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What motherhood is
rediscovering
your whole being

in these multiple foci of endless universes

Finding spots of
happiness
hidden amongst

These oblique moments of time

Learning that
salvation
is

Her

And within

Her

coarse form of courage
to take it

One step a day
Two breaths in
One slow, really slow out

And still
when she goes out

She'll do so brightly

With that genuine smile
nicole 21h
And what of a flower
whose petals fall in a sacrificial ritual
to make room for new ones to grow
July 16, 2025
She blooms where grief forgets to sleep,
beneath the sallow hush of twilight trees—
a flare of red in softened ash,
the last confession of the breeze.

Petals curled like whispered sins,
each one a blade of memory—
a wound too pretty to regret,
too sacred to let bleed freely.

She doesn’t seek the sun like roses do.
No, she is the flame of parting steps—
ephemeral,
like the breath between
goodbye
    and
      gone.

Born of myth and muddy water,
they say she grows where spirits roam—
a guardian of thresholds,
the keeper of the in-between,
wearing sorrow like a crown
no one dares remove.

And still,
   she rises.
Not for life,
but to remind the world:
some things only bloom
      in farewell.

I've spent most of my life
being fascinated by the flame,
trying to figure out how close I can get
without burning myself.

At the times where I've handled it closely,
it has left me charred—
but when I've tried casting it away altogether,
life is grey, cold, and lifeless.

So I keep returning
to the edge of the flame—
fingers trembling—
hoping this time,
it'll warm me
without consuming me.

Sometimes, the flame finds its way back—
not sparked, not summoned—
reminding me
it was never something I lit,
only something I carry.

I find myself haunted by the flicker—
drawn not by recklessness,
but by the unbearable quiet
of a world without warmth.
Lee 3d
She always is sure to close the blinds,
As the view is far too beautiful
for her to sleep with it there.
life is beautiful --
but you can't find
the beauty 
in the world,
in your life,
if you're not looking,
or admiring
the space
around you
and within others.

i wasn't searching
for anything --
until i started searching for
love,
only then
i begun to find
little heart shapes
in everything.

bread, 
street cracks,
pages in schoolbooks,
doorways,
steak,
fabric folds, 
car reflections,
freckles --
even those.

i thought
i was losing it --
seeing things.
until i realised,
i was searching for love,
and love
was finding me
the most unique places.
and it was beautiful.

so start looking
around you --
at the little things,
in the quiet.
maybe then
you'll find something
that helps you
heal
and find the beauty
in living 
and something
that reminds you
why living
matters.
im so tired help
date wrote: 19/7
You craved suffering.
You attempted to stab my flesh while persuading me that you were a thorny rose.
Roses can indeed draw blood, yet they also possess beauty.
Your spirit thrives in shadows, and beauty has faded from your sight.
The tall grass murmurs your falsehoods, and the breeze spreads your treacherous ways.
I have left the stage, no longer willing to engage in your games.
My spirit is devoted to the light, while you, my dear, are destined for the night.

-Rhia Clay
Have you seen blood?
All drowned beneath the flood.
How many care?
All you may see—
How fair.

All those who fly, dead.
All those who jump, low.
“Oh, how poorly fed!”
“Oh, what did he even know?”

He never learned to live—
For all he knew was how
to be naive.
This poem is about how we ignore the sufferings of others to only run for what we call ‘beauty’ or ‘elegance’. Everyone is beautiful it’s just everyone isn’t everyone. I am not you and you are not me.
Once you taste freedom, once its beauty has settled in your heart,
you will battle with the intensity of a whole legion to protect it.
Among all treasures, liberty reigns supreme.
The freedom to love as one desires.
The freedom to love whomever one chooses.
The freedom to express oneself.
How can one genuinely love another without the liberty to do so?
For a soul brimming with determination and independence,
take away from me my freedom,
and you may as well deny me breath.

-Rhia Clay
Matt Jul 14
the morning spills like
honeyed gold,
a whispered warmth the
night can’t hold.
Its light, a painter’s tender hand,
brushes life awake across the land

The sky, a symphony’s
first chord,
where dreams and daylight
walk accord
The breeze, a lover’s
softest sigh,
Stirs whispers through the
waking sky.

Each dewdrop sings a
tiny sun,
a fleeting spark ‘til day’s
begun
Oh, morning, balm for
weary eyes.
Your beauty humbles,
sanctifies

In you, the world begins
anew,
a love note scrawled in
light and dew
I rarely rhyme in my poems, but when I do, it is usually to signify bliss or happiness.
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