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 768° 
Erenn
The new year arrives not with thunder, but with a whisper—soft, persistent, and unyielding.
It carries the weight of time gone by, the fragments of moments we let slip like sand between careless fingers.

Regret lingers like an unspoken truth, a shadow cast by the light of what could have been. We try to grasp it, to undo it, to reweave the threads of yesterday, but the loom has turned, and the past is a river that only flows forward.

Time was never ours to hold. It was a fleeting metaphor, a borrowed grace we misused with the arrogance of eternity. Hours became currency we spent too freely, years became chapters we didn’t bother to read.

But the clock does not pause.
It does not mourn. It ticks with indifference, a steady cadence reminding us of the gift we still possess: the present.

If the past is a lesson and the future a promise, then this moment is the altar on which we lay our resolve. To forgive ourselves. To treasure the seconds. To write poetry where there was silence.

For though time does not turn back, it offers something greater
a chance to begin again.
And in this beginning, perhaps,
we can finally learn to live.





                                            @Erennwrites
I guess I'm back
 481° 
Thirty Nine
436
I tell my friends I didn't study
Because I knew I wouldn't get in either way
I lied to them
I studied like never before
Flashcards
Notebooks filled with practice questions
Yet
I didn't make the cut
I wasn't good enough
shsat
 392° 
Ksenija Ostojić
she was 12,
of course no one believed her.
she was 12,
of course she was blamed.
she was 12,
of course she thinks its her fault.
she was 12,
of course they laughed at her when she opened up about it.
she was 12,
of course she thought it was love.
she was 12,
of course it was the clothes.
she was 12,
of course she couldn't press charges.
she was 12,
of course it still haunts her.
she was 12,
of course she's disgusted by her self.
she was 12,
of course she wasn't taken seriously.
she was 12.
 373° 
J
A slow transition, yet so quick,
from strangers to healers, we went.
You ripped your skin, I saw through,
and it felt a reflection of mine.

Found a soul pleading to feel loved,
searching to feel safe and adored.
Scars bleeding, pain un-ceasing,
you knew to give, not to take.

Saw a heart that deserves love,
so lost and tired to search or ask.
Didn't know just being there,
felt healing and freedom for you.

Kindness is all you asked of me,
love was everything I had in me.
You healed, only to bleed more,
when you had to make a choice.
I gave you all I that could. But, you had choices to make. I believed you would be happy with the decision, and let you go. Only to regret it now.
 304° 
Traveler
I wrote my play in portions
and posted them in draft..
I’m only 62
a little over half…

The best part of life is living
Each moment fades into now
I will write forever after
I will return upon the clouds

I went searching for a meaning
Then my Poet took the stage
Now I’m staring in my encore
The best part of my play!
Traveler 🧳 Tim
 303° 
Anais Vionet
(a university-life vignette)

It’s a Friday night, Leong and I are at a small restaurant close to the dorm called “Ordinary.” We’re in a cozy, pleasantly dark, little red booth—waiting for Lisa—who’s running late. This is Leong’s favorite bar and her taste in exotic drinks is labile—tonight she has us drinking ‘Maker’s Mark,’ a delicious, straight-up bourbon, with a twist of orange peel.

We’re on our second—and I’m starting to buzz—did I mention Lisa’s running late? On a hot note, we’re celebrating. I turned in the first draft of my thesis prospectus last Wednesday and this morning I got it back - accepted.

But more importantly, when I tore into the envelope, back in my room, there was a yellow sticky-note on the prospectus that read like an academic valentine. It said:
“Anais, you write beautifully, with the economy of a poet.”
I may have danced around my room.

So, we’re sitting there, sipping our drinks and noshing on a charcuterie platter when this cute, hipster, Princeton transfer-student guy named Milo showed up—drink in hand. He’s like, 5 '11 with light-brown medium-longish hair tucked behind his ears and he’s wearing a light blue, textured cardigan over a tan t-shirt and leaf-green work pants. At first, he’s walking by, but he spots us and stops.

“Has anyone ever told you look like Anais Vionet?” He asked me.
“No,” I replied, “never.” “You sound like her too,” he followed up.
“Well, I wouldn’t know,” I answered, shaking my head ‘no’ and shrugging.
“But she’d never come to a dive this cheap,” he updogged.
“Oh, yes she would,” I assured him.

