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To this day,
your name
still hurts my tongue
but I still say it anyway.
Sometimes I like to
hear my soul
gently tear itself
are the ink
for the pen
a poet uses
to write
- L.M.
Often, I read poems that I wished to write.
Rarely, I write poems that I wanted to read.
I thus
my existence.
 Nov 2020 Kyra Embers
Poetry seems binary, you either write of love, or death.

But to me they are the same.
 Nov 2020 Kyra Embers
 Nov 2020 Kyra Embers
The best thing is. At the end of the day. It ends.
Might get stabbed today
But it's okay
A poem every day

i got into a fight. let's pray
Waking up with a kiss on my neck from you would be nice.
Problem is, I'll never wake up next to you, so the kiss is not an option.
A poem every day

I just wanna be with him for a bit. He doesn't even know.
 Sep 2020 Kyra Embers
My son does not understand fear,
he is 3,
he thinks in color,
he believes in magic,
he says that our dog Smokey
controls the weather.

Watch him as he goes!
Jumping over cracks on sidewalks,
pretending to fly,
attempting to get near electric outlets
because he saw them spark once,
and fire,
fire is cool!

"Watch me Mommy!

watch me."

Some days I stay in bed all day,
I tell everyone I am catching a cold,
a sinus infection,
another migraine again.

It is easier to lie than to explain,
that it is too difficult to shower,
to find an outfit, to brush my hair,
to make food,
to chew it.

Friends jokingly call me a hypochondriac,
my Mother thinks I am mellow dramatic,
My son asks me if I need my temperature checked.

It is too honest to say,
"I am fighting monsters, and they won today."
Who would believe me if I did?

We are taught since childhood
to not believe in the things
we can not see.

The day we buried my Grandfather,
I wore my favorite gray dress,
I was scared to taint it
with such a sad memory,
but I was 8 months pregnant
and nothing else fit.

We threw dirt in a hole
as three strangers watched us grieve.
They stood with shovels ready to do their jobs,
ready to get home to their loved ones.  

All I could think about was how much
it aches to love anyone,
even in the good times, it aches.
Loss dances outside our window
like flames, waiting to engulf.

I vowed to protect my child
from any unnecessary pain,
I vowed to make him feel safe.

Now I fear I am the one
tainting him in gray.

Not every day is bad,
most days are nice, in fact,
some days are so good
that the bad ones seem
like distant memories.

On the good days I feel brave,
brave like my son;

I tickle his tummy and show him
which lights are stars, which are planets,
and tell him I love him, always,
no matter what.
Broke my wings
So I couldn’t


So I stole his soul
So he couldn’t

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