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Beautiful faces
From every shade of color
From every span of the globe
From every walk of life
From every generation
From every faith,
From all types of places
From every nook and cranny
Of every place,
These are the beautiful faces
Of God’s rain bowed shaded
Globe
That spins around and around
On this planet
Called
Earth.
Observing faces of shapes and colors and how beautiful they are....
The copper bells glisten
Swaying in the sunshine
I pause as I listen
To the tinkling
Of the wind chimes

In the distance, they ring
A gentle melody -
I hear their songs
The unsaid words they sing

How sweet is their music
Sweet the joy they bring
Such is the wonder -
The magic of little things
The sun out here is so bright.
Around the snaking slippery banks.
Of this creek.

It's still winter.
But the snow is melting into peculiar puddles.
That line the slushy snow.

There's always reserved ravens.
And a couple of crows.
Looming ominously over the skeletal remains of the glen by the creek.

Stillness.
Dried out carcasses.
Of recycled animals.
Brown and black with dirt.

It's quiet.
Out here.
In the boonies.

With the shrill cold wind blowing through leave-less trees.
I was born into expectations,
wrapped in prayers and rules,
a daughter shaped by scriptures,
but never by choice.

If I speak, my voice is defiance,
if I’m silent, I’m weak.
A war I never started,
yet somehow, I lose.

I tried to be their perfect child,
folded myself into quiet obedience,
swallowed my thoughts like bitter pills,
but perfection was a lie I couldn't live.

So I stood, unbowed, unbroken,
but to them, I was lost.
A wandering soul, a whispered shame,
a lesson in what not to be.

I have made peace with the distance,
with the sighs and the shaking heads.
For I would rather be whole and unloved,
than loved for someone I am not.
This speaks about the quiet battle of being shaped by expectations yet yearning for authenticity. 🌿📖 It reflects the cost of choosing oneself over conformity—the distance it creates 🚶🏾‍♀️💭, the love it sacrifices 💔, but also the peace it brings. 🌊🕊️ In the end, it is a declaration of strength 💪🏾: the choice to be whole 🌟 rather than be loved under false terms. ❤️
The bird in the zoo,

A fleeting shadow,

While the tigers, lions, and bears sit pristine.

Behind glass, behind iron,

The ice cooler hums its silent cold,

A tire swing creaks in empty air,

A scratching post stands tattered,

Drawing the eyes of tourists,

The pride of the wild carry distant memories of jungles and savannahs,

Of woods that no longer exist,

Only flashes and pointed fingers remain.
They perform for their meals,

Hiding nothing,
Not a sliver of escape in sight,

There are no corners,

No refuge from the onslaught of gazes.

The birds come,

Landing briefly,

Their wings heavy with the weight of both freedom and confinement,

Dipping their beaks into water,

Picking at scraps,

And then, without a word,

They depart,

Gone again to the wild,

Leaving only the scent of freedom behind.
I, too, am a wild bird in a domestic zoo,

Half caged, half free,

My spirit soaring beyond the bars,

Yet tethered still to the eyes that watch me.
Light,
The light from above has bestowed upon me the urge to dance, despite it all, all, all. A spark has spread a little fire—the music never stopped, despite it all.  

Affection,
Facing slowly—affection all over the floor. Summer has not started yet, but there is heat, devotion, warmth in absence. I nod to the sun. I turn towards the dappled, bronzed skin of mine.

Jazz,
There is something ferocious living inside this four-cornered apartment, where the absence of childhood has taken half my life—but there are flowers, flowers in my head. Slowly dancing in the whiskers of the afternoon—velvety, yes, velvety notes striking the rhythm of my body. Swaying, swaying, almost lost in the murmur of the piano—the saxophone aggravates the thrill in my bones. I look up at the ceiling; colors start to swirl even more. Strings spill like liquid—smooth and endless, more and more. Conversing here and there, I am alive again.  

“Turn your face towards the sun,” they say. I dreamed of my childhood, and the heat of the sun felt like slow jazz in the afternoon.
I wrote this for 10 minutes because jazz made me feel alive today.

jazz is for ordinary people - berlioz
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