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Keegan 2h
Some days,
it feels like I am outside myself
watching my child-self drown
beneath a skyless surface,
eyes wide, arms reaching,
and I, the adult,
do nothing but stare.

The water is still,
but heavy,
each second dragging me down,
each memory a stone.
My child-self drifts deeper,
hair flowing like seaweed,
a mouth open but silent,
watching the shape of me
blur in the distance.

I see the small hand
reaching upward
not angry,
not afraid,
just desperate
in a quiet, aching way.

And I,
frozen,
feel sorrow crack open
like a fault line,
a grief so old
it forgot how to scream.

I want to dive,
to pull them up,
but my feet won't move.
I don’t know why.

Maybe it’s too late.
Maybe I never learned how.
Maybe I believe I’m the one
who let them fall.

And still,
the hand rises,
the eyes search,
while I remain above,
a ghost
with lungs full of air
and a silence I can’t explain.
someone said,
“at least now you can heal.”
but healing feels
like folding laundry
for a house that’s half empty
and pretending it’s enough
The water in my well is deeper and no longer bitter.

The river of life flowing into me and flowing out from me is no longer just a trickle in a sunbaked riverbed.

No matter how long
and hard the
journey has been

I take back what I lost
I take back what I wasted
and I take back what
was taken from me
whilst locked in a universally
human functionalized social
and spiritualized trance.

I take back my hope!
I take back my faith!
I take back my peace!
I take back my joy!
I take back what
was taken from me!!!
Chris 11h
I love how every month has different little poems!
Today - someone lived and wrote, wept and bled.
In June a great artist had something to say,
and now it's engraved into history for those with eyes to see.
In July it happens again. And it will happen in August too!
So July, hold me under your warmth - cradle me.
I am being strong, but I just need a break.
Take my hand into the sun's heat -
show me I can be exposed
without being burned!

C.M. 1/7/25
Phia 23h
Please,
Share your reasons to get up in the morning
Share your reasons
For staying
Find the one that fits your heart
Hold on tight so it’s all one part
Throw the key in the ocean blue
Lock it up with me and you

Find the way that’s good as gold
Use all your strength to gently hold
Always make the touch feel new
Lock it up with me and you

When we’re older and much too grey
Looking back on a better day
Everything I ever felt was true
Lock it up with me and you
No locksmith needed.
Something lovely in tomorrow,
The hue of a new beginning.
Hello to the sun, heralding us
Forward into something—
Hopefully, something
Lovely in tomorrow.
Smoke slithered skyward, a silent silver hymn,
Like snakes of sorrow where the light grew dim.
My body, bruised, crept low through war’s refrain,
Yet my heart rang loud in the hush of pain.

The grass, like velvet, welcomed weary skin,
As pines above swayed slow in sacred spin.
The heavens stretched — a canvas washed in gold,
A breathless scene too wondrous to be told.

The Sun emerged, a monarch on his throne,
Scattering sapphires where the wind had blown.
Each blade of grass wore jewels like a bride,
With dewdrops dancing, star-like, side by side.

“Steal them!” stirred the mischief in my chest —
But peace, not plunder, filled my soul with rest.
The fields lay still, like hearts in silent prayer,
The world — a whisper held in morning air.

A single drop, like love, fell on my face,
A gentle kiss, the sky's forgiving grace.
The breeze began to hum a nameless tune,
The clouds gave way, and rain became a boon.

Each dewdrop held the story of the land,
A mirror forged by time and nature’s hand.
They gleamed like thoughts too deep for voice or ink,
Then vanished softly at the eyelid’s blink.

I closed my eyes — not sleep, but soul’s retreat,
Wrapped in the warmth of dawn’s unfolding beat.
Even as darkness tried to claim the day,
The dew kept shining — soft, and sure, and gray.

And I, though broken, found my burden gone —
Bathed in the beauty of the dewy dawn.
This poem is a quiet testament to resilience found in the softest places — a battlefield of sorrow softened by the healing touch of dawn. In its verses, smoke and bruises yield to grass and dew, reminding us that even amid ruin, nature hums her hymns of renewal. May these lines meet you like a drop of morning rain — fleeting yet enough to cleanse a wound unseen.
When sun's breath fires
  wire frame.
Displayed behind
  flat sparkling gravity.
Moon's light casts
  dark mist over murky waters.
Ushering the ark
  gliding over crescent waves:
On raging towers of indignant froth
  not serene silk smooth vast ocean.
    It reaches the dove, carrying branch;
     Holding it aloft as it is
      The     Saint    of the sentence.
The following is written prose. It is intended to convey with clarity and accuracy. It is not intended to convolute or confuse. Therefore, it should flow with precision: focus on what it ought to, not what it ought not to. This rule of prose is absolute; it is the saint of the sentence.
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