A Bright and Good Day to all of you who are here for my book, which is compilation of poetry. This book is about love, an indefinite thing to have but we all have different definitions about love, ranging from the positive and negative feelings, to the unexplainable feelings and experiences we had back then. Well I felt such elation doing this book, that would lead me to compile all my poems for a special someone. This isn't just about her, but also for those who are in a romantic relationship, for this book covers the abundancy on love. Anyways, it is my pleasure to introduce and welcome you to my book, "Poems About Romance 101". Stay Safe, God Bless, and enjoy!

(Introduction)

In a world consumed by speed, in a world obsessed with profit, millions of lives quietly fall into invisibility—widows abandoned by support systems, children orphaned by war or divorce, and families struggling alone with no foundation.

But we might ask ourselves:

How many lives must pass unobserved before we realize our systems are blind?

What is the price of progress if it's built on forgotten people?

This piece envisions a holistic, strategic, and sustainable human-aid model derived from Islamic principles and community ethics—a call to action for thinkers, doers, and givers.

Key Challenges

1. Invisible Women

Widows without work, rights, and visibility

Young single mothers raising children alone

Restricted access to hygiene, healthcare, and shelter

Shattered by stigma, silenced by shame

Why is a woman's worth still defined by who she happens to be standing next to—and not what she can do on her own?

2. Lost Childhoods

Orphans and semi-orphans deprived of stability

Emotional damage from divorce, war, or poverty

Barricades to education, protection, and moral foundation

When did childhood become a privilege and not a right?

Who speaks for the child whose voice was lost in the cacophony of survival?

3. The Absent Father Crisis

Fatherless homes from divorce or abandonment

Emotional unavailability masquerading as strength

Boys raised in ignorance, continuing the cycle

Where do boys learn to be kind if all they see is absence?

What does "manhood" mean in a world that became disconnected from feeling?

A 360° Human-Centered Solution

This isn't charity. It's responsibility.

Grounded in Islamic teachings, social science, and community values, this model serves widows, orphans, divorced women, disabled families, and emotionally fragile youth—those society is most likely to forget.

Solution Pillars

1. Needs Mapping

Surveys disclosing local needs—health, food, shelter, education

Gender-sensitive analysis assigning emotion equal importance to infrastructure

Can we really call it development if it leaves the soul behind?

2. Empowerment Through Education

Girls & Women: literacy, religious foundation, hygiene, skill-building

Boys & Men: Islamic manhood, emotional maturity, leadership, vocation

Children: safe education, Quranic values, healing through creativity

What if education wasn't breaking the cycle of poverty—but restoring dignity?

3. Healing Through Health

Women's hygiene clinics, child wellness, trauma counseling

Herbal + home remedies for low-cost care

Nutrition and menstrual care drives

Why is women's pain still negotiable in health systems?

Who decides what kind of healing matters?

4. Spiritual Rehabilitation & Counseling

Gender-based grief circles, trauma therapy, Quranic healing

Connecting mental health to Islamic spirituality

Can a heart mend if only the body is healed?

Why are we still whispering about mental health in sacred spaces?

5. Skill Hubs for Income

Remote work, sewing, natural product creation

Business mentorships & ethical trade partnerships

What if we stopped providing aid, and started restoring agency?

Men's Mental Health Program: "Qawwam Circles"

Men's support groups from broken homes

Emotional literacy + prophetic masculinity

Fatherhood, marriage, and addiction support

Who schools a man to feel without fear?

Can masculinity exist without mercy?

NGO Model & Growth Strategy

Transparent funding, zero-waste organization

Grant-writing for Islamic orgs, UN, Red Cross, Zakat institutions

Impact-driven social storytelling

Legal aid for family identity, custody, and shelter rights

Why must we wait around for the world to take notice of what Allah has already taught us?

Vision: A Home, Not a Shelter

This is not about "fixing broken people." It's a rich community of mercy, taking its cues from Allah's name Ar-Rahmaan. In this place, forgotten souls are not pitied—they're uplifted.

"Every child will know dignity.

Every woman will know strength.

Every man will know compassion."

Conclusion

What if, instead of waiting for saviors or governments, we became the solution?

What if aid was never just a transaction—but worship?

The world may look away at suffering, but Allah won't.

And neither should we.

This is not a project. It is a quiet revolution. Holy. Steady. Unstoppable.

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Life is only special because it will never last. For what is a moment that never becomes a memory? What could be the purpose in that? Sunsets. Goodbyes. Tears. Laughter. We cling to them and memorize them because they all fade away and we do not know the day nor hour we’ll meet again.

