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  3h BEEZEE
eliana
Standing amidst wildfire,
I am simply an ember.
Not the flame,
Not the smoky haze,
But such inside.

Standing amidst blizzards,
I am simply a flake.
Not the wind,
Not the frigid air,
But such inside.

Standing amidst earthquakes,
I am simply a pebble.
Not the rocks,
Not the fervent shake,
But such inside.

Standing amidst this life,
I am simply a viewer.
Not the praised,
Not the powerful voice,
But such inside.

Standing amidst myself,
I still prevail.
Not the weak,
Not the failing girl,
But such outside.
This poem is from the point of view of an introvert. Those who don't know her think that she is weak for being so quiet, but they don't know that she has big ideas, big plans, and big dreams. She has power in her, and she is waiting to put it on display outside.
BEEZEE 3h
My psyche’s manor,
candle-lit,
snow-capped hills,
gated in
against a fire
roaring in.

The wise old woman
waits and sits;
she speaks of safety,
preserving peace.

Unconscious contents
shake bronze gates,
so seasons change
beneath the skin.

In a white, vast court
where silence lives,
I’m safe for now —
but this I know:

that my Unknown
will come to Known.

Before the spring,
beneath my snow,
the grass of Me
begins to grow.
This piece is part of my Dreams series. Encounters with the wounded inner masculine and the wise old woman.
A glimpse of my individuation at work.
BEEZEE 1d
Anxiety, do you think you love me?
Oh mind, do you want to be my friend?

A lonely stone in the full quarry
No chance that it will begin to swim

Shadow girl, with your many faces
With every ash you take to sin

Big voiced tropes steady unfolded
A fear to never tell again
BEEZEE Jul 29
It’s rained.
Crawdads swept up on the street.
I chase them down with small bare-feet.
Across the street, there rises steam.
The neighbor makes hot oysters sing.
Carolina, is still that child—
She’s in my heart, she’s roaming free.
No need to brush your hair, little Bee.
I like it stringy.
I like black feet.
The story here is one of Me.
It’s where I copped the name “Beezee”
Where I road bikes and scraped my knees.
I ducked and dived and climbed up trees.
It’s forever and a day so sweet.
Nostalgia is my favorite street.
Messy hair, black feet, no shame.
BEEZEE Jul 28
Holes throughout the body—
a syndrome of the past.
Light as a feather,
I float through the lapse.

All the actresses and actors
that push me to perform, get paid—
while the silence of a clever one
avoids this house of blame.

I’m alone when I call you.
I don’t want more shame.
I’m driftwood washing on the shores
of a land called Never-Clean.

Can you help me become new again—
sand me down and stain the pain?
I’m a hollowed human of useless, unkept, selfish rage.

“It’s not that deep—not the deep end,”
said one shallow mate.
They never knew I’d touched the soil
that’s damp and cold— infinite.

“She’s so dramatic.”
emotions—lymphatic—
They drain and drain again.

I’ll be the one, light as driftwood,
from wounds where nails drove in.
Is there any cure for the rot
within this flesh, beneath this skin?

Refurbish me.
Let me live again.
Make me the centerpiece
from that angry river’s end.
Showcase the beauty
of this damage eating in.
She pleads—
“Take me, make me yours,”
as the storm begins to end.



“This here is an heirloom,”
weathered, rough, reclaimed.
“A simple reminder of the power of potential.

Grandpa found it along the river,
after the great storm—
that same summer he met Grandma
as she ran away.

This is no ordinary driftwood.
The holes carry a whistle
that sings our family’s name.”
We all share the potential to be reclaimed, in love and life.
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