When the line of one idea ends,
does the line divert into new ideas?
From one idea, do a couple, a few,
or several more split into existence?
Does one idea grow into new ideas
like a flower stem dividing into
several stems, letting more blossoms
bloom into beauty and brilliance?

When a circle of an idea starts,
does it overlap with past circles?
Do the overlapping colors and
textures create something new?
When the spark of a new idea is lit,
does it create a flame of creation and
craft that ignites, burning up projects,
releasing plumes of chaos in its wake?

Does your geometry have enough poetry?

I would describe this feeling as pain,
but it doesn’t quite hurt like being burned.
And it doesn’t feel like being completely incinerated either.
No, it’s a dull ache. A deep feeling of loss.
Even my body doesn’t know how to process it.
Not that my body knows how to process most things.
My stomach is bad at digesting dairy and anger .
My ears don’t interpret conversations very well,
And my tongue can’t stand spice.
Spice burns. A pain I can identify, but can’t tolerate.
Heartbreak aches like a black hole. Cold. Empty.
What was once a burning star has been changed,
Rendered into an all-consuming, lifeless nothing.

I mourn the self that was taken from me.
A beautiful woman that I’ll never be.
A stunning reflection that I’ll never see.

Instead, a short man, barely any stubble.
Will be made, created, formed out of her rubble.
In a sense, I’m two people, metaphorically double.

I’m the man that I am, but also her too.
She lies in the organs and ******* that I grew.
She never would have existed if earlier I knew.

She is my body, and he is my mind.
Though sometimes I want to, I can’t leave either behind.
I hope if they were to meet me, they’d say I am kind.

A lingering glance.
I look away.
A subtle flirt.
I don’t notice.

Blatant ignorance.
But not blissful.
Months pass.
They tell me.
I understand.

A lingering glance.
I still look away.
A subtle flirt.
I blush a bit.

New knowledge.
I didn’t see it.
It eats at me.
Guilt for not knowing.
Never questioning.

A lingering glance.
My eyes hold.
A subtle flirt.
A blushing smile.

I think I understand.
They connected with me.
I think I understand.
Why they see me like this.
Why I see them the same.

A lingering glance.
I make a funny face.
A subtle flirt.
I finally flirt back.

Oh, I trust you and I love you and I need you.
I trust you more than I have ever trusted myself.
Your words sing truth against my shattered mind
as they glue pieces back together with glittering gold.
I love you in ways I may never truly understand.
Your smile brings joy to my life while your guidance
brings me back to the path of safety.
I need you to stay to help me.
Your absence felt like a dark cloud on my very existence.
I was lost without you.
Oh, I trust you and I love you and I need you.

A candle sputters, releasing the scent
of cinnamon and apples. Inspiration ignites
within the poet’s mind, like a lit flare.

Passion cooks within her, simmering ideas
like stir fry. Joy sparks from her fingertips
as she types. Her digits blaze across
the keyboard in fiery bursts. Her words
flow out of her like wildfire, consuming
the empty page. A pyre of text appears
on the screen. She fiercely feeds the flame.

Poetry and prose emerge like a phoenix
from the ashes. The warm glow of contentment
surrounds her as she admires her work.

The fires of creation are burning through her.

My mother is a spider.
Carefully crafted webs fill my childhood home.
With great care, she weaves day and night,
trapping her family inside.
We struggle but only doom ourselves further.
I am a fly,
buzzing as I wrap myself in her silken strands.
My sister is a butterfly,
flapping her wings as the webbing pulls off her beautiful scales.
My brothers are bees
who once sought bright flowers and hives of others like them.
My father is a moth,
guided to the web’s shimmering light.
Now, we all lie still, drained of life,
slowly being consumed by the weaver.