My crush comes flashing neon red,
a stoplight pulse inside my head.
It hums beneath my quiet skin,
a siren song I’m pulled right in.
I try to cool it down to blue,
pretend I feel what others do,
but every thought ignites instead,
my heart lit up in neon red.
It glows too loud, it won’t behave,
a reckless color I can’t save.
If love’s a sign I should have read—
it’s blazing bright in neon red.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Alina Rubo on Unsplash
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This poem should be framed and hung on the wall of every child because it quietly but powerfully rewrites the limits adults so often place on young minds. Shel Silverstein moves through the language children hear every day—“don’ts,” “shouldn’ts,” “impossibles”—and then deliberately overturns them, replacing restriction with possibility. It’s not just encouragement; it’s permission. In a world that conditions children to measure themselves against rules, outcomes, and expectations, this poem offers a counter-voice that affirms imagination as something valid, necessary, and enduring. Displayed on a wall, it becomes more than decoration—it becomes a daily interruption of doubt, a reminder that creativity and belief are not naive, but essential.
What makes this poem especially meaningful to me is that I didn’t encounter it as a child, but as an adult—around thirty-one—when I bought Where the Sidewalk Ends for myself. And yet, it felt instantly familiar, as if it had been waiting for me all along. I didn’t have to memorize it; it simply stayed, embedding itself into my thinking like a quiet anthem for the daydreamer I’ve always been. That lasting imprint is exactly why it belongs in a child’s environment. If it can reach an adult with that kind of permanence, imagine what it can do for a child who grows up seeing it every day—before the world has a chance to convince them otherwise.
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She wakes before the world is ready and carries the day anyway.
She learns early how to hold two truths at once: strength and softness, fear and resolve.
She becomes fluent in adaptation—not because she wants to, but because life keeps asking.
She is not extraordinary because she never breaks.
She is extraordinary because she does—and still shows up.
Still laughs. Still loves. Still chooses to care in a world that profits from her silence.
She knows the cost of being accommodating and the risk of refusing.
She edits herself for safety, then unlearns that habit slowly, painfully.
She practices saying no without apology and yes without explanation.
She holds generations in her body—lessons passed through glances, warnings whispered, courage inherited.
She becomes a refuge for others even while learning how to rest herself.
She is both unfinished and enough.
If you listen closely, you will hear it:
not just what she endures,
but what she imagines into being.
Still, she is here.
Still, she matters.
Still, she is becoming.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Bibek Maharjan on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
Where you go, I will be—
not ahead of you, not behind,
but beside the quiet you carry
when the road asks for faith.
If you wander into shadow,
I’ll learn the dark with you,
name the shapes fear takes
until it loosens its grip.
If you run toward light,
I won’t slow you down—
I’ll keep pace with your hope,
breathing when you forget how.
Where you rest, I will listen.
Where you break, I will stay.
This isn’t a vow of distance erased,
but of presence kept—
that no matter the ground beneath us,
or the cost of choosing forward,
where you go,
I will be.
Simona A. Brinson
Photo by Sandra Seitamaa on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
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. Brinson
Photo by Good Faces on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
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
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. Brinson
Photo by Joshua Oluwagbemiga on Unsplash
©mylifeinword.com All rights reserved.
My Life In Word 