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Jayme Feb 9
I've grown accustomed to loss,
Felt it in ways I never imagined
Opportunities slipping away,
Loved ones fading into memory,
Moments I can never reclaim.
I've lost so much
That I've learned to live in the now,
To hold on tightly,
To cherish what remains.
Each loss has left me with lessons,
Fragments of wisdom I never asked for.
But is losing truly a loss
When it leaves behind so much wisdom?
Still, no matter how much I learn,
It always hurts.
There once was a family of clouds,
Blue were their noses and blue were their shrouds.
Amongst them lived 3 outcasts, though
As though through the blue, someone had brazenly run a plough!

Blotchy, whitey and marbly let’s call them,
Of the big blue sky, they were the beautifully botched hem.
The smurfy blues didn’t think so, alas!
And neither did the the puppets on the ground, peeping through the looking glass.

Rain was their saviour,
For amidst those tears, no one would notice their stark behaviour.
The smurfy blues covered them up,
Lest someone see their erroneous turf.

Then shone the sun one fine day,
And like rising phoenixes, the castaways came out to play.
For a thing such as beauty, ever so fickle
They were a miraculous honey-hued trickle.

The puppets on the ground too swapped their loyalties,
And soon the alleged drops of milk were favoured royalties.
The sky too embraced the cotton-ous hue amidst the smurfy blue,
And just like that, their fairytale slowly came true.
Among the scarce literature found regarding vitiligo, you would only find a single perspective i.e., the autoimmune warrior's. What about the spots themselves, I ask? How must they feel when their owner themselves wage a daily love/hate war? Aren't they bullied by their skin-coloured "normal" neighbours? Don't they get confused by their changing appearance?
This poem deals with THEM. And not unlike their owners, they too are ruddy steel-hearted, mind you!
I saw my skin as clouds of creme in coffee,
As the caramel within a toffee,
As the swirls of detergent in a bucket,
I love my skin, I remind myself lest I forget.

I saw it as an imperfectly mixed pasta,
As an unstirred Irish creme liqueur,
It reminds me of the side of me that’s a gangsta,
Like the work of a passionate newbie restaurateur.

It is mine, my own
No different than my blood or my bone.
I don’t need to alter it,
Let the others adjust as they see fit.

It took me quite a while,
But my skin too began to smile.
The efforts of a village it took,
So, lest you forget, love the way you look!
This poem has been penned as an ode to vitiligo. It is not a cry for help, nor does it invite pity parties. Rather, it represents the splendidness of the human body, and how truly life-altering self-love and acceptance can be.
Having said this, I'd like to affirm to the masses that even if a cure for vitiligo miraculously did appear, i would not take it. The speckled, marbled and patchy skin I now call my own, is MY NORMAL, and quite frankly, it's the only one that matters :)
Reece Feb 7
When people ask my favorite color,
I often say red or green,
And while I adore them,
It’s a lie.
Then after the conversation,
I wonder, “Why?”
Why did I lie?
What point did it serve?
I question and question,
And this is what I can confirm.

I’m afraid,
Afraid of being judged.
Afraid of the pointed fingers,
And the laughs.
Afraid of being shunned.
Afraid of the chastisement,
And the thought of being outcast.
Why so many fears,
Stem from something so trivial?
I couldn’t answer,
It makes no sense!
Yet something so small,
Feels so consequential,
Making a mountain,
Out of a molehill.
Seems to be my speciality,
Unfortunately.

Perhaps it’s a lack of self-confidence,
So I’m bound to hide any part of me.
That way if I get insulted,
They aren’t addressing me,
Just whatever I told them,
I control the narrative.
How long can one accept,
Living their lives as someone else?
It would feel more freeing,
To stop the lies,
And tell the truth,
But is it worth the risk?
Is the exposure worth the glamour?
Is it worth…
Being me?

I remember when we all had to wear masks,
I hated it.
Yet when the main force of Covid passed,
I kept it on.
Slightly suffocating,
******* all personality,
‘Til I’m nothing,
More than,
Another face,
People pass,
Perhaps a glance,
If I’m lucky.
It’s not as simple,
As just taking the mask off,
If it was,
Do you think I would’ve kept it on?

Trapped in an overthinking mind,
Thought circling,
Swimming fast through the ocean,
No chance of escaping.
The sharks are hungry,
Ready to fill me,
With doubt,
Concern,
A lack of self-worth,
And the biggie,
Anxiety.
If I try to swim away,
I’ll be eaten alive,
Torn apart,
From the inside out.
So at least for now,
My mind is a prison and I’m never gonna get out…

Last year around my birthday,
I wrote a poem similar to this,
Titled “Am I Good Enough?”
A simple question.
I came to the conclusion that I am,
But if I hide, inside,
Is that really living life?

Some lessons that I’ve learned,
Sometimes it’s best to walk the road alone,
The road less traveled,
The road no one else goes,
But the one which will lead you home.
People aren’t always reliable,
Me included,
It’s guaranteed,
Eventually,
They’ll let you down.
And it will hurt you,
When they do,
But they’re human too.
Who make mistakes,
And have regrets,
Filled with stress,
And aren’t perfection,
Despite what they may say.

I often think,
And dread,
What people think of me,
A broken tragic thought,
Excessively haunting.
I think the consensus is,
I’m a stuck-up, narcissist,
Trapped in my own head.
They wouldn’t be entirely wrong,
But I swear,
That’s not me…
I fear that people think I’m too good for them,
So they don’t even bother to connect,
That feeling spreads, and before you know it,
There’s no one left.
In reality,
I’m not that great,
Subpar, at best,
Scraping by with gifts,
I misuse and don’t understand.