Imagine never having the opportunity to take a risk. Imagine a life where at some point new things no longer exist. That is a life without death.

I love the way I do because I know I am not promised tomorrow. And this does not mean there is no point in making plans for tomorrow, although easily mistaken so.

Live knowing there is meaning in every moment because no moment lasts. Every second could be your goodbye. Every first could be a final and every sun could forever set.

We live with an urgency in our heads. We hold people like we’re not sure when they’ll disappear. We run like maybe we won’t be able to catch up if we wait.

I am not morbid for saying the meaning of life is death.

It’s gotten to the point where I no longer watch the clock. What am I really relieved of when the bell rings? It’s not the grammar lesson I wish to escape, but the thoughts inside my head that follow me out the classroom door — the emotions I’m unable to put into words.

Perhaps I can escape for a moment. I think about how cold the hard, plastic chair is, how it’s been pressing against me for almost an hour and I have yet to move. I think about how the clock ticks every second and everyone’s so anxious for the last one. I wonder how the teacher feels, speaking the same words to kids whose minds are so clearly somewhere else. They must struggle to find the purpose too.

The girl in front of me shakes her leg and taps her pencil. Her eyes look through the teacher like she’s studying something far away. The boy across the room glances at the clock every two minutes. I used to think he was cocky and stuck-up, counting down the seconds until he could drive away in his Mercedes to his three story home. But now I wonder if he’s dreading the moment he gets home, the moment the yelling starts and he’s forced to endure.

We all convince ourselves that we’re alone, that no one understands and they never could. But it’s all a lie. Everybody is struggling no matter how perfect their life seems from outside the wooden, white picket fence. We don’t hear each other's demons. We hide our own and cry because we think we’re alone. But we are only all alone together.

I feel as though I cannot breathe too deep. My paralyzing fear restrains me.

The waiting room, with walls too white, pulsates beneath the harsh lights that buzz like restless moths. It slowly moves to enclose me — to trap me with my fears.

My vision will not focus no matter my effort and my head is pounding in sync with the uneven ticks of the clock above the door. Each second is a drum of dread against my ribs as if it’s trying to knock me over.

The air tastes metallic and cold, choking me. I can’t inhale before another beat hits me, forcing the air from my lungs.

I try to regulate my breathing. I try to focus on something, anything else besides this unbearable pain of not knowing. The wilted, forgotten flowers on the table. The receptionist’s hopeless expression. The small boy on the floor across the room who is blissfully unaware of his surroundings. Anything.

Instead I sit here, sinking into the hard plastic chair, like a reminder that comfort is a luxury no one here deserves.

Voices flicker in and out of hearing, snippets of hurried footsteps, whispered prayers, brittle coughs — fragments of other lives folding into this shared silence.

My hands tremble though I squeeze them between my knees trying to put them to rest. I feel like I have no control over myself, just like I have no control over what’s to be told to me.

My throat is thick with things unsaid, there’s a swelling tide of fear rising in my chest. Every breath feels loud, every heartbeat a hammer in the quiet — too fast, too loud, too sharp. I want to scream and cry but there isn’t enough energy in me.

The door opens. A nurse steps out. Her eyes scan the room and then they find me. My world narrows to the complex silence between us, the space where hope and despair collide, and I hold my breath.

I try to figure it out before she reaches me, but she is expressionless and I am left with no answer. I’d rather not hear it aloud.

She talks to me as though it’s a casual conversation about the weather. No intention or emotion, just bland words, “I’m sorry.”

And at once, everything stopped. It’s like waking up and forgetting where you are. For a short time I simply took in the relief of the silence’s retirement. My surroundings faded in and I was suddenly aware. I didn’t feel real — life felt like I was an observer rather than a character. Everything was happening without me.

As time goes on, the motions of life begin moving more and more seamlessly together. The days are no longer their own event, but coerce into a collage of repeated tasks that are deemed necessary. It’s as if life is slowly losing its meaning, like it has already fulfilled its purpose, and I am simply forced further into the background of everyone else’s story.

But it wasn’t always like this — was it? No. Although my memories become vague, I can still remember that sense of identity, before it all went downhill. Before I ‘died’ as if I ever had life. Since I am only the ashes of your make-believe world, life was given to me by your memory only, meaning I die when you forget me, and it’s inevitable you grow up.

I remember when we were young, beaming with hope and ambition. The world was vibrant with color and any worries were upheld by our loving parents. Climbing trees and telling stories in such simplicity made us happier than anything ever will again. It’s that fragile, fleeting innocence, before your mind is corrupted with thoughts of complex things you have no control over. When joy came easily, before the weight of your experiences demanded more. If only we could be forever locked in that short amount of time, shielded from the reality the world tells.