Then, I gasped, remembering. Milos on one of Yale’s 500 soccer teams. “You guys lost to Princeton the other day! Isn’t that your alma mater? Congratulations!”
“Thanks, for bringing that up,” he said somewhat chagrined,
“We lost one-to-nil—it was just bad luck,” he said defensively.
“Oh, bad luck,” I chided him.

He did look tired and defeated, so I motioned him to take a seat. He slid right in next to Leong, who’s hand he shook, “Milo,” he said.
“I KNOW,” she said, in a sly and evil way—we’ve talked about him, conspiratorially—even she thinks he’s cute—and cross-culturally-cute isn’t easy.

“Are you superstitious?” Milo asked us—turning so Leong was included.
“Oh, sure,” I spoke first, “I was raised catholic, and even if you don’t hundo-p believe, it carries over. I always carry a lucky crystal with me—you know, for tests and what-not—I depend on that, as opposed to diligence and studying.”

“You have one with you now?” He followed up.
“I do,” I confessed, “I always have one in my bra.”
“Wow,” he laughed, “Why?”
“I don’t know,” I chuckled, “For luck—in case I need to appear supper fun and sassy? Though I guess I’m proof crystals don’t work.”
“Do you really have a crystal in your bra?” He asked, sipping his whisky.
“Yeah,” I said, sliding my hand discreetly into my left cup and bringing out a tiny, flat green, polished Jade stone crystal. “Isn’t that uncomfortable?” He asked.
“Nah, there’s plenty of room in there,” I admitted, sliding the crystal back in place.

“Leong’s superstitious,” I said, nodding to her.
“All Chinese are superstitious,” Leong pronounced, “whenever I had a big exam at school, my mother would go and leave a chicken at the temple.”
Milo and I chortled—I’d actually seen women do that when I lived in Shenzhen.
“Well, I guess it worked!” Milo pronounced, and he and Leong high-fived.
“We have a saying, ‘it’s better to be lucky than good,” he added.
We say, “Yùnqì zhòngyàoguò nénglì,” Leong noted, in Cantonese.
“Luck is more important than ability,” I translated.
Speaking of luck, Lisa finally arrived.
.
.
Songs for this:
Where Are You by 54 Ultra
Cut Glass by mark william lewis
Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 11/12/24:
Labile = open to change.

My thesis topic is "Molecular dynamics simulations of protein folding (or protein-protein interactions)." It isn't easy to give it a poetic twist.

Our cast:
Leong, (roommate) 21, is from Macau, China - the Las Vegas of Asia and she’s a proud communist (don’t knock it til you’ve tried it). She's a ‘molecular, cellular, and developmental biology major.’ I speak Cantonese—which may be why we were paired—I lived in Shenzhen China (about 30 miles from Macau) - we talk a lot of secret trash together.

Lisa, (roommate) 21, my bff. Grew up in a posh, 50th floor residence on Central Park South in Manhattan. She shares my major (Molecular biophysics and biochemistry) and is easily the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in RL (and is sensitive about it). Our tastes match, in everything (fashion, media, music, humor) except men.
 269° 
Lost Indeed
I think I’ve loved you my entire life,  
From the moment I was born  
Until the day I die.
ForI
 202° 
Grace
I see her there, the lady you will make
a mother out of. Oh, look at her youth,
she is a child herself, a girl forsooth,
with comely features lust will one day take.
Oh sweet child, hear my voice and do not wake,
you'll say. Inside you slithers God's sharp tooth,
his precious boy who'll die for sin and truth:
And then you'll watch him burn upon a stake.
She stirs now, with demons clad in white
or angels in the frost. My darling girl,
I'll shield you of the things they'll do with this:
A robe of heaven's blue, to catch starlight
and frame your face; let loose your swarthy curl
and let me wake you with a sacred kiss.
 181° 
Shaun Yee
Evil in the past
Evil remains at present
Evil forever?
is evil in man's dna?
 173° 
Whit Howland
and paperclips
taped together

in a sculpture
on my desk

art and homage
to desperation

despair
and disappointment

every time
I look up my retirement account
A word painting with a straightforward message. Some humorous verse.
 161° 
Unpolished Ink
This turning year  
a child of war so newly born,
could we give it a day
to dream its infant dreams,
the simple gift of a little peace
apparently not, or so it seems
 158° 
Qualyxian Quest
good to talk to him
      another day
            sleep
 157° 
Victor Hugo
Le ciel... prodigue en leur faveur les miracles.
La postérité de Joseph rentre dans la terre de Gessen ;
Et cette conquête, due aux larmes des vainqueurs,
Ne coûte pas une larme aux vaincus.
Chateaubriand, Martyrs.

