-by Langston Hughes
Hold fast to dreams
For if dreams die
Life is a broken-winged bird
That cannot fly.
Hold fast to dreams
For when dreams go
Life is a barren field
Frozen with snow.
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He schools his breath, keeps posture loose,
let's confidence arrive unforced,
measures every word he chooses,
hoping charm won’t sound rehearsed.
He watches how her laughter lands,
files each detail in his mind,
steps close enough to feel the heat,
but far enough to seem benign.
He wonders if she feels it too,
that current passing hand to hand,
and plots no ending—only this:
to stay, to spark, to gently stand.
She notes the pause he leaves in air,
the careful way he doesn’t lean,
the practiced ease, the sideways glance
that asks more than what’s seen.
She feels the pull but guards her ground,
lets silence test what words can’t prove,
decides if this is hunger masked
or patience shaped like truth.
She meets his gaze, not giving much,
but not retreating from the flame—
she’ll choose the pace, the depth, the door,
and whether he may stay.
Simona A. BrinsonPhoto by Good Faces on Unsplash
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Insistence
Roots claw the wall, damp breath of stone,
Sap and rust and rainbone grown.
Leaves whisper dust, green tasting air,
Bark splits open, musk everywhere.
Sun warms lichen, sweet and sour,
Time drips slow in vine and flower.
The wall groans low, the roots reply—
Life insists. It will not die.
Simona A. Brinson
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It hurts in the place
where your hand used to be—
small fingers waiting
for yours to close around them
like a promise.
You let go quietly.
Not a yank, not a break—
just a loosening
I didn’t understand
until I was already alone.
It hurts at the table
where your laughter lives
for everyone else,
bright as a candle
I am not allowed to touch.
For me, there is only
the scrape of forks,
the sound of swallowing words
that never make it out.
It hurts in the air
between us—
cold, even when you smile,
like winter sitting
in a room full of sunlight.
I watch you love the world
with open arms,
wonder what I did
to make me
unworthy of holding.
You never called me
your disappointment,
but I learned the language
of absence—
how not reaching
can say everything.
It hurts in my chest
where I keep asking
what I did wrong,
and no one answers.
If I stay very still,
very quiet,
very good—
will you come back
and find me?
Simona A. BrinsonPhoto by Joshua Oluwagbemiga on Unsplash
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Heart of Glass
Verse 1
I learned to smile with my hands in my pockets
Hold it together, never let it show
Built my armor out of quiet habits
Said I was fine, but you already know
I let you in through the cracks I was hiding
Swore I was stronger than all of this
But love has a way of finding the weakest
Places you never meant to give
Pre-Chorus
I’ve been steel, I’ve been stone
But you touched something brittle in my bones
Chorus
I’ve got a heart of glass
It shines, but it shatters fast
Every truth cuts deeper when it’s real
I’ve got a heart of glass
I bend, but I never last
Say you’ll stay if you see how I feel
Verse 2
I’ve learned the sound of goodbye in silence
The way a room empties after a fight
I keep replaying the words you didn’t say
Like they’re headlights trapped in my eyes
I don’t need saving, I just need honesty
No more walking on me like I won’t break
If you’re gonna hold me, hold me carefully
I’ve already lost more than I can take
Pre-Chorus
I’ve been brave, I’ve been tough
But loving you is being fragile enough
Chorus
I’ve got a heart of glass
It shines, but it shatters fast
Every truth cuts deeper when it’s real
I’ve got a heart of glass
I bend, but I never last
Say you’ll stay if you see how I feel
Bridge
If it breaks, it breaks in the open
Let it be loud, let it be clear
I’m done pretending I’m unbroken
I’d rather bleed than disappear
Chorus (Soft)
I’ve got a heart of glass
Held together by the past
And the hope you won’t let it fall
I’ve got a heart of glass
If you love me, love me last
Or don’t touch it at all
Outro
I’m not weak, I’m just honest now
That’s the bravest thing I’ve learned
If you see me, don’t turn around
This heart of glass is yours to burn—or hold.
Simona A. BrinsonPhoto by Miltiadis Fragkidis on Unsplash
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Runner’s High
The road unfolds, a ribbon thin,
Each breath a match, each stride a win.
The ache arrives, then slips away,
Like doubt that cannot choose to stay.
My lungs complain, my calves ignite,
The mind says stop—my feet say fight.
Then somewhere past the counted mile,
The body breaks into a smile.
The world goes quiet, sharp and clear,
The pounding heart becomes a gear.
I float above the burning ground,
No weight, no clock, no inward sound.
Pain loosens up its stubborn hold,
The air tastes bright, the light feels bold.
I am not running—I am run,
By sunlit road and rising sun.
This borrowed bliss, this fleeting flame,
Has no demand, no need for name.
Just motion clean, just pulse, just breath—
A holy truce with time and death.
Simona A. BrinsonPhoto by Mathias Reding on Unsplash
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by William Shakespeare
To-morrow, and to-morrow, and to-morrow,
Creeps in this petty pace from day to day
To the last syllable of recorded time,
And all our yesterdays have lighted fools
The way to dusty death. Out, out, brief candle!
Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player
That struts and frets his hour upon the stage
And then is heard no more: it is a tale
Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury,
Signifying nothing.
Memorizing Macbeth’s “Tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow” soliloquy was, at the time, just another 9th-grade assignment—lines to repeat until they stuck, rhythms to get right, pauses to remember. But something unexpected happened in the process of committing it to memory: it began to make sense in a way the rest of the play did not. While the larger tragedy once felt distant and difficult to follow, this single passage became clear, almost intimate. Saying the words over and over allowed their meaning to settle in, not just intellectually, but emotionally. The slow, dragging repetition of “tomorrow” started to feel like the weight of time itself, and suddenly Macbeth’s despair didn’t seem abstract—it felt human.
Over time, the soliloquy became more than something I had memorized; it became something I carried. I have found myself returning to it in moments of frustration, especially when dealing with difficult or obnoxious people, when everything feels unnecessarily loud, chaotic, and draining. In those moments, the lines—“it is a tale / Told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, / Signifying nothing”— (Shakespeare 5.5.26–28) resonate with a kind of sharp clarity. They capture that sense of noise without substance, of energy wasted on things that ultimately do not matter. What once was just a requirement for class has become a kind of language for understanding the world. And maybe that is the real value of memorization—it turns words into something lived.
Now, looking back, I realize that this one soliloquy has been my entry point into Macbeth. It has stayed with me longer than any summary or lecture ever could, quietly suggesting that the rest of the play might hold similar depth if I return to it with the same attention. Perhaps it is time to revisit the entire tragedy—not as something to get through, but as something to experience more fully, the way I did with these lines.
Works Cited
Shakespeare, William. Macbeth. Edited by Barbara A. Mowat and Paul Werstine, Folger Shakespeare Library, 2013.Photo by Matt Riches on Unsplash
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