TurtleScratch Woodworking

10/08/2025

10/08/2025

Nope. I can't draw worth s**t.

10/08/2025

Bringing back a poem I shared in church a year ago or less.

It's a bit ironic how I was invited to share a poem about loving someone in a humble way without judging them by a person who later judged me without love or compassion.

08/13/2025

From Moans to Murders

You sit there in your holy chair,
preaching balance,
preaching boundaries,
telling people how to stitch up
what’s been torn open.

But you,
you’ve turned lovers into lab rats,
love into an experiment,
me into your cautionary tale.
I remember when my name
was honey in your mouth,
when you screamed it so loud
the walls knew our secret.
Now it’s the stone
you throw through my windows,
the pain of remorse
spit back like poison,
my name bitter as burnt coffee
on your tongue.

You teach forgiveness
but practice the opposite,
slicing people clean out of your life,
then sewing their shadow into a villain’s coat
so you can wear it to your next sob story.

You were once a cathedral of light,
but when you walked away,
you lit the pews on fire,
called the smoke “closure,”
and told yourself the flames were holy.

Your therapy is performance art,
you diagnose the broken
while you break them,
you tell them monsters are made, not born,
but you make them anyway,
painting their faces on dartboards,
throwing your truth like knives.

I see you,
the taxidermist of trust,
the architect of aftershocks,
turning moans into murder scenes,
rewriting love letters into legal briefs
where you’re the hero,
and I’m the plot twist you had to survive.

So here’s my final note in your case file:
Your couch can cradle the weak,
your clipboard can collect their tears,
but your own shadow
still screams louder than your advice.
And every time my name
hits your lips,
remember,
it once made you tremble with joy.
Now it makes you shake
for all the wrong reasons.

From: Turtle Shepherd with Love

08/13/2025

“Case Closed”

You don’t heal,
you harvest.
You collect soft hearts
like souvenirs,
then drain the color out,
frame them on your wall
as warnings to the next.

You’re not a therapist,
you’re a taxidermist of trust—
stuffing old lovers with your side of the story,
propping them up as trophies,
smiling like you saved yourself
from some beast
you hand-painted in their image.

You rewrite endings
in blood-red ink,
call it “truth,”
call it “growth,”
but really it’s just a hit job
with a clipboard.

And every time you leave,
you leave with the same line—
They were toxic.
Yeah.
Toxic like the mirror
you can’t bear to look into.

Case closed.
Diagnosis: projection.
Treatment:
start with your own damn shadow.

08/13/2025

“Your Chair Is Empty”

You sit across from me,
smiling like you’ve cracked the code on hurt,
scribbling in your leather-bound gospel
about “accountability,”
about “narratives we tell ourselves.”

But in the mirror of your own nights,
you’re the ghost in someone else’s story—
the shadow that turns love into litigation,
turns warm bodies into case studies,
turns former partners into footnotes
marked antagonist.

You teach breathing exercises
to lungs you’ve left gasping,
prescribe closure
from a wound you never stitched.
You tell me monsters are made, not born—
then sculpt them from the people
who once traced your skin like scripture.

I wonder,
do you light the candle before you burn the bridge,
or do you call it “boundaries”
when you salt the soil behind you?

Your couch might cradle the broken,
but your own hands
still drop lovers like bad habits,
still twist their goodbye
into proof of your victimhood.

And maybe that’s the part you can’t see—
your reflection wearing
the same sharp edges
you warn me to avoid.

So tell me again
how healing works,
and I’ll tell you how hypocrisy tastes—
like honey laced with iron,
sweet on the way down,
but it cuts when it lands.

06/19/2025

03/31/2025

Go listen to this song ! We need it to go viral!

11/13/2024

Alaskan Brass is BlueCollar High class