I want to cry, but I don’t have time. I would lie, but I don’t have the energy. I’m just done. but I can’t be done. I can’t cry. there’s so much to do, too much to do, and no time. I just want to sleep, but I can’t even do that. what’s the point, anyways? I’ll do something and be happy I did it, then someone comes along, and ruins my mood. “well you didn’t do this so…” bleh. I want to cry. I want him to hold me— but I don’t have time. I can’t cry, I can’t think about his pretty face, I can’t just sit and sulk around, as badly as I want to, I just can’t. they can’t see me crumble. they can’t see how broken I am, how I’ve been trying to fix myself, piece by piece, but it’s all falling apart again and I can’t. I just can’t. I’m skating on thin ice, bound to fall into the cold water the second I make one wrong move, the second I push myself too hard, power through too far— I’ll fall. I’ll drown. I won’t make it out. I have to make it out. I can’t stop now. I have to keep going. but I can’t.

There’s always a tell. Sometimes it’s The blink of an eye, The tilt of a head, A word or phrase that makes you feel… Off. A tell is like a crack on a frozen pond: All fun and games as you watch from the sidelines as some tries to skate away But But But Someday, you’ll be the skater. The cracks are no longer fun, No longer funny. You see the tells and know exactly what’s happening But You can’t do anything. You’re still skating for your life.

Gliding slowly on the ice, Hoping, praying not to trip And fall, because

The ice already has so many holes That if you break another, The whole lake will collapse.

And the frigid water Will swallow your body And you will fall, And fall, And fall, Until you hit the bottom And run out of air.

The line I have been walking Keeps getting thinner every day. I mean, it would be great to have a break in getting through.

But there is just no coming through those thick-laid bricks And spears and tricks that You’ve been plotting all around.

Adjusting my approach Does not seem to be yielding Any, even semi-decent crops. So I shall modify the gist.

Again and so it goes. On, and on, and on. You say a cold word. I, obviously fire back.

And so before we know it, The train of thought is Waved goodbye at. Gone. Forgotten.

All your intentions Seem to either be half-baked Or upfront rotten.

I try to give it one more shot. And Lord, thou be my witness. I can’t accept defeat.

Another twist, Another turn, The picture’s poorly lit.

I joined the ride I’m not too proud.

Such is the pay, I guess.

Now how do we Pull ourselves

By just a thread of hair Out of this righteous mess?

It truly is a beautiful form of art The beauty that never leaves since the start. The laughs, the joy, the love it brings And it is all sealed with a deadly ring.

It truly is a hard form of art. The struggle that always seems to stay in it's part. Yet all it needs from you Is the life of yours so blue So that they take what's truly left of you.

Ice skating is wonderful, it is so gracious. Yet the grace doesn't last, if it's so spontaneous. You may slip, you may fall, Cause an injury from it all. Then you're healed you get back up, And eventually, the cycle repeats And once again, you're down from your step-up.

When you’re living on thin ice, You never need to “add some spice”

It doesn’t matter what you do, She will never forgive you

All your rights turn into wrongs, It’s so hard to feel strong

When all you hear are hateful words And all the days, they start to blur

Will you ever make it out? How many times must you shout?

Ask for help with no answer, Maybe you’re meant to be a dancer

Dance around the swinging moods, And do the things she says to do

You wonder where you’ll stay tonight. When you stay there, you don’t feel right

But this you deserve, or so she says Her screams and slaps ringing in your head

The things she does are never nice, And so, you learned to skate on ice.

As gentle as can be With blades beneath my feet I feel my balance wavering with only that first step Your grip is tight and welcoming Your smile warm against the ice You watch me with such patience And pull me closer holding tight. I fall a bit and stumble more Like a new born deer, legs still sore But you pick me up and kiss my cheek And we try again

Stand like this, you mimic for me And slide away from the stance I stare at my feet as I try to keep up But slowly I glide a few paces back. You try to let go of my iron grip hand Or pull me away from the wall’s edge But slowly with time I promise you this I’ll let go, and skate to you Even if it means we fall again.

Blades cutting through cold

People becoming old

A curl could swirl

The girl is a pearl

The figure whirls

I saw a squirrel

The judge hurled

The dog curled

The log fell

Fellow neighbors ran away

The show got canceled

No more ice skating for today

The day ended early

The people ran away

The squirrels flew up a story

The story never ended

The judges flew and folded

For the girl on the right

You start slowly You really cant walk properly and your body feels wobbly but your happy. you’re starting out Then you slowly get better you can skate now but without the tricks. you just move faster stay upright better and you’re starting to understand how it works then you learn new tricks. simple ones you learn how to twist on the ice you learn how to create an ice spray you get better and better and then eventually, you get to busy you get distracted by your life events and you dont have time to skate you dont have time to learn. sounds a little like life doesn’t

The ice stretches out, a mirror of frost, cold and gleaming, infinite. It hums beneath me, a frozen pulse, alive with whispers of winter’s breath.

Blades kiss the surface, sharp and sure, etching patterns that disappear as quickly as they’re made. Each glide is a risk, a defiance of gravity, a fleeting moment of flight.

The air bites my cheeks, crisp and electric, as I carve through the stillness, a streak of motion against the vast white quiet. Every turn bends time, spinning seconds into eternity.

I am both fragile and fierce, a contradiction on edges of steel. Each stumble reminds me of the fragility of grace, of the beauty in falling and rising again.

The ice knows my story. It remembers every step, every slip, every triumphant leap. Its surface holds no grudges, only the fleeting impressions of my imperfect dance.

Under the vast sky, I am weightless, free. The world beyond the rink fades, its noise swallowed by the soft echo of skates. Here, I am everything and nothing— a fleeting figure writing poetry on frozen glass.