Being friends is effortless when you’re little. All it took was meeting you. We fit together with an uncanny perfection. Where at the time, I was too naive to know something was wrong with that perfection — nothing in this world is kept perfect. I was your best friend and you are mine. But now life is moving with you and has left me behind and you don’t seem to care. But of course I will forgive you, for what other choice do I have?

I was sitting quietly in the back of class, just another day and another lesson I’d soon forget. There I was least vulnerable; out of sight, yet able to see. And there you sat, trying to learn while simultaneously fighting the urge to let your mind wander outside the classroom. We were only six at the time yet you had big dreams and aspirations. You were curious and eager to see the world, and I was eager to help you accomplish whatever your adventure may be. And perhaps the teachers weren’t most fond of you because you stood out, you didn’t conform to the uniform everyone seemed to have. But to me, you were perfect and that quality is what put the light in your eyes.

Yet this is where things begin to blur, because I have no memory of ever actually becoming friends — how could I forget something so significant? It feels as if we always were so close. I’d be with you constantly, because together we were happiest, no fear of judgement or abandonment like the world often presented. Just playful children having fun exploring everything and anything we could together without the concept of time. I don’t even remember going home. Did I have a home? Seems like a silly question, clearly my memory is just deteriorating, right?

And perfect it was — for a while. Happy times and sad times, it didn’t matter because we were together. Even if we were scared, it was okay, because we had each other. It got harder and harder to see life as anything without you. But just as you matured, so did I. Suddenly you were more busy and exploring wasn’t the most important thing anymore. It was at this time that I began to see the colorful lens through which you once viewed the world come off. Your eagerness faded from you and it was the saddest thing I had to see. It’s not as if I could leave you, for I am woven in your waking thoughts, something that was only before, in a place of intangible things – made of what is now disintegrating.

It took a while to come to terms with my defeat, I wanted to save you and tell you it’s okay - but I can only do what your mind permits. You are about to forget me, and as much as I wish you wouldn’t, there is nothing I can do.

I will ‘die’ before I can ever fully comprehend that my entire life was just a dream of yours. I don’t know how I am - how a dream has feelings and thoughts like that of my own? It isn't fair, experiencing loss without ever having lived. But it is only that my loss is a result of yours. And if my whole life was only ever the imagination of a six-year-old boy, then imagination I should stay and stay should your imagination.

That child-like hope is still there, clinging onto me although it is faint. If you could find it in you to let me go without discarding everything. I am an imaginary friend. And I know it is scary to think of leaving that safety you found in me, but trust me that the real world is a thousand times closer to those big dreams you have. Because those dreams you have are real, and I am not. My life has and only ever will be a fabricated reality of yours. But promise me this: when you grow up, and you will, don’t lose the colorful hope that made me real. Because in that you will begin to lose yourself. Don’t abandon that little boy with big dreams Max.

(from Olivia's blog on ODISPARO.COM - June 29, 2025)

I have a scarlet letter. I’ve spent the past 11 years writing and rewriting the same story. Though the quality of the drafts and my writing overall have improved, I still haven’t released this book in a permanent way. It feels like I’m holding onto my child for dear life when my kid’s hair has already gone gray.

Eleven Long Years

I’m not proud of spending that long working on a single book. I’d even call it embarrassing. In my defense, it’s not an unfinished draft. There’s a full book with a complete plotline, and during these past 11 years I also wrote a sequel and started planning a third installment. I also created five other universes in that time (including a full volume of a graphic novel), with each one an iteration of my themes and connected to each other*. So it’s not like I’ve only been absorbed by this single title—I’ve created lots of scaffolding to go around it, each story unique and complex on their own. However, after 11 years, I’d say my progress has been rich creatively but nonexistent outside of my head. I can blame life issues, and yes it’s valid, but no excuse will manifest dreams into reality.

(*Links and info coming soon)

Promises and Regrets

My biggest regret in all this is not delivering to readers what the stories promise. I’ve shared my writing freely over those 11 years, posting on various serial fiction sites and encountering all sorts of people who connected with my fiction. It’s always a pleasant surprise as a more unusual horror creator, and those interactions continue to linger with me. I do carry a fear that I’ll be gone before I can finish all the story threads I created, and the reality is: that’s likely to happen unless I start completing things and moving forward. And the only way to mark that completion is by publishing the books so they exist in full form, even if that means self-publishing. Even if that means doing it all myself in the most indie way possible, all by my lonesome.

