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You do not attract what you want, you attract what you are / so if you want your epic love, you must be an epic lover / if you want abundance, you must be abundant / in other words, Universe does not respond to your want / it responds to your I am it responds to your energy / and the times I’d thought I found love, what I’d really found was whatever feeling I was operating from / and anger, desperation, fear, lack——none make very satisfying bedmates let me tell you / and none equal love

So be love / be love, and let the world love you back / do not think your empty prayers your daily affirmations will fool God / God’s language is not words
a little something I jotted down yesterday.
Isn't it a funny feeling; guilt
And the things we feel it for

I'm not sure which is harder; being unloved
Or being taught love is what it isn't

But both leave you robbed

And angry.

"
It took me two decades to understand,
You never knew how;
Yours came with strings of compliance attached

And obligatory love is a **** poor excuse for it.

"
I left, I left
And still the guilt came;

That unwanted visitor who refuses to leave.
pg. 40 from my poetry book, Biting Thorns Off Roses
"If there is only one thing to do well in this life,

It is to love well;

For if there is anything you are to be judged by

It is the plainness, of your loving."

||
📖 the opening page from my book;  "Biting Thorns Off Roses"
 Mar 30 preston
jolly
i'm sorry.

from my blankets, to my sheets
to my own skin
i've left this stain of pure neglect
rotted shades of green and gray that run so deep
and now it seems

the place you occupied
my love
has succumbed to the same terminal conditions

the place where i held you
i can no longer visit.

from my life
as a sad dysphoric mess, to my wasted death
buried beneath
my own regret

could i have predicted this
could i have prevented
like an oncoming wreck
but i've not found the strength
to move an inch
from the pedal of my disease
accelerate this humiliating process
sever my neck

to end,
or perhaps
encapsulate
this worthlessness.
https://youtu.be/8iz0yF4eR68?si=PhT0ReJOmdeHQHch
“They tell me to fear the homeless in LA but I do not. They say women alone at night should not be out, but I have my dogs, and we frequent empty parks after dark, side-by-side with encampments, and we watch (my dogs and I) the homeless cart their belongs by. Well, my dog barks.

They hand me giant jugs over chin-high fences, to ask if I would fill them; their freshest water exists from a dog park spout. Last week I saw a man struggling to press a cardboard slat into the grate of an open sewage pipe, his secret resting place. About a month before, a man with all his worldly belongings strewn along the plastic floor of a porta-***** so smeared in ****t, you’d not dare touch a square inch. Rain was pouring, and he needed to sleep with a roof.

And I think, I am not so different from them. Me, with my white skin and pretty smile; people treat you nicer when you’re pretty. When you can put a face on and say straight-sounding things, and not speak of months spent living in your car, sleeping on street-sides, praying for no cops. Or of deep pain——no, do not speak of that. Too much pain makes people afraid, makes people want to look away. How no one noticed the man hiding his face in the sewage drain, the man sleeping in the ****t-smeared porta-toilet,   because   every   person   noticed,   and   just   decided   not   to   look.

and I think about      how many false narratives are propagated by fear——“
 Mar 22 preston
jolly
closer
 Mar 22 preston
jolly
alcohol in excess
and a daily overdose of pills
it's easier
than when choking on your tongue becomes a reminder
of the ghost who shook you out of it at night
so you laced those bitter remedies together
to go follow her spectre
while slurring all the words from all your favorite songs
brazen as ever

would it be too late to ask if i joined you
would it be too much to beg
put on my favorite record  
cut the failure out of my veins
https://youtu.be/pFDBqPugrrk?si=YECyTCsJg04rVwCg
 Mar 22 preston
A W Bullen
edeN
 Mar 22 preston
A W Bullen
I swear
there was a garden here

before the breaking winter
won the blades of shorted glint

through hazy recollection
swims a watermark imprinted

of a simple tangled haven
at the shaking of the World
relieved to feel the Eden need still breathing
 Mar 21 preston
Maryann I
I was a cavern, hollowed by storms,
veins lined with soot, breath laced with ash.
Grief hung from my ribs like moss in a forgotten wood,
a slow rot curling beneath my tongue.

The moon turned its back; even stars whispered away,
and I wore my rage like a cloak of thorns,
each step scattering petals of ruin,
each silence a howl stitched beneath my skin.

I became a storm cellar of memories,
echoing thunder that never touched sky,
harboring shadows that fed on the scent of blame,
their claws tracing old wounds like sacred scripture.

But dawn cracked the stone—
a golden vine threading through grief’s grip,
spilling warmth into marrow that had forgotten how to bloom.
The river inside me stirred—slow, reluctant—

yet still it moved, washing silt from the hollows.
I knelt in that current, palms open, and let the darkness slip—
a feather carried downstream, a name released to the wind.

Forgiveness was not a surrender, but a seed,
buried deep beneath frostbitten roots,
unfolding in silence, unfurling toward light.

And now—
my heart, once a cathedral of echoes,
is a garden humming with bees,
each bloom a memory healed, not erased.

 Mar 16 preston
jewel
doors & how they swing so far wide
like the gaping shadow
of a pair of lips waiting...

i wonder if you realized i felt the grace
of your arrow -- brushing so lovingly through
the flesh of my *****
& i couldn’t help but to smile

take it away from me, the flutter in my chest, the
residuals of your golden essence
sitting on the rim of modelos
& passenger seat of my monte carlo

when i watch the neutral tones of grainy film
seep into your oily features
i wish you would smile just a bit more

two lovers draped over this canvas
cast their passionate shadows over bedsheets,
pleasurable touches & a recipe for a sickly afterglow,
burning like the delicate backs of fireflies
bursting like a pearlescent bubble
chased by bitter aftertaste of longing

how i wish you knew
how much you made me feel
how my paints drip like honey
& form the lines that become you

when i breathe again the essence has vanished
like paint thinner on acrylic. honey replaced
with a spoonful of sugar
& i cross the street to meet you

suddenly the memory leaves no trace behind
& i can’t help but to trace the spot
where you once stood
copyrighted, poemsbyjewel (2025).
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