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I am the observer—
always present,
yet never really there.

Everyone moves,
their stories unfolding
like rivers rushing forward,
while I remain still,
a stone in the current.

I know their struggles,
I see their patterns—
so I give the advice,
offer the comfort,
play the steady hand.

But no one pauses
to read my story.
No one lingers long enough
to see past my smile,
my practiced “I’m okay.”

And so I stay—
a quiet witness
who lives in motion,
a chapter unopened,
a story unread.
I couldn't teach my heart
To completely unlove you
So I taught my fingers
To never reach out to you.
Wield your words like running streams,
To conjure truth from fractured dreams.
Let language bend, let silence speak,
With power tender, fierce, and sleek.

Trace the edges of what's unsaid,
Where longing lingers, soft or red.
Let vowels tremble, consonants bite,
Unmasking shame in morning light.

Speak in spirals, chant in flame,
Name the ache that has no name.
Your verses ripple, raw and wide,
A tide of pride we will not hide.

So wield your words, your sacred art,
To mend the cracks in every heart.
Let rhythm rise, let meaning swell,
And cast your spell where silence fell.
Dedicated to Omni for the first two lines of inspiration.
 Jul 28 Pippa Christie
Pho
It knocked
softly
a breath at the door
but I
bolted the windows
and swallowed the key.

It came wearing warmth,
but I mistook it
for fire,
for teeth,
for grief with a new face.

So I fled,
faster than joy
could reach out its hand
afraid it might feel
like home.
You Talk, i listen.
That’s the way this works.

You ramble and You monologue,
while i keep my lips pursed.

i wonder if You’ll notice,
i haven’t said a word..

But you simply entertain Yourself,
and i remain unheard.
Being an introvert is tricky. There's been a couple times I've just stopped talking to see how long people would talk to themselves... spoiler alert---it's a long time.
behold the silent gift
to feel any lone soul roar
deeper than before
struggles of an empath in an ever decaying world
What is the value of a life
Of a husband or a wife 
Of a daughter or a son.

Do these labels give value to one,
More so over the other?

Is a wife less valuable than a mother,
A father more valuable than a son?

Does value rise or fall
as one becomes another?

Surely every life can't be worth the same!
Can it?

 I wonder.
Is a peasants life,
of less value than a kings!

Or does Status, Creed, Race, or Color,
truly, not mean a **** thing?

It is true that I would place my
wife, my son, and my brothers
life over that of another.

But that value is given to them only by me.
No life is worth more
than any other in reality.

Yet until we can open
our hearts and minds to see.

The true value of life will never be!
Debuted this one at our poetry reading last night
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