To the divine spark in you,
I steep my hands and bow,
Blessed fires run through you,
And give you magic glow,
All souls unite in divinity,
Unsullied by the world,
Mercy, pity, peace, a trinity,
In which affection swirled,
The world is one constituency,
Love knows no church or nation,
But Evil in his regency,
Demands that care have ration,
But love wins, it conquers all,
With tyranny it multiples,
Our world cannot fail to be touched,
By hearts so strong and of our size,
Mouths will open, hearts will see,
We will speak, we will be free,
Living one, at unity,
Embed in Earth's community.

My heart is breaking and my soul is aching

I feel like there's a storm of pain inside of me

I can't believe someone stole innocent puppies away from their mother And one of those puppies was my Vann Gogh with his cute missing ear

I don't know if I should scream or cry I hope they are found safe and sound

Because I want my Vann back
Please God let them be found I want my cuddle buddy back. Poem by Shelby Kathleen Nightingale

o, you great young idiot!
you left blisters on my fingers from
lifting up all of your tiredness
trying to exalt it to heaven with human weight
i have broken exactly sixteen bones trying to
maintain the weight. lifting up your body
your suicide. your death. you made me
atlas and ******* my acl is torn and i have
arthritis.

o, you great young idiot!
you kissed a girl for the first time and didn't think
you'd ever be allowed to do it again. you thought
you'd be dead by next week but alas, you were
not and the reaper didn't take you in the night.
you kissed a boy for the first time and hated it.

o, you great young idiot!
you are sleeping in church and being forced to
realize god is over hyped. you think
maybe I'm wrong
but they always prove you right.

great young idiot!
don't **** yourself before the rains come.

Dead is dead
And gone is gone
You liked her
Because she turned
Your sadness
Into poetry
And you were so
Wrapped up in your mind
You never saw into hers
And now she is dead
And dead is dead
And now she is gone
And gone is gone

You are not mine,
but sometimes
i pretend that
you wish you were

i create this idea
that you secretly
want me

and i often forget
its just something
i've made up

You do not want me,
and you are not mine.

Hell
I thought my feelings were gone,
But I guess I was wrong.

Freezing when you walk by,
Wishing you were by my side,
Looking away when I know you're there,
Because there's nothing anymore and of
that I'm aware.

But lately I can't get you out of my mind.
Everywhere I go, You're in my sight.
Can't you see it's destroying me?

I look at you
you glance up
I look away

I glance up
you're looking at me
I glace away

This little dance,
Our peeks and glances
It continues on

I hope you
are braver
than me.

I tried to call out to you
in my dream last night.
But you were lost
behind a fixation
I couldn't re-imagine.

Now I'm looking
at the way I'm coping
hoping to somehow
ghostwrite my way out
of this incessant grief.

We can't just spill loss
into a letter and hope
by some chance
they read it over our shoulder.

I am foreshadowing
someone else's demise.

I've spent a lot of time losing this year,  
and somehow this was the most difficult.

Somehow the idea
is worse than
the reality

Somehow these words
will not be enough for you.

Asking you to stay
sounds selfish,
but you leaving seems the same.

I can't tell if
this is a poem
for my best friend that died-
or to the one who tried to.

I guess it's both.
I guess I am both.

Somewhere between grieving
too late and too early
in the same breath.

Loss feels so much more
than empty,
I am a tea kettle
  with bad metaphors
left on too long
so I am just screaming.

This is an empty house-
no one can hear me.

My blood boils over
with emotions
never taken off the back burner.

This chest caves in
and I cave into
the mindset that
this scenario
isn't imagination.

This is real life
and death isn't
just a concept for me anymore.

It is object permanence.

So, you want to write a poem.
Dear, dear writer, don't you know?
I come on my own time.
Prepare me a space
with white linen and
scarlet red roses.
Sweet talk me pretty,
or you'll be the one
up all night pacing,
pining for your poetry.
So love, you expect the best--
Well, I give when I’m ready.

                 Yours truly,

                  Poetry