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Icy moon beams,
Follow dancing snow.
A clean white sheen,
Cast across the pier.

Waters ceased by icy means,
Frozen is their flow.
One moment crisp and clean,
On a winter pier.
Happy Thursday everyone!
 Jan 30 Nylee
Druzzayne Rika
I'm starting to feel my age,
A quiet calm upon life's stage.
With steady work, I earn my wage,
It's not all over my life anymore,
I am not someone I abhor.
And though some problems still remain,
I find solutions, ease away the pain.
Leave some places to get to,
Yet some progress sees me through.
No looming dread to seize the day,
Just gratitude for what's my way.
I see the good fortunes others hold,
The stories of many successes unfold,
And though my path may not be grand,
Contentment rests within my hand.
I may not have the glittering prize,
But joy and peace light up my eyes
I wish to feel this everyday as I rise.
You can hear the violence in the silence
Even when the rain washes your tears –
  some pain still reigns; man sailing thru

These clouds, and their tears galore; wouldn’t
You know every tomorrow comes too late –
  exorcisms to clear those who’ve ghosted you

The past hangs on an arm’s annexation
Holding the reigns of your mind’s territory –
  we wake as soldiers, ready to fight today

Winning small battles means nothing to war  
A world of peace could exist, en route to God –
   we could go as far, by how long we pray

I could have seen you yesterday,
Recalling a lover’s patch of kisses –
signing that love pact. War over love,
though when is love enough
for all wars to be done?

A world of peace could exist,
but it would mean we all don’t exist.
Tears burn away like flowers –
Weeds tested by the flames; it’s
Euthanasia, as we put down your regrets
Spelling errors; the mistakes to your life story

We’ve stuck them up across on these walls,
Like magazine cut-outs, those many pictures
In a mind’s room – all the things a child inspired
To be; sourced drawings from thoughts, hopes
And dreams; blood and tears as ink

Tears burn away like flowers –
Digging for them with a ***; it’s
Cognitive, thinking about your very past
Moulding; what hurt us then, shapes us now

My face is moulding clay; heated up for use.
 Jan 30 Nylee
Nemusa
Your hands rise,
lifting me like the sun lifts the sea,
like roots pressing upward
through the weight of the earth.

Soft, yet forged in fire,
they carry the echoes of old wars,
eyewitnesses to the quiet battles
fought behind closed doors,
where love and labor
bleed into one another.

These hands have sewn the sky together,
stitched the open wound of hunger,
performed CPR on broken dreams,
forcing life breath to breath
into what the world tried to abandon.

They have held me when I was
spiraling out of control,
when the weight of existence
pressed into my chest
like an ocean refusing to let go.

I have seen them whisper over water,
stirring secrets into steam,
curiosity flickering in their fingertips
as they trace the edges of another day.
Unforgettable memories live in their creases—
the hush of a mother brushing fevered skin,
the press of fingers that say,
I am here. You will not fall.

Oh, hands of women, hands of warriors,
who write history into my skin,
who lift me, who hold me,
who do not ask for thanks—
only the courage to go on.
God bless my fellow colleagues, you raise me up daily, not the easiest of jobs, I work with severely disabled youths, we're always encouraging each other to keep smiles on our faces.
The first cracks are beginning
to show in my teeth. All the
******* you make me chew
on is making my teeth break.

I had a dream where my teeth
fell out. And all you did was laugh.
Maybe I was foreseeing the
future, somehow, because now,
all you can do is laugh at me.

The first cracks are beginning
to show in my teeth. It hurts
like your face. The ache I’m
getting is nothing I’ve felt before.
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