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  Dec 1 Magda
Corrinne Shadow
When I was small
I wrote a song.
It was as wild
As it was long.

I did not know
How to write words
And so I sang
With the morning birds.

Now I am grown,
I am depressed.
I write long things
Just to impress.

I do not sing,
I only sigh.
When I was small
I was alive.
  Nov 16 Magda
King of Limericks
At the door comes a knock or a beating
That demands an uncomfortable greeting
So you hide from the guest
And deny the request
For this most unavoidable meeting
Magda Nov 16
I hide my pretty words
inside a shell.
Safe and far away from
prying eyes –
thoughts and desires, carefully constructed
to never see the light of day, never feel
the warmth of human connection.

For this is all too raw,
too fragile.
Words painfully crafted –
containing the chaos inside.

If people only knew,
what I was hiding,
I’d have to tear open my body,
remove the pearl
for all to see.
My flesh exposed – consumed,
my core, paraded around necks.

And I’d be tossed away
into the waters of my suffering,
to create more precious gems.

At the end, when I am too tired for it all,
clutched by the fingers of grief,
all that shall be left of me –
a shell, forced to adorn
the walls of strangers’ homes.

Just as so many mother of pearls,
who’ve came before me.
I wrote this poem while thinking about artists like Amy Winehouse and Sylvia Plath, who crafted beautiful, personal work that captivated people—often at the cost of their own suffering. The public’s fascination with their pain, especially after their untimely deaths, is a sad reminder of how art and suffering are so often intertwined. To quote Oscar Wilde: "The public is wonderfully tolerant. It forgives everything except genius."
Magda Nov 14
The moon comes to me,
at once with melancholy.
Like old friends.
That was my first attempt at a haiku a couple of weeks ago. :)
  Nov 13 Magda
Lizzie Bevis
Grief came uninvited  
through my open doorway,
fear and rage ignited  
they made plans to stay,
and I was dazed by the
lack of foresight.

Then sadness came bounding
in loud and bellowing.
It consumed every opening,  
chaos was ensuing,
then it left without a trace
of what it was doing.

When the storm had ended  
someone held me,
they were kind,
gently she attended  
and peace filled my mind,
as love comprehended
the hurt it left behind.

For in grief's disguise,  
love had always been  
opening my eyes.
To what grief could mean:  
That love never dies.

©️Lizzie Bevis
There is no grief without love.
Magda Nov 13
Suddenly it was November.
And it felt like the chance to be happy
was lost.
Shriveled and fragile,
as the slowly rotting leaves still clinging to trees.
November is my birthday month but it doesn't stop it from being desolate.
Magda Nov 12
L.
Your embrace,
a place sculpted just for me.

Your scent, intoxicating –
I breathe you in like spring air.
The warmth of your body,
the beating of your heart –
I’m finally home.

You whisper pretty things in my ear,
and I feel precious –
like a diamond in the making.

Before, a few ordinary atoms –
now a treasure,
made by the strong grasp of your love.

For just like a jewel,
I would feel safest,
hung from your neck –
forever by your side.
A poem for my love. For love morphs us into something precious.
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