The Fallen Quill

The Fallen Quill Welcome to The Fallen Quill — I write custom poems for a small fee depending on the length you want sent directly to you through messenger or email.

Ranging from short poems to story poems 1-2 pages long. Message for details. Thank you in advance.

03/10/2026

I watch you grow the way the sunrise grows…
slow at first, then suddenly the whole sky is different.

Your laughter fills rooms that used to echo.
Your footsteps get longer.
Your voice gets stronger.
And every year the world takes a little more of you with it.

But listen to me.

Every scraped knee I kissed,
every bedtime story I stretched just a little longer,
every tired night I stayed awake just to hear you breathe…

that was love being carved into time.

One day you’ll be taller than my shoulders.
One day my voice might only live in memories.

But I pray when that day comes
you won’t have to wonder
if your father loved you.

I hope you feel it
in the quiet moments.
In the courage inside your chest.
In the way you stand back up when life tries to knock you down.

Because love like this doesn’t leave with the body.

It stays.

In your bones.
In your heart.
In the way you love the world after me.

— The Fallen Quill

02/13/2026

When You Say “Dada”

You speak in ways the world forgets to listen,
in hums and echoes, soft and true.
Your voice isn’t missing—
it’s just written in a language
only love can translate.

Your hands tell stories,
your eyes hold galaxies,
and every sound you make
is a heartbeat saying I’m here.

They say words are power,
but they’ve never heard
the way my soul bends
when you say Dada.

One small sound,
not perfect, not practiced,
yet it carries more meaning
than a thousand spoken prayers.

In that moment,
I am chosen.
I am trusted.
I am yours.

You don’t need sentences
to tell me you feel safe,
or that I am home.
You tell me in smiles,
in laughter,
in the way you reach for me
without hesitation.

I will always hear you—
in every noise, every pause,
every beautiful way
you exist in this world.

You are my daughter.
Not by blood, but by destiny.
And being your Dada
is the greatest word
I will ever be given.

-The Fallen Quill

02/06/2026

We yawn in lowercase,
coffee stitching our eyes open,
bones humming yesterday’s work.
But then
tiny footsteps thunder down the hall
like parades thrown in our honor.
We show up anyway.
Hair a mess. Patience on fumes. Love on full.
Because to them
we are not tired.
We are home. 🖤

02/02/2026

This one is personal to me...

I was seven
when you became a ghost
with a name.
Not dead.
Just… gone.
The kind of gone where birthdays come and go like unopened mail.
The kind of gone where Father’s Day is just another Sunday
with an empty chair that nobody talks about.
You didn’t leave with a bang.
You evaporated.
Like steam off asphalt after rain.
And I kept waiting for the air to get thick again.
It didn’t.
Ten years.
Ten whole years of learning how to spell the word “dad”
without having to use it.
Then I’m seventeen.
My brother’s graduation.
Cap. Gown. Pride in the air like electricity.
And there you are.
Not like a father.
Like a rumor that showed up late.
You hugged him.
You smiled.
You asked him for money.
Then you left again.
I remember thinking
Is this what a dad does?
Shows up for the photo
and leaves with a receipt?
The next year was mine.
My graduation.
You didn’t show.
But you called.
You didn’t know I could hear you.
You didn’t know phones don’t hide the sound of whiskey in a voice.
You told my mom you “couldn’t make it.”
I heard the slur in your syllables.
I heard the bottle talking for you.
And I realized something at eighteen years old.
I wasn’t competing with life.
I was competing with liquor.
And I was losing.
Four more years go by.
You reappear in a hospital bed.
Tubing. Beeping machines.
You say you’re doing okay.
You hug us like you’re trying to squeeze ten years into ten seconds.
Then you vanish again.
I start to think you only exist in places people are about to leave.
Five years later. I’m 27.
I’m walking with my ex wife but fiancée at the time.
She’s pregnant with my first son.
Your first grandson… if that title means anything to you.
And I see you.
Just… bopping down the street like the universe dropped you in front of me on accident.
I say, “Hey dad, I want you to meet someone.”
Do you know how heavy that word felt in my mouth?
Dad.
Like I was trying on a jacket that never fit.
I introduce you to her.
I tell you about my son.
And for the first time in my entire life…
You tried.
You showed up.
You asked questions.
You called.
You looked at my boy like you finally understood what you missed.
And then you told us about the cancer.
Of course it was cancer.
Because the only thing strong enough to beat the bottle
was something stronger than you.
I saw you a handful more times.
A handful.
You know what that is?
That’s not a lifetime.
That’s a trailer for a movie I never got to watch.
And then you were gone.
This time for real.
And I’m left here
with this emotional math problem nobody teaches you how to solve.
How do you grieve a man
who hurt you by not being there
but healed you by trying
right before he died?
What box do I put you in?
Are you the father I lost?
Or the father I almost had?
Do I cry for the man who missed half my life?
Or smile for the man who finally showed up for a piece of it?
Because you didn’t meet my new wife.
The one who is my other half.
The one who helped me unlearn the damage your absence did.
You didn’t meet your new grandkids.
You don’t know their laughs.
You don’t know their names.
And sometimes I wonder…
If you had met them,
would you have stayed?
Or would the bottle still have been louder than us?
I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel when I think about you.
Loss?
Anger?
Gratitude?
Grief?
Resentment?
Forgiveness?
It’s like my heart is a courtroom
and every emotion is objecting at the same time.
You missed half my life.
But you tried at the end.
And that “try”
is the heaviest thing you left me with.
Because now I know you were capable of being my dad.
You just… weren’t.
And that hurts in a way I don’t have a word for.
I wish you had fought harder.
I wish I had mattered more than the alcohol.
I wish you showed up when I was seven.
Or seventeen.
Or eighteen.
Instead of twenty seven
when I was already a father learning how not to be you.
But here’s the part that twists the knife gentle and slow:
Because of you
I know exactly what kind of dad I will never be.
Because of you
my kids will never wonder if they are loved.
Because of you
I show up.
Every time.
So maybe the only thing you ever truly gave me
was a blueprint of what absence looks like.
And I built my life in the opposite direction.
I don’t know what I’m supposed to feel when I think about you.
But I know this.
You missed half my life.
And I will never let my children say that about me.

