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Pain poured from my being, dripping from my fingertips like blood. Emotion scaled the walls and crept into my heart like a silent scream.
My heart beat inside my mind, its pace quickening, and my senses heightened.
My body felt the ache of the war that tore through me.
I am still healing from the battles this world has ****** upon me.
My body feels like a war zone.
I gasp through the tremors of pain, night terrors clinging to my sheets.
My jaw is tight from clenching; pain is a constant, and I am still here.
I am still fighting.

-Rhia Clay
This poem is very personal to me. I have PTSD from my time in the military, and I wrote it recently to express the feeling of being triggered. The preparation for war, the experience of war itself, and all that occurs in between are not pretty. Military service and the invisible battles faced by those who serve—often without the permission to show their struggles—can take a significant toll, with some paying the price for a lifetime. I do have many good days, but this poem was not written on one of them. Thank you for taking the time to read this note and my poem.
Arii Jul 6
When the world grows
too loud or too fast,
it’s a good idea
to take a step back
and huddle away
into an empty space
where neither sound
nor time
can hurt you,

let silence envelop
your soul—not your self.

Eventually
the grass will grow
and the wind will settle,
all will slow
like in a lush meadow,

and far away
will the struggle drift.

The sky will grow white
with clouds that never rain,
gardens will grow green
without a single ****,

the sun will beat down
not bullets but care,
that nurtures the grass blades
through growth
and lifts the vapour into
the air.

Dimensions and galaxies will
pause,
for the universe cannot
feed.

And all will be.
Among all my life’s accomplishments, my most significant triumph is simply being here, continuing to fight, and holding onto hope.
I exist in both fear and joy, and within this duality lies an immeasurable strength.
I look up at the stars that carry my memories, and I firmly believe, endlessly, that I can still discover my path back home.
I gaze into the water, watching the silent and gentle ripples dance around me, and I realize that my spirit is still in the process of healing, still enveloping me, my faith, intricately weaving patterns in my thoughts, flowing and revitalizing my very essence.
This is the exact place where God guided me to listen to his voice, to find peace in his presence, and to be reassured that he is alive and breathing for me, infusing life into me, allowing my being to mend.

-Rhia Clay
Ylzm Jun 3
Life is disjointed in space and time
Most virile when most foolish
Wisdom acquired only in hindsight
Inapplicable to ignorance past
And to shape destiny now revealed
And souls kindred but alas in flesh
Separated by distances and ages
And barriers natural and unnatural
Yet Spirit mocks not nor is futility
For surely Life's flaws but apparent
As a shard or fragment betrays a whole
A whisper of what once was, or to be
The anguish of unbeing but a promise
Of wholeness far beyond that glimpsed
But that glimpsed suffices for faith
Or for rebels to strive with hands
For earth and flesh is all there is
And two unfitting fragments joined
Soothes all brokenness' forlornness
And to forget disjointedness' promise
I used to think bleeding made me worthy.
That if I burned slow enough,
someone might finally call it love….
But it’s not love.

It’s a quiet execution.

I give, and give,
and they call it devotion,
but no one ever asks why I never stop.

I twist myself into prayers,
crawl into their peace like a grave,
and call it my purpose.
But I’m tired of being a vessel for someone else’s softness.
Tired of being holy only when I am hollow.

They sleep soundly while I splinter,
and I tell myself it means I matter.
But I don’t feel holy.
I feel used.
I’ve drunk enough—
don’t fill my glass again.
All you’ve ever offered,
I’ve gulped down to the grain.
Pleasure’s senses never sate;
for me, they’re just a stain.

I have this body like all others,
a hungry dog
that waits beneath the table
and eats all that falls from it.

Did no one warn you?
Never feed the dog at dinner.
Do it, and he’ll haunt your chair—
whimpering and begging for another taste.

Can’t you see the feast is laid?
Silver platters, crystal bright!
You’re the guest who’s free to taste,
to drink the banquet’s blinding white.

Is it the dog who gets the scraps,
does not care and all devours?
—Exactly!— and once he's finished,
he'll come begging, craving more.

Don’t blame the dog when he invades
your sacred feast.
You shout, you punish his demands,
yet you fed this beast.

Now discern. Divide. Rearrange.
Let each thing keep its name.
The dog in the dog’s domain.
The master at his plate.
All my poems are related with the music I compose and perform. Piano solo, modern classical/jazz style. I will provide more information when I make a good recording. My work try to explain my life philosophy. Philosophy that first are acts, and then I try to explain with music and words.
Don’t blame me if I am not,  
for in the end, I am by not being  
in order to be.  
Every kiss,  
every flower,  
every stranger’s smile—that’s me.  
Do you see the sun’s shimmer on water?  
That, too, is me.  

And that boy sleeping on the street?  
That mother weeping?  
Those who eat what others threw as trash?  
I am these people as well, I confess.  
Don’t be surprised if my sorrow does not fade,  
for I can be nothing but all these things I am.  

In the things that are alive,  
there is where I live,  
and it is not in death where I die.  
From thing to thing, my clothes change,  
From so much longing, my heart pulses.  

And if one day i ceased to be all this,  
what would remain of me then  
would be merely what i alone am.  
A small thing,  
or nothing.  
For blinded by indifference,  
not even my mirror  
would know who I am.
All my poems are related with the music I compose and perform. Piano solo, modern classical/jazz style. I will provide more information when I make a good recording. My work try to explain my life philosophy. Philosophy that first are acts, and then I try to explain with music and words.
Antonia May 8
are you ready?
who cares
you’ll never be

just come,
remember
how great it feels to be
you
in your skin
in your energy
feel it all

stop running girl!
there is no final destination.
you are already home.

go clean up that mind
throw away those limiting beliefs
try on your values
do they still fit?
the person you’re becoming?
the ever shifting shape

they don’t?
that’s great!
throw them away!
reevaluate your inner wardrobe ladies and gentlemen,
we don’t have to keep anything that doesn’t fit anymore!
Consilius May 6
Your love burns with flame,
your touch warms even the coldest of hearts,
yet you walk alone.

You dance with the wind,
and mountains know when you walk,
you leave a trail, with silence you talk.

You weave the dreams
and stitch the time
you're what a rhythm is to a rhyme.

In your eyes secrets no one knows,
no one even dares to ask.

Yet you never hide and you never run.
You wake up with the moon and sleep with the sun.

You just are - in a way no one ever was.
But it's all just perspective! Isn't it?
Someone stood on their head
Has a different perception
Of up & down.

That's why there's things like gravity.
To remind you,
Even in an avalanche,
Direction is not subjective -
Orientation is.

That's why there's different states of matter.
To remind you,
Even in a vacuum,
Being is not subjective -
Change is.
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