I’m painfully introverted,
My shell is very comfortable,
What’s not to love?
Then the loneliness creeps in,
And while I may be satisfied with myself,
People need connection.
Though I don’t need as much as most,
I still need connection.
Yet, I fear,
There’s few who get me,
For me.

I try not to be a pleaser,
But when you’re desperate,
And given attention,
You’d be a fool not to accept it.
Yet, most don’t have the purest intentions,
And abuse,
And misuse,
The kindness they’re given.

I’m tired of sitting in my tower,
Watching from my balcony as others shine,
Questioning if I could do the same,
If I could be half as bright.
As they say,
Sometimes you have to make a leap of faith.
So I will,
I’ll fall,
Not caring what’s below.
Isn’t it better,
To be yourself,
Rather than die a character?
I’ll land on my feet,
And run to the rest,
To prove that I’m worth,
To be in their presence.

So sayonara, somber sorrows,
Farewell, fleeting fear,
Attack, anticipatory anxiety,
And believe,
Things will be fine.
I hope you see,
That the simplest things to confess,
To the overthinking mind,
Can tear me to pieces,
With nothing left to find.

I’ll be myself,
For all I can be, is me,
And though sometimes I may despise me,
I wouldn’t want to be anyone else.
So…
My name is Reece Allen Ellison,
And my favorite color is…
Pink
nicole Feb 6
10-3-24   1:24pm

you have so much to live for
you have so much to learn

where have you been?
you drifted far
but the things you love
still wait for you

life waits for you
like a branch on a tree
waits for a bluejay
nicole Feb 6
1-15-25   11:04pm

i kiss like tomorrow isn't promised
sing such melodies only the skilled can achieve
dance under the moonlight
(yes I don't give a **** who's watching)
laugh so loud heads usually turn
cry during movies
cry to musicals
write ****** poetry

I'm dramatic
I say stupid things I don't mean
I'm embarrassing
I truly believe I was a dragonfly in a past life
my grandfather's spirit lives within me

all these wonderful things
I forget so often


we take things for granted
we take ourselves for granted
yet
we're all just little stars
waiting for our time to shine


"magic cannot leave you when it is you..."
Hawley Anne Feb 6
I missed you then
I miss you still.
There isn't much else that I can say.
Do you know the amount of time
my heart has been in pain?

One hundred thirteen thousand eight hundred eighty, give or take.
That's 13 years of hours.
And I finally feel ok.

This poem I've rewritten now
about 20 thousand times.
Struggling with all my might
to figure out the lines.

It seems that I've said everything
that I had to say.
Like how I'm sorry for not giving you,
your hug or kiss that day.
Or how I will forever regret
the one "I love you" I DIDN'T say.

If I could turn back the clock
to the last day I ever saw you,
knowing what I know now
I know just what I would do.

I would give you the biggest hug
I'd ever given to anyone.
And I'd say I love you so many times
like maybe infinite times, plus one.

But I can't go back despite my guilt
and you'll never hug me again.
I'll never get to hear your voice
or introduce another boyfriend.

You wont get to be here
to watch my girls become who they will be.
You also won't be around
for any future milestones for me.
Like if I get clean or get my kids
or if I ever really mature.

I won't get to see you smile
or hear how you knew it all along.
That I would get my girls back.
That I was a good mom

I think I finally have come to terms
with the fact you had to go on.
And I've truely said all I can
so I think this is the last poem.

Please don't think you've left my thoughts,
that's not at all the case.
I just think I've said enough times now
I love you and you're missed.

So I'll leave you with just one more thing,
before I truly let you sleep.
I always have and always will love you.
And in my heart you'll keep

I hope to oneday see you again
And I'll miss you till I die.
So please Rest well uncle Chris,


This is the final Goodbye.
Zack Feb 4
Stand atop
your                                                            ­                                         dunes
manifested
Dreams
from infallible convictions
Eyes — open
with pretentious ecstasy
Gawking
Your waves — in a waterless sea
Stand
facing the winds
permeating
your pedantic desert
Eyes — water
Assurances — seeping in
Indifferently
ravishing your                                                             ­                      dunes
Lie — buried
The sand’s absolute
Like sediment —
manifestations overlaid
Eyes — close
against the winds righteous pursuits
You wonder
how you missed the direction
whence they came
Arturo Feb 2
We suffer from a sense of separation
Separation from self, soul,
brothers.
We suffer from thoughts run rampant in our heads,
Emotions left unchecked, stuffed, and ignored.
We suffer from memories stuck in our bodies
In the tissues
The cells
Encoded and bound.

The sense of separation is false,
A lie.
A myth we’ve been sold
A part of our conditioning
Domestication in drag.

When we can stop
And stare our faults,
Straight in the face,
Without cowering.
Eye to eye with the shadow
With love (and fear)
And grace.
We can then dance with our faults,
Our Shortcomings
Our humanity.

And then my friend
We realize
we’ve always been whole.
A part,
Not apart,
Of the cosmic wave.

We see then that we’re connected
To our souls and the divine.
And can be there for our brothers
who’ve been left behind.
Robert Feb 2
Harken ye who stand at deaths door.
Do not fret or worry Anymore.
His touch may be icy, and cold.
But it's filled with love, or so I'm told.
He takes away sarow as well as pain.
A bliss to compare to a summer rain.
He'll take your hand and off you'll go.
The two of you walking toe to toe.
So do not fret or worry in these last moments.
Stand firm at his door, and hand him your two pence.
"Death is not the opposite of life, but a part of it" by Haruki Murakami.
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