I.

Savez-vous, voyageur, pourquoi, dissipant l'ombre,
D'innombrables clartés brillent dans la nuit sombre ?
Quelle immense vapeur rougit les cieux couverts ?
Et pourquoi mille cris, frappant la nue ardente,
Dans la ville, au **** rayonnante,
Comme un concert confus, s'élèvent dans les airs ?

II.

Ô joie ! ô triomphe ! ô mystère !
Il est né, l'enfant glorieux,
L'ange que promit à la terre
Un martyr partant pour les cieux :
L'avenir voilé se révèle.
Salut à la flamme nouvelle
Qui ranime l'ancien flambeau !
Honneur à ta première aurore,
Ô jeune lys qui viens d'éclore,
Tendre fleur qui sors d'un tombeau !

C'est Dieu qui l'a donné, le Dieu de la prière.
La cloche, balancée aux tours du sanctuaire,
Comme aux jours du repos, y rappelle nos pas.
C'est Dieu qui l'a donné, le Dieu de la victoire !
Chez les vieux martyrs de la gloire
Les canons ont tonné, comme au jour des combats.

Ce bruit, si cher à ton oreille,
Joint aux voix des temples bénis,
N'a-t-il donc rien qui te réveille,
Ô toi qui dors à Saint-Denis ?
Lève-toi ! Henri doit te plaire
Au sein du berceau populaire ;
Accours, ô père triomphant !
Enivre sa lèvre trompée,
Et viens voir si ta grande épée
Pèse aux mains du royal enfant.

Hélas ! il est absent, il est au sein des justes.
Sans doute, en ce moment, de ses aïeux augustes
Le cortège vers lui s'avance consolé :
Car il rendit, mourant sous des coups parricides,
Un héros à leurs tombes vides,
Une race de rois à leur trône isolé.

Parmi tous ces nobles fantômes,
Qu'il élève un front couronné,
Qu'il soit fier dans les saints royaumes,
Le père du roi nouveau-né !
Une race longue et sublime
Sort de l'immortelle victime ;
Tel un fleuve mystérieux,
Fils d'un mont frappé du tonnerre,
De son cours fécondant la terre,
Cache sa source dans les cieux.

Honneur au rejeton qui deviendra la tige !
Henri, nouveau Joas, sauvé par un prodige,
À l'ombre de l'autel croîtra vainqueur du sort ;
Un jour, de ses vertus notre France embellie,
À ses sœurs, comme Cornélie,
Dira : « Voilà mon fils, c'est mon plus beau trésor. »

III.

Ô toi, de ma pitié profonde
Reçois l'hommage solennel,
Humble objet des regards du monde
Privé du regard paternel !
Puisses-tu, né dans la souffrance,
Et de ta mère et de la France
Consoler la longue douleur !
Que le bras divin, t'environne,
Et puisse, ô Bourbon ! la couronne
Pour toi ne pas être un malheur !

Oui, souris, orphelin, aux larmes de ta mère !
Ecarte, en te jouant, ce crêpe funéraire
Qui voile ton berceau des couleurs du cercueil ;
Chasse le noir passé qui nous attriste encore ;
Sois à nos yeux comme une aurore !
Rends le jour et la joie à notre ciel en deuil !

Ivre d'espoir, ton roi lui-même,
Consacrant le jour où tu nais,
T'impose, avant le saint baptême,
Le baptême du Béarnais.
La veuve t'offre à l'orpheline ;
Vers toi, conduit par l'héroïne,
Vient ton aïeul en cheveux blancs ;
Et la foule, bruyante et fière,
Se presse à ce Louvre, où naguère,
Muette, elle entrait à pas lents.

Guerriers, peuple, chantez ; Bordeaux, lève ta tête,
Cité qui, la première, aux jours de la conquête,
Rendue aux fleurs de lys, as proclamé ta foi.
Et toi, que le martyr aux combats eût guidée,
Sors de ta douleur, ô Vendée !
Un roi naît pour la France, un solda naît pour toi.

IV.

