Maryann I

Maryann I Mar 3

Click your heels, darling—
red as fresh-spilled secrets,
lacquered in the longing
of a girl caught between worlds.

The shoes gleam under studio lights,
a crimson promise, a whispered lie.
Tread lightly—the yellow bricks burn,
hot as stage-lamp sunbursts.

Magic is a contract signed in dust—
not fairy dust, but the kind that coats lungs,
turns breath to wheezing lullabies,
fills dreams with silver-flecked scars.

The witch shrieks, fire swallows her whole—
the flames don’t wait for cut.
She vanishes, but the burns stay,
seeping beneath the green of her skin.

The Tin Man rattles, hollow but breathing,
lungs stiff with powdered metal.
His tears are made of oil now,
his smile a polished afterthought.

Toto limps off set, paw trembling—
no curtain call for the crushed.
The monkeys drop like fallen stars,
wires snapping mid-flight.

And Judy—oh, Judy—
her laughter is stitched together,
a patchwork of amphetamines and exhaustion,
eyes wide as if searching for Kansas
but only finding the next scene.

Still, the shoes sparkle.
Still, they tell you to click.
Because every girl wants to go home—
even when home is a fairytale
built on broken bones.

Click, click—
but the magic is only real if you believe.

This poem was inspired by the tragedies underlying The Wizard of Oz—because there is a very hidden suffering beneath that magic. From disastrous injuries on set to the exploitation of Judy Garland, the film’s glamour was built on real-life suffering. The red heels transform into a haunting symbol — not only of escape, but of the price of illusion.

#tragedy #illusion #distortion #suffering #magic #dreams

Maryann I Mar 3

In the Quiet Between

Frost laces the earth —
a quiet diamond veil,
whispers of smoke rise,
spilling through the breath of trees.

Snow, soft as forgotten dreams,
drifts over stones, over roots,
its silence pressing close,
like a hand on the chest of night.

The wind, thin and sharp,
skims the hollow of the hills,
pulling shadows into its folds,
sewing the moon into the bones of the sky.

Bare branches stretch,
clawing toward a distant sun,
their fingers white and brittle,
writing cold prayers in the dark air.

Below, a river sleeps —
its pulse muted,
veiled under ice,
the valley cradles it in a long, slow sigh.

In the pause between seasons,
we linger —
half-light and half-shadow,
breathing the fragile quiet of winter,
waiting for what is to come.

I’ve been trying out different writing styles and I’m still figuring out what I like.

#winter #solitude #brittle #dreamscape #frozen #twilight

Mar 3

Vianne Lior

In the Meantime

Lilac hush
earth, half-waking,
baroque birdsong.

Moss curls ,
dew beads on nettle’s tongue
small, glassy prayers.

wind
silk-handed seamstress
stitches light into every leaf,
veiling the world
breath and bloom.

Bones of old trees cradle the sun’s milk,
wildflowers nestle in their ribs
what dies here, lives softer.

river, translucent and slow,
spills silver veins , the skin of the valley
a quiet pulse beneath the green.

Somewhere between sky and soil,
we become the silence
lungs folding into pollen-laden air,
fingertips brushing the hem of forever.

Nothing belongs.
Nothing is apart.

In the meantime,
the world remakes itself
petal by petal, wing by wing
and we, fragile passengers,
are simply learning how to listen.

Mar 3

Carlo C Gomez

Wilderness of Mirrors

Beneath the arch,
        among the branches,
      the maunder of her eyes
           finds noir in an afterimage,
every reflection is unique,
    explicit and indivisible,
      every reflection is her,
      there she looks close
       for gracefulness,
            in the essays of her skin
              and their brazen transparencies,
         she enters into her body fable,
      the shape of her resembles
           the tenor viol: where it widens,
                  where it narrows,
                where it digresses
              and monochromes,
           she reflects a fragile geography,
             a soft cargo, but
               an inkling of hurricane,
             rendering the fault lines
          beautiful and strong,
       in supplication tomorrow's explorer
will disturb the patterns
   until she's become her own lullaby

#allure #beauty #beholder #reflection #selfesteem #bodyimage

Maryann I Mar 3

The Silence Of Goodbye

There was a time when your laugh was my home,
When friendship was a soft place, a safe zone.
But the world that should’ve cradled you with care
Let you slip through, unnoticed, unaware.

You wore the weight of their words like chains,
And I, too young, couldn’t stop the rain.
I watched you fade, each day a little more,
But no one else seemed to see you soar.

I saw the cracks in your smile,
The way you shrank with each cruel trial.
The halls grew quieter the day you fell,
A whisper lost in a never-ending hell.

They said it was an accident, a tragedy.
But I knew better. I knew your plea.
I knew the way the darkness crept
Into your heart, the one you kept.

The echo of your voice still haunts me,
A call I never had the chance to see.
I didn’t eat, I didn’t sleep,
I drowned in the grief I couldn’t keep.

Your absence crushed me,
I felt the weight of it like a stone.
The world turned its back,
But I was left here…

Alone.

I didn’t know where to go.
I didn’t know how to breathe.
I didn’t know how to scream.
I wanted to vanish,
I wanted to leave.
But your ghost kept me here,
Torn between the silence,
By the shattered fear.
I’m falling apart—
Falling…
apart..
.

I wish I could’ve helped.. I miss my Lily.

#confessional #grief #silence #despair