths

like uneven weights:

the desire to believe

and the need to survive 

What do you do

when the person you love

is both the home

and the hazard?

What do you do

when the wagon rolls away again

and you are left deciding

whether to chase it

or stay still enough

to keep yourself whole?

Maybe this is what she means

when she says we will be okay:

not that the road is safe,

not that the fall won’t happen again,

but that she has learned

how to walk beside him

without losing herself

to the dust he kicks up 

Maybe okay

is not a promise—

but a hope she refuses

to abandon 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

September 1, 2026 

Fault Line

What do you do 

when the heart keeps lighting candles 

in rooms the mind has already emptied?

When the heart keeps whispering stay 

to a doorway the mind has measured 

and found too narrow for your future?

What do you do 

when the heart keeps offering its open palms 

but the mind keeps counting the scars 

that came from doing exactly that?

There is a place between wanting and knowing—

a thin, trembling border 

where the self stands undecided 

listening to two truths 

that refuse to agree 

The heart says love them 

because it remembers the warmth 

The mind says leave them 

because it remembers the cost 

The heart says try again 

because hope is stubborn 

The mind says fly 

because patterns rarely lie 

The heart says they can 

because potential is a beautiful story 

The mind says they won’t 

because history is a louder one 

The heart says give all 

because that is its nature 

The mind says protect yourself 

because that is survival 

The heart says wait 

because it fears losing what feels rare 

The mind says run 

because it fears losing you 

And maybe the answer

is not choosing one over the other 

but asking which voice 

lets you remain whole— 

which voice does not require 

your own abandonment 

as proof of devotion 

The heart remembers 

what was beautiful 

the mind remembers 

what it cost 

neither memory is a lie 

Maybe the truth is this: 

the heart speaks of what could be 

the mind speaks of what has been 

and your future depends 

on which one you decide 

to obey 

Standing 

on the fault line 

© Ron Simpson Jr. 

September 1 2026 

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