Rattachez la nef à la rive :
La veuve reste parmi nous,
Et de sa patrie adoptive
Le ciel lui semble enfin plus doux.
L'espoir à la France l'enchaîne ;
Aux champs où fut frappé le chêne
Dieu fait croître un frêle roseau.
L'amour retient l'humble colombe ;
Il faut prier sur une tombe,
Il faut veiller sur un berceau.

Dis, qu'irais-tu chercher au lieu qui te vit naître,
Princesse ? Parthénope outrage son vieux maître :
L'étranger, qu'attiraient des bords exempts d'hivers
Voit Palerme en fureur, voit Messine en alarmes,
Et, plaignant la Sicile en armes,
De ce funèbre éden fuit les sanglantes mers.

Mais que les deux volcans s'éveillent !
Que le souffle du Dieu jaloux
Des sombres géants qui sommeillent
Rallume enfin l'ardent courroux ;
Devant les flots brûlants des laves
Que seront ces hautains esclaves,
Ces chefs d'un jour, ces grands soldats ?
Courage ! ô vous, vainqueurs sublimes !
Tandis que vous marchez aux crimes,
La terre tremble sous vos pas !

Reste au sein des français, ô fille de Sicile !
Ne fuis pas, pour des bords d'où le bonheur s'exile,
Une terre où le lys se relève immortel ;
Où du peuple et des rois l'union salutaire
N'est point cet ***** adultère
Du trône et des partis, des camps et de l'autel.

V.

Nous, ne craignons plus les tempêtes !
Bravons l'horizon menaçant !
Les forfaits qui chargeaient nos têtes
Sont rachetés par l'innocent !
Quand les nochers, dans la tourmente,
Jadis, voyaient l'onde écumante
Entr'ouvrir leurs frêle vaisseau,
Sûrs de la clémence éternelle,
Pour sauver la nef criminelle
Ils y suspendaient un berceau.

Octobre 1820.
 148° 
Lumin Guerrero
I constanftly crave the feeling of loving
Because, when I do,

My heart sparks in my chest
Like Poprocks in my mouth.

The tiny explosions of love satisfy my sweet tooth just right
And has me feeling that untouchable, wild spirit of a sugar-loaded kid.

But, like all Poprocks, the pops slow and the candy dissolves
Leaving me with the remnants of its sweetness.
I always get obsessed with people just to lose feelings too quick :(
 114° 
Dr Peter Lim
Have I changed or not?
But no situation is the same-
I adapt and improvise
but retain my name-

yet to be sure
I'm not a chameleon
my skin I change not
like all of you I live and move on
 114° 
Lukas Buijs
is it poetry
if someone pens words that won't
work or hold meaning
i feel like i'm stuck using all these "fancy english words" to make my poems "better".
it makes them feel less personal in a sense.
Another world
Another place
Another time
I’d have pictures of Monet on my wall
A massive room where I can dance
I’d have it all!
I’d have a ball,
I’d stand tall!
 109° 
Jn
I find myself on a crossroad again,
I don't know what I feel,
And love is the last thing,
I want this to be.

Maybe it's the quiet,
Maybe it's the silence,
Maybe it's the loneliness,
That exists in this moment.

I don't know,
I don't want to feel anything,
I'm tired of it,
I'm tired of thinking,
Especially when the silence screams it's loudest.
By:Jn
 105° 
Tye
If I die tonight,
Bury me shallow,
So I can wake from the abyss,
And leer at the hazy moonlight,
As it bounces softly through the treetops.
Where I can hear the birds,
Chirping to greet the sun.
Where others can hold their breath,
And hear my soul through the ground.
 103° 
MadRad
Age is 20,
Too much he thinks,
One heartbreak,
Whenever he touches it still stings.
Three real lovers,
And one make-out session in a back of a car,
A couple in his room,
One over the Nile,
And the last was at the bar.
Two favorite poets,
One Jewish sage
With songs verses so rare,
One Arab bard
From a hot deserts bare.
When he was 16,
He had a goal of becoming a successful engineer,
And the other is to make a million or two.
At 20, he's got only a keyboard and his energy is few.
Smokes to numb the daily sting,
Drinks to feel what life might bring.
He's full of love, it aches his heart,
Two real friends, a few colleagues,
And a guardian angel playing the harp.
Three sisters but he went away for college,
A father he can't stand up to,
Because he hasn't built the courage.
Twenty years still he knows nothing
Twenty years but he’s still scared
and doesn’t know what’s coming.
when i had my daughter i had everything
happiness to me for ever she will bring
i will love her always more the she will know
always be there for her as i watch her grow