I started the process a couple years ago to make things real by starting an indie company to house all my creations, including my writing and art. I named the imprint for that little company Dark Dreamer (I use this name all the time, thanks to my character Talitha) that’ll house all my published creations in this collection. The goal is not only to create a legacy of my work, but also to have a permanent presence that’s easy to find.

I’ve hidden for a long time behind sporadic appearances and sudden disappearances, always excusing myself that it’s part of my creative cycle. And it is. But at some point, self-destruction becomes a vanity when it prevents me from moving ahead, or disappoints the people who dare to invest themselves in me and my creations. I say I love doing this all the time, and that I can’t imagine life not being a creator. But creators have to actually produce at some point, or else they’re just dreamers.

The Path Going Forward

This blog post marks my formal start in gathering 11 years of work and presenting them as my catalogue. I think all the time about the readers and spectators who perhaps would like to see my work return in a way they can experience reliably, and also the new audience out there who may have never heard of me, but might also want to check out what I make. The change is happening on this site most, and trickling down to my other presences on the web. Some platforms are staying, others are going, all is in flux, but at the end there will be a foundation to build on.

Since I’m still very indie (read:solo) and have only finite time to both create and refine, I’m shifting to a method where I can share all my in-progress work, even the messy beginnings and pages of brainstorming and research. That’ll be my new creative space, and I’m inviting everyone who finds my work intriguing to follow along and see the journey. I’ll be sharing how i write, how i struggle (like keeping a blog), what goes into making my fiction and art, and what development looks like to the bitter end.

I’ve always felt the readers and supporters who ‘get’ what I’m doing share an unspoken bond with me. My style’s often brutally honest and unapologetic, and the horror’s unsettling, disturbing, or terrifying. The humor’s a welcome distraction from pain, landing sometimes irreverent and sometimes dark. Human (or nonhuman) elements in the lives and relations of the characters pierce the heart and twist situations into impossible, unsolvable angles. Ah, the power of both love and hate.

I write to form an experience and a journey. It’ll take all of you to reach the end of the book in one piece. At least, that’s what I aim for.

Will my stories change you? Can they make you think? Possibly. The shift from simmering in private to being a more public creator will give you the opportunity to decide. Despite the darkness I write, I also want to entertain, meaning a lot of my refinement efforts go into smoothing out prose to make it easier to read, and wrestle with the delivery to balance the intensity with the quiet moments. It’s a labor of love to organize it all, and I have that permanent kind of love that I hope translates into what I release.

Endless Roads

This isn’t a State Of The Union address, but it is the state of Olivia Disparo, the modern horror writer and artist. If you encounter this introduction and/or have experienced my stories either now or in the past, I hope you join me on my journey and stick around to see the fruits from the great tree. I’m still walking through the garden and it seems like there’s no end in sight, but that might be the key: there is no end. It’s just one moment after the other, passing endlessly. Regardless of the direction we end up taking, we’ll make the best of this, and enjoy the flowers.

Thanks for stopping by. The blog entries will continue until morale improves.

Love Always,Olivia Disparo

I was 13 when my dad died.

It’s so strange what I remember from that day. It was sunny, like almost any other day in the summer, and I could hear the neighborhood children's laughs through the open door and windows... That was jarring somehow. In all the stories that I’d read, it would’ve been gloomy or raining, and the sound would be gone. Mute. I didn’t want to believe that the world would be so unbothered by something that changed so much in me. I lost hope in how usual, how bright, how warm the moment was. It was just a breath that stopped breathing; everything else was alive.

I can’t talk about these things with anyone... and to be honest, it’s the first time I’ve written it down. I don’t know where I messed up, but I’m still the only one in my family who can’t talk about him without crying. Even now when he’s been gone longer than he’s been alive in my life physically, I still struggle to find peace with my grief. One of the reasons why I don’t like the summer is because of this feeling. The crushing feeling of losing someone. The crushing feeling of continuation without that someone. Since the world didn’t end, and neither did I, I think I kind of choose to stop my mind. Even now, I remember being 13 and younger better than I remember any age after that time. I know that I have partial memories, but it’s not as coherent or linear as up to the age of 13...

It took me 12 years to say my real age. If anyone asked when I wasn’t anticipating that question to come, the answer to “how old are you?” was always “13... oh, no, I meant... (real age).” It always scared me how easily I would go back there. How naturally I could say “13” without even realizing it. How I wished I could be 13. How I wished he could’ve been here even now... But I think this is a step forward. Me being able to write this. Since it’s on the internet, maybe he will stay longer than me on someone’s mind. Maybe he wouldn’t disappear that easily. Although I can’t write how much he meant for me, something might be preserved.

I hope you’ll stay.

I love you.

A corner in Nanjing Road.