01/17/2026

Finish the sentence Friday ✒️

“This year, I’m giving myself permission to __________.”

Drop your answer in the comments.
No explanations required — just honesty.

01/08/2026

Today, the world didn’t slow down.
It screamed in headlines and sirens,
shook with uncertainty and fear,
and stayed relentlessly chaotic.
And still…
new life entered it.

A fragile miracle in a loud, unkind world,
arriving without armor,
without warning,
carrying nothing but possibility
and a heartbeat brave enough to begin.

I don’t promise you a quiet world.
I won’t lie and say the storms will pass us by.
There will be nights that thunder,
days that test your courage,
moments that ask more of you
than you ever thought you could give.

But I promise strong arms in the storm.
Hands that will steady you when the ground shakes.
A voice that will remind you who you are
when the noise tries to tell you otherwise.

I promise a heart that stands between you
and the darkness—
that meets fear before it reaches you,
that bears the weight so you don’t have to,
that chooses you, again and again,
even when the world forgets how to be gentle.

You were born into chaos,
but you will be raised in love.
Fierce, unwavering, unbreakable love.
The kind that defies the night
and dares the future to do its worst.

If the world comes for you,
it will have to come through me first.
I will protect you.
In every season.
In every storm.
Always.

-The Fallen Quill ✒️

12/23/2025

Sometimes the smallest help
is the one that matters most—
a hand held,
a burden shared,
a moment where someone isn’t alone.
— The Fallen Quill ✒️

12/22/2025

Monday Hope ✒️

This week doesn’t have to be perfect
to be meaningful.
You are allowed to start small.
You are allowed to move at your own pace.
You are allowed to hope quietly.
Whatever you’re carrying into this week,
may it feel a little lighter by Friday.
What’s one word you’re walking into this week with?
— The Fallen Quill

12/21/2025

Sunday Reflection ✒️
Before the week ends, take a moment.
What did this week teach you
about yourself?
You don’t have to explain it.
One word is enough.

They'll never know how much you carry for them.Some strength is invisible.It looks like showing up tired, scared, and st...
12/20/2025

They'll never know how much you carry for them.
Some strength is invisible.
It looks like showing up tired, scared, and still choosing love.
This is for every parent carrying more than their children will ever know.
— The Fallen Quill

12/20/2025

✒️ Saturday Words
Sometimes strength doesn’t look like winning.
It looks like waking up and trying again.
If you’re still standing after everything you’ve carried,
this is for you.

Inner Strength

Sometimes strength doesn’t roar.
It breathes.
It opens its eyes
to another morning
it didn’t ask for.

It is getting up
with yesterday still heavy
in your bones,
and choosing to move anyway.
Strength is not the absence of falling—
it is learning the shape of the ground
and standing again.

If you are still here,
still carrying what tried to break you,
know this:
You are not weak for surviving.
You are proof that you did.
— The Fallen Quill ✒️

12/19/2025

✒️ Finish the Sentence Friday
“I never knew peace until ______.”

“The hardest thing I had to learn was ______.”

“Some loves are meant to ______.”

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