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 58m
renseksderf
“What I Carry”

Some days the loss is heavy,
like stones in my chest.
Other days it’s light,
like sunlight through leaves.
Both are true. Both stay with me.
And somehow, so do I.
Y20
Playing video games trying to relax
Being scolded by someone with no job
Burnt out from life trying to find meaning
An adventure finding purpose to survive
Not always passionate or inspired
Not trying to be like everyone else
Tried to fit in kept out turned away
After rejection there's no going back
Being denied dound it else where
Refusing to settle for less made progress
The vision within makes sense so close
Working towards goals become reality
Make the dream come true and vivid
Take those steps moving forward
Trial and error gaining results
 4h
nivek
sitting up straight
inviting inspiration

a whisper on lips
a mind opened
 4h
badwords
Once upon a time, in a great barnyard that stretched as far as the eye could see, there lived a proud Rooster.
He was not the largest bird, nor the fiercest, but his voice carried farther than any other. At dawn his cry reached every corner of the yard, and all the animals gathered beneath his perch. “See how strong we are when we rise together,” he would crow, and for a while the farm seemed united by his song.

But unity is fragile, like a rainbow after rain. The Rooster, clever and ambitious, feared the return of the chaos that had once torn the barnyard apart. So he built tall fences and dug deep ditches, and he told the hens, the ducks, and even the smallest chicks that only by keeping together under his cry would they remain safe. “The Fox is always watching,” he warned. And indeed, from the shadows beyond the field, a sly Fox watched carefully.

The Fox was patient. He knew he could not leap the fences nor fight the Rooster outright. Instead, he studied the yard. He noticed the ducks quarreled with the hens over feed. He saw the black-feathered chicks kept apart from the white. He heard the older ***** complain that the Rooster’s crow was too loud, while the young whispered that it was not loud enough.

The Fox thought: Why should I attack when the Rooster himself guards them so tightly? Better to let the birds quarrel until they forget who the true enemy is.

So the Fox crept close and whispered through the cracks in the fence. To the hens he murmured, “The ducks steal your grain.” To the ducks he hissed, “The hens think themselves better than you.” To the chicks he cooed, “The Rooster does not care for your color.” And to the Rooster himself he sighed, “You are the only one who can save them — cry louder, build higher fences, or they will turn on you.”

The Rooster, proud and watchful, answered each whisper with louder cries and stricter rules. The barnyard was filled with noise: hens clucking, ducks quacking, chicks chirping, the Rooster crowing. Every bird spoke, but none listened. The rainbow of feathers that once shone together became only two harsh colors — red and blue — each louder and more certain than the other.

And all the while, the Fox sat in the shade of the fence, grinning. He needed no claws nor teeth. His weapon was patience, his victory assured by the birds’ own divisions.



Moral

A farmyard that fears the Fox may build fences and crow loudly, but if it forgets that unity is its true defense, it will be undone not by the Fox’s bite, but by his whispers
save the platitudes
for the post-breakdown shower;
towel strewn on the floor,
steam suffocating common sense.
too little to soothe the hate.

stained glass reflects broken pieces
of our souls, a low hum
that ascends to screaming
before bursting, limp. the color
stands still, where the glass once was,
and attempts to rebuild it
more vibrantly, in rebuke
of the damage it barely survived.

and before anything else,
know it meant nothing,
means nothing.
arbitrary value assigned
by an unreliable narrator
who drafted this story
out of spite, boredom, and rage.

the ballpoint is sharpened
against the page and threatens
to tear it
like the stained glass,
like your bones.
like all of you.

maybe a poem will save you.
You told me stories
But never lies
You painted the tapestry
Of my mind
Rocking me to sleep in sunshine
Waking me up to see the moon bright
Look my love, look at it
Its a beaming lumen
Just like you
I smiled ever so lovely
Trying to match your face with mine
Hold me in your arms again
Like the paint that clings to art
Don't let me go
Please, dont let go
You changed my world
With your colors
Now I see what it all means
Photo prompt was a hand painted wooden rocking chair with dark blue sky and yellow sunflowers
We cradle the precious things

and place them carefully upon our lap

the miracle of newness is like a sacred prayer

it is hands raised high and heads bowed low

yet always in that moment eyes opened wider

we marvel and bask in the wonder of it all

it is a full moon in a hungry sky

hope’s whisper of a million questions

before the answers will ever reach our lips

a blooming garden at our feet

a child’s hand clutching ours

yet still we walk too fast

as time brushes by.
"She wasn't doing a thing that I could see,
except standing there leaning on the balcony rail,
holding the universe together."
  ~ J. D. Saliner
God has looked into my heart,
Not at it, but into my heart —
Introspectively,
Microscopically,
Spirtual-scopically...

That lumpy piece of flesh,
holding all my fears, snears, cheers, and revears:

The terror of that lone gunman lurking nearby, forcing a town and the State to ransom for a “new world order.”

The criticisms of others...

Accomplishments in life you held as a goal, not sure if you’d ever bring into the fol’.

And my eternal hope, alarming me when I feel I can’t cope...
Essential to keep me alive,
Essential for me to thrive,
And arrive into my ‘be-ing’.

But it is a bumpy piece of flesh,
Scared with wounds,
Pushed and prodded,
Pumped and plodded
in life, with life
And through life...


“Oh, my heart...”
Dawn trembles the glass-
in stillness, a split:
shadow knotted to bone,
light breaks forward.

In my yard a house sparrow-
one wing bent up,
the other folded under-
the body decides.

Ordinary in death:
storm, wire, hunger.
No trumpets, no song-
just the drone of flies.

I reach for the light,
palm raised;
my shadow carries the bird.

I apologize for a world
that could not keep you.

I apologize for the rapture of ego
that left you.

If we must speak of deliverance,
I want a god with no promises,
no threats, only this:

a shovel,
a tree,
and someone
to do the digging.
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