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ɪ sᴀɪᴅ,
      
  "𝘉𝘢𝘣𝘺 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘺𝘰𝘶 𝘶𝘯𝘵𝘪𝘭 𝘮𝘺 𝘣𝘰𝘯𝘦𝘴 𝘵𝘶𝘳𝘯 𝘵𝘰 𝘥𝘶𝘴𝘵"

       . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . .   ᴀɴᴅ ᴛʜᴇɴ ʏᴏᴜ ᴛᴏᴏᴋ

ʏᴏᴜʀ ᴛɪᴍᴇ ᴛᴏ ɢʀɪɴᴅ ᴍᴇ ᴜᴘ.
The huge weight pulls me under.

To the deepest part of the ocean of brokenness.

No one there to save me.

While I'm drowning in my thoughts.

But then again!

It's just the beginning.
LC Sep 2020
to read my past journal entries is
to walk on an intimately familiar path,
one in which I know the major landmarks,
the steep mountains, and the deep valleys.

even though I can walk on this path
with my eyes closed and get through,
I don't. I slow down on the way,
noticing flowers I didn't see before.

I pluck a leaf off every flower stem,
and keep it safely between my palms.
the leaves remind me of the flowers
that grew despite the harsh conditions.

whenever I wish for a new beginning,
I blow on a leaf and let it guide me.
I smile, exhale, and walk forward.
behind me, new flowers are blooming.
Noa Adler Sep 2020
The world turns,
And I'm this close to caving in,
And it burns my heart
That you're not here.
No concerns,
I'm not tangled in my sins,
I am far away from long ago,
I have no fear.

Clouds go by,
And I am drifting off to sleep.
With a sigh,
Your world will disappear.
Say goodbye,
I'm leaving you forever,
I am far away from long ago,
I have no fear.
Jada Sep 2020
Cross your arms in front and grip  

Peel away from your own skin

your 100% cotton exoskeleton

Raise it up, up, up

Let it envelop your head like a cocoon

Up, up, up  

Until you are naked again

Feel the breeze

Shiver

Walk over to the basket  

See how many you's you have been  

(they served you then)  

Walk over to the dresser  

Crawl into a new beginning  

Uncross your arms and relax
Blind Pathos Sep 2020
Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night
Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight

Antagonize the heart and turn the eye
A visitor to the heart or passing by

From this spring that we all drink
What whispers all the thoughts we think

Lunatic genius with eyes turned in
Tell me where my mind has been

A freighting tether is shelter and cage
Where the writer’s pen touches page

Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen
A history of where my heart has been

To go and not say in doing so
Beyond this point no words can go

With feet of clay and hand to chalk
I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk
There is a moment just before an idea, it's origin. The magic of the written word is a spark that comes before the writing, up stream, unknown, untamed, shear new. I would follow the path to the origin and bring back great treasures. I have been lost many times, but what else is there to do?
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