Reblog – Cry of a girl by Aaron Divi

Even in the aftermath of a broken relationship, as trying as it can be, there can be hope for a better future especially when we can lean on our support system.

AARON DIVI

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Once………..
I Was Not Dependent On Anyone
I Was Alone
I Was Very Happy
No Cries
No Sorrows
No Worries
No Wounds In My Heart

One Day He Came Into My Life……….
He Gave Me Lots And Lots Of Happiness
He Made Me Laugh Even When I Don’t Want To
He Gave Me Support During My Failures
He Scolded Me For My Mistakes
He Helped Me Though He Know That I Can Do That By Myself
He Said That He Will Be There To Catch Me When I Fall

My Life Changed A Lot….
I Fallen For Him
I Became Dependent
I Really Forgot About Everything
Thought He Was My Everything
I Was In A Fantasy World

But…
Truth Hits Me Hardly
I Don’t Know
What Made Him To Like Me?
And Now
I Really Don’t Know
What Made Him To Hate Me?
I M Only Having Questions
I Am…

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Reblog – Scraps by River Dixon

This piece gripped me from the beginning but man, those last six lines did me in! I hope it touches you as well.

The Stories In Between

Try as I may

There is no denying

The intricacies

In your way

That leave behind

An ache for more

The fingers trace

Delicate footfalls

As hands and knees

Give way to

Desperate scrounging

For one last morsel

Of the way

You looked at me

That night

It lives on

A haunting reminder

That my hands

Are made to

Reach out and

Embrace, not

To dig in shadows

For remnants

Of things left

Behind, feeding

Me for a day

While I starve

For a lifetime

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Reblog – Almost

This piece resonates so deeply! Whether feeling a huge loss or missing that favorite person, this brings up so many feelz. :_(

A Faded Romantic's Notebook

If I close my eyes

I can almost

spirit you here

your beauty

your body

your smile

your scent

your heat.

But almost

isn’t anywhere

near here.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Casey Baugh

Written a couple of years ago. Yet almost is never near enough.

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Being Discovered

putting myself out there
open and freely

may i always be honest
with you and myself

when you read me
will you understand who I am

can you see beneath the shell
polished by years of dysfunction

and decades of destruction
aimed towards oblivion

when you discover me
will you let me be who i’m meant to be

an incredible, unique, flawed, special, human
meant for better than what i got

can you risk yourself opening
to a world shared and supported

will you grasp that it takes love and nurture
to be whole with me

would you trust me
on this journey

Reblog – Not Defined by Jason A. Muckley

Who hasn’t lived this scenario? I think as humans we are destined to experience heartaches, how we survive them determines our future.

Poems for Warriors

You are no longer my beloved
You are not my adversary
You still produce strong feelings
In me
I am still grappling with them
My mind and heart unsettled
The labyrinth
The solution remains hidden
What is it we are now?
No definition seems to exist

© 2019 Jason A. Muckley

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Reblog – A void now

I simply loved the raw truth of a woman’s strength in this piece. It reminds me of the current cultural motto “Nevertheless, we persist!” RAWR!! And the title – awesome! Great play on words. 🙂

Playing with words

and as she walked away, she
took it all with her

dignity
anger
hurt
love

January Writing Prompts

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Marjorie Maddox

Duo of Dusk and Past

Always
the high notes crack
at the edge of sunset,
then slide past horizon into
never.

Never
into then. Past horizons slide
toward sunset. At the edge,
cracks sound high notes
always.

All Souls’ Day, 2018

Even now, awash in the world’s weeping,
Joyce, Richard, Rose,
they do not rise, but float,
bloated reminders of hope
Jerry, Cecil, David, drowned, drowning,
tense too often a matter of attention
to soul or soul-
full of what we’ve lost,
Bernice, Simon, Daniel,
the memory and the chanting
twinned tightly to whatever
belief we sing, whatever
Melvin, Irving, bodies we cradle
in the dark grave of corruptibility.
O slain cousins of ancient faith,
pray this day for us.

Not-so-hostile Takeover

All red-hot July,
            yellow bobs
                        in a sea of green
                                    until a blue breeze
                                                            and gray time
finally take aim,
            fire a whiff of wind
                        across wispy white seeds
                                    that parachute far and wide,
                                                            house to house, yard to yard
and all is gold,                             Gold,                                  GOLD!

The Day I’m Supposed to Read Poems on Blizzards a Blizzard Arrives

And it whirls me up into white—pages twirling
out and away, cold the stranger in the front row
I owe an ode to when all I have are ballads
on blizzards, like the one that uncovered
for my father a stranger’s still-pulsing pump
in a pile of wrecked cars, yes, that one,
plus other assorted disasters of the heart
and will, which—piled up these weather-
stricken days—did, I confess to sleet,
give me the survivor’s desire to not
careen down the blank highway
past ditches and near-misses
to read to an audience
of no one—everyone
else with a backbone
of sense/sensibility
hunkering down,
as I did after all,
here by my
electric fire
typing
ice.

A boy and a girl

hold my hands into the next decade,
their minute fingers tightening
by the second over the life-lines of my palms,
a Morse-code of blood tapping through the skin
we share, bodies clasped like chromosomes.
Our threesome two-step is together and apart,
similarly ticking our differences.
here will our feet and hands click us
on this new giant clock, calculating the years
with such loving and hostile precision? 

                        Snowboarding Live at the Olympics

               Lose the wheels and score with so-cool-you’re-cold,
       better-than-a skateboard, foot-sleds for snow that alley-oop
   through air with dare-you’s as slick as any acrobat’s triple flips,
          as tricky as a magician’s slight-of-wrist that’s now just
                  feet and hips jiving for that perfect winter 10.

~~~

Professor of English at Lock Haven University, Marjorie Maddox has published 11 collections of poetry, What She Was Saying (prose), 4 children’s/YA books, including Inside Out: Poems on Writing and Reading Poems with Insider Exercises; the anthology Common Wealth: Contemporary Poets on Pennsylvania (PSU Press), and Presence(assistant editor). www.marjoriemaddox.com

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Reblog – One Card Pull: Ten of Swords by L. Stevens

OUCH!! But not wrong. This is accurate on so many levels. I’ve heard people say that “Pain is my muse” with respect to writing but I think it’s pretty accurate to say that those with a determined spirit would feel the same. For justice and their healing, pain inspires them to overcome and thrive because of it. This piece reasonated with me powerfully.

Everyday Strange

the ten swords
you pressed and
twisted into
my back hurt
and tore me
open but
they became
the best thing
that ever
happened to
me

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