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Although golden hour, mornings are the hardest. While listening to rain fall I ruminate about mistakes made from textures of my past. In the background, pain and doubt. My own voice I hear loudest, Sitting, I feel the muscle of my heart contract and relax. I inhale, exhale. ah, I found the gap. Pause. Repeat. “There is only today.” my inner-voice whispers to me. Whispering back; , “I know”.... “I’m not done...” Forever filling in old cracks of a broken heart with new material. At last, or eventually, no longer a gaping hole.
0
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 3:45 PM UTC
If I embodied my poems, would that make me more real?
Although golden hour, mornings are the hardest. While listening to rain fall I ruminate about mistakes made from textures of my past. In the background, pain and doubt. My own voice I hear loudest, Sitting, I feel the muscle of my heart contract and relax. I inhale, exhale. ah, I found the gap. Pause. Repeat. “There is only today.” my inner-voice whispers to me. Whispering back; , “I know”.... “I’m not done...” Forever filling in old cracks of a broken heart with new material. At last, or eventually, no longer a gaping hole.
EtherealWoman
Written by
46/'merica
Apr 17
Apr 17, 2026 at 3:45 PM UTC
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