Denaya Rose

A compilation of poems, stories, ramblings, and thoughts.


I’m filling plot holes in my story,
Erasing thoughts I cannot shake,
For I am one to worry
About the words you’ll never say,
The chances you’ll never take,
The art you’ll never make,
Alone inside your head forever
For forever’s sake.

Untouched Virgil on the nightstand,
All these books you’ll never read,
Ideas you’ll never understand,
Collecting dust like memories.

I’m not plagued by neglect
My failures are reflexive,
Too complex if,
You don’t regret
Reading me.



person sky silhouette night

Photo by Snapwire on

The words I speak impulsively linger in my mouth, and once they’ve tasted freedom they have no intention of coming home. I am lost in a sleepy thought, a passing moment of uncertainty that I’ll forget by morning. I wish to immortalize my fears, so here’s my consumable insecurity. This world is full of unearned confidence.

The words I leave unsaid come back to haunt me. I take up too much space in my own mind. I grab a thought and try to make sense of the chaos that you left behind. Maybe I’m afraid of uninformed judgment, or cognizant criticism. Maybe it’s all the same. The weeks blur together and I cannot sleep. I ignore the pain.


daylight environment forest idyllic

Photo by Pixabay on

I’m still here, waiting in the past for your observation. Give me permission to reason, to buy my credibility in time and energy spent thinking. I’ve never given my thoughts much weight, though they weigh me down. Some concepts aren’t mine, and when I try to own them, they fade into the distance. My boredom grows.

Take a stance. Forget ambivalence. Leave your indecisive tendencies behind. I see too much in other people. I doubt and trust myself the same. My thoughts are clear yet muddled as I repeat the contradictions. If I could share my empathy, I would give you half of me.


black suv in between purple flower fields

Photo by Viktor Lundberg on

My head is growing heavy
in this shared space.
I’m not plagued by an inflated ego,
or a shrinking figure,
or your habitual neglect.
I’ve fallen into a unique fatigue
enhanced by conversation.
You stare at me intently,
but I remain unseen.

I sense your hesitation,
a lost hitchhiker
trying to find his way back home
while cars drone
through mountain passes,
over pebbles and
cracked pavement,
under misty orange tunnels
at sunset.

Your ears pop from the altitude
of the pass-through towns,
the tiny, trivial moments
you’ll never remember.
You say you won’t forget me,
but maybe I didn’t even exist
until your eyes hit
the back of my neck.
I wonder if I’m the lost one.


black ball point pen with brown spiral notebook

Photo by Tirachard Kumtanom on

I’ve heard that great writing stems from obsession. Seeds of stories plant themselves in an obtrusive space within the mind, but my stories are tired and slowly wilting. My obsessions hold me back. I’ve drowned my thoughts with too much care and repetition. I live through tired themes of transience, change, resilience, and contradiction. I have nothing new to say to myself, for I’ve heard this all before. I cannot grab an original thought out of the void of self-discovery. I’m exhausted by my own attention.

A few years ago, I asked my creative writing professor how he wrote so fearlessly about the people in his life. Don’t be silly, he said. Nobody you know will ever read your work.



I fluctuate between peace and distress, confidence and insecurity, patience and restlessness. I am not uniquely inconsistent. There’s abundance in the emptiness I feel during fleeting moments of vulnerability. One fragment of doubt permeates an entire lifetime of applause. Is it honesty or ego? Subjective judgment stands against the stale memories playing back at me. When you agree, I doubt myself further. When you misinterpret my purpose, I stand by my side with fearless reassurance of my credibility. I cannot predict the future. I cannot crawl out of my skin to see the world anew. So you can have this small piece of me, but I promise that you’ll turn it into you.


clouds foggy hazy misty

Photo by Tyler Lastovich on

I care so deeply that I do not care at all. Decisions search for me, an indecisive thinker, and find me between incoherent arguments. I’m taking information in, writing stories on an old typewriter I don’t yet know how to use, hiding somewhere in a forgotten corner of my mind. I’m cautious with my words, and my lips remain unmoved amid intrusive conversation. You say a lot of nothing, or something, or something. I am so very tired. Haunted by your confidence in my resolution, I retreat. A moment of disruption within your expectations. Your observations serve you well.


Dawn Light Nature Field Trees Away Fog Landscape

CC0 image courtesy of Max Pixel.

I’m hiding here behind your vision,
I’m feeling less than me,
If I could live a hundred times
To find you, I would be
Complacent in my misery,
Abandoned in my mind,
Enjoying my own company
Against the beat of time.
I look to doubtful certainty,
Flickering in the air,
Lacking empty promises,
With promise, to compare
My fading words
To faded glass,
I let these lessons go,
Find freedom in my memories,
And give them room to grow.



After spending a day smiling at strangers, I unlock my front door. Jingling keys ring through my ears—a welcome sound. As the door opens, a wave of artificial warmth embraces me and I’m inclined to peel off my winter jacket. I unzip my boots and set my purse aside. My hands are dried from bitter cold. Reminder: apply lotion later.

I decide to take a shower, prepared to wash the day off my bare skin. I twist the handle to warm. I carefully remove the mask of professional distance I tend to wear when I’m outside. Here, I am vulnerable and human and full of originality. There are no judgments except the thoughts I place in my own head. The expectations scare me not. I appreciate my company.

Forget Me.


Am I here to make you feel less alone? Solitary voices call to triumph. We see what we want to see. My eyes are strained behind the heavy burden of creation while some external mess makes its way into my mind. The words roll over hills and tumble downstream in search of my pen. I am always busy when they arrive. I did not know I would remember you like this, for I am a forgetful being. I give myself to consistency. The world fades out of focus.