i will do my best to make her proud of me
best mum  in the world i will try to be
she is everything  i worship and adore
makes my life complete and worth living for

a poem for a special friend
 84° 
Kelsey
I want my writing
To be profound
A work of art you just
Want to hang on your wall
And when you look at it
Day in and out
The words will seep
Back through your skin
And melt in your heart
And suddenly, you feel
Like someone you've never met
Knows you better than
Your closest companions
And somehow that's okay
Because now you know
You've never been alone.
I've finished the first draft of my novel. What I want most is to make an impact on those who read it and to know that my words matter.
 84° 
Raven Feels
1=~
I'm here
but I'm always somewhere else

                                                                                                ------ravenfeels
 82° 
Cyndi Allens
I am nothing but a shell of who I used to be
mindlessly wandering the earth
and searching for my purpose
eternally bound to suffer in silence
while looking for an answer
that doesn't exist.
Short poem today. Happy new year.
 82° 
Max Neumann
The reflection comes alive through
Forgiveness
As if fear discovers itself within
Love

Rebirth stirs awake
In the pale breath of light
Bullet holes closed up like
Wounds
While distant gangs roared their
Defiance

Silence grew deeper as the sirens
Died away
The old screams faded, never to
Return

From this an awakening was born
An Awakening
 79° 
Àŧùl
I talk a lot.
In 2012, I created a blog.
There, I talked about the next ice age.
The Milankovitch cycles, you know.
It's still 50,000 years away,
But our actions, yes, the human actions,
They can disrupt the cycle.
My HP Poem #2035
©Atul Kaushal
 69° 
Larry Berger
On a tranquil sea, I float,
upon a cloud;
streaming from my mind
are many flowers,
lilies I lay gently
in array, upon the water.
The wind arranges them
in pleasing patterns,
but then, the wind
grows stronger,
and stirs the water
and the flowers
begin to sink.
I reach desperately
for the ones nearest to me
and fall from the cloud,
helplessly into the sea.
Struggling to stay afloat
I sink beneath the waves,
and there, I am floating
with the sunken flowers,
only now there is no surface
I must remain upon
 69° 
Nat Lipstadt
Oct 2020
Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.


Poets, let us examine this friendship thing, again.

This is a poem of humans, regardless of our natural multi- flavored striations, that tend to over-define us, thus separating, instead of celebrating commonalities.

Like most things we enjoy, our five senses are the gateway to pleasure, even the pleasure of friendships. They act in concert, a symphonic interplay that reenforces and heightens so that in combination they create a whole greater than a single sense could provide singly.

This is on my mind this week, as I wrestle to understand the meaningful possibilities, the limits of friendship.

Poets form bonds without hearing each other’s voices.

Poets connect despite geographic distances that makes grasping each others sinewed arms, caressing the softness of hard cheekbones, without ever having been granted the unique, all encompassing satisfaction of embrace, hugging.

Poets sometimes can hear but not see each other’s words.

Poets sometimes can see/read each other’s words, but never hear them voiced aloud in the authors own, true voice.

Poets sometimes cannot smell or taste each other’s words, though it can take a poem to another, higher sensory level of coloration.

And yet, a bond so strong forms that defies the conventional limitations of the physical. Should we share such a bond, them you know it, no need to ask for confirmation.

Words, can be gifted, without teleportation, even when and if the bridge of a shared spoken language is not extant.

This is nothing short of miraculous.

Just like friendship.

All my wrestling to true comprehend this state, for naught, for the miracle of words is like the color of water. Universal, invisible, but so varied, that it too bridges and is shared by every ! human body regardless of any human shape, color, form of the billions conceivable.

But wrestle I do nonetheless, for the pleasure of this (non?)soluble problem that both creates queries & quenches simultaneously, so I break off this thinnest wafer to share with you, offering this notional:

All humans are poems.

All poems are human.

Solve this poem for human.

(And ignore the wet spots of my watery, clear tears staining this poem).
written Oct 2020. in conversation with SPT
 68° 
Damon
I do not fear the decay of beauty.
But I am repulsed by the maggots feasting on its remains.
 66° 
Germaine
Within my fallen body,
Roots will thrive.

And in them, I am alive.

As old as my arms reach,
They will bare the fruit of all that has come before me.

I shall feed to the next generation of disciples,
The sugars that are born from this forgotten language.

And there we will all rise,
as we flow back down the river line.
This unfortunately was brought on and inspired by a Kanye song
 65° 
The Haunting
They say never look into its eye,
you'll be hit with the shadows
of the lonesome who died.
Demons scuttle along the ground,
like bugs in beat to all the decay.
Moaning their  vocal sounds
as they wear broken halos,
their tarnished wings can't fly.
 62° 
Liana
Ugh
Flash cards
Headaches
Studying for hours
Trying so hard
Just to be heard

Trying to make friends
Trying to be social
So difficult when your not normal
The things you have to tell yourself
To keep yourself together
"It's okay
Your okay
Everything's okay"
All lies

Concerned looks from your mother
As you say that yes, today was the same
You can tell she's trying not to cry
Guilty

Procrastination
Lack of motivation
Working so hard for this presentation
And for everything else
Even when it all gets deleted in my head immediately after

The crowded hallways
You can barely squeeze your way through
They're so loud
And full of people
Most yelling
Some banging on lockers
Jammed
Like my head

Painted spirals on the wall
Not as real as mine
Random
 61° 
Lee
How lucky they are
To call you their friend
To stand close like a shadow
Or drift far like a star
And never fear the distance.

To pour words like rain on thirsty ground
To share as if time were endless
But I couldn’t
Like a bird slipping from open hands
I lost a friend.
 60° 
TREASUREI
Are you free on weekend ?
Could we get donuts in the morning with pajamas sometimes ?
Is there another time that we could like fall for each other ?
COULD I RIDE YOUR BIKE ?
Kiss your cheek
See you shower
Be weird with you
Smoke you know search your mind
Taste
Feel
Hear
Hear you say my name in the morning to wake me up for work ?


Dame ..

All these questions and you are the answer to all
 55° 
Anno
The stress made me relapse.
the day after new years eve,
i relapsed.
i broke my four months streak.
It didn't feel bad, or disappointing.
i didn't even feel guilt.
now I feel guilty for not feeling guilt.
But it was so good.
I relapsed two days into 2025.
and I knew it was coming.
having never been clean for that long before,
i knew I would come back to it.
it's my safe place, the pain, the punishment.

I want to get worse and to f*ck myself up and I want people to not know about anything until it's too late, until I am done, until it's over.
I don't think this is even a poem, it's just me ranting about my silly little problems. Can't wait until school starts in a few days and it'll get worse!
 53° 
Edoardo Alaimo
This is not meant to be a poem.

Never delete what you were. Even though it doesn't reflect your current being. You must be proud of what you were because it got you until now and it prepared you. It gave you the tools. It WAS you and hence it IS still you.

Never be ashamed of the love you felt and gave. Instead. Grow in love and grow the love.

And if things did not go the best possible way. Well. What even is the best possible way? Things went the only way possible. You learn from what happens and live the way you think is best for you. Maybe learning from mistakes too.

There are no true immortal beings, but immortal are the feelings we feel and the ideas that we bring to others. This is because ideas and feelings will move through generations as long as someone is willing to talk about them. Share them. Write them. And speak about them with other people.

This is magic.

I guess that's all.
मैं आपकी तरह छिपा हुआ नहीं हूं, इसलिए कृपया मुझे लिखें या संदेश भेजें। मैं आपको उचित उत्तर देना चाहूँगा
 52° 
Kai
Im so sorry
I said I'd stop
I lied.
I said never again
I lied
I didn't mean to
I wasn't thinking
It was to much
Im sorry
 49° 
Muses
I'm always here, where are you?
I'm by the lamp on
the table in the room.
Worried, anxious,
yet happy, but waiting.
Where are you?
I seek you out like
I'm trying to find you in
a game of hide-and-seek.
If I came to you,
would you hide from me?
The sun is soon setting;
nighttime is near.
I know the time to leave
will soon be here.
It's so hard to leave
your magnetic pull.
I hope that soon I'll
sleep and search for you.
You'll be waiting in the
corner of the room.
Morning is coming
It's sooner than I think.
You're the sunrise shining
through the window on me.
I wake up, look around to see—
Where are you?
You're right where you say
you'll always be: in my heart ❤️

Leanne Prince
Dec. 2024
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