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Parisha 1d
Every night, every day,
Walking through the world—so low and high,
Not the one meant as uncertainty of road,
But what if it was uncertainty of thoughts?

With thoughts that shaped uncertainly!
That I never dared to ask in free—
But hinted with numerous affections…
Or maybe I was just invisible?

It doubts me…
Am I really visible,
Or are my works just not enough to get recognised?
Darkest steps, wildest dreams…
It comes every day with storms—
Ends every day with a hope.

Every time thinking,
How it would affect my loved ones?
But couldn’t I dare to ask myself its effect?
Tried my best to please everyone around…
But couldn’t I do it for myself?
Tried my best to stay with others in their hardships…
But why were mine neglected?

Huh! Unknowingly or knowingly—
When everything shifts in your life,
But you… stand by the side…


I wish it was 'Parisha',
Not the one neglected child in me.
zdebb 6d
hard scrabble taught
small as the properly poor,
it is a shame how she looked
like a dead moth spread winged,
taped to a piece of wax paper,
taken to school and pinned down.

festered in a blue black
skin, those few visible examples
of the love thrown at her unwashed.
nobody, but nobody would plan
to spill so much in so small a space,
but she did, with a fog in her eye
as she did it, and as hard as i wanted to try,
i couldn’t make eye contact.

what came next was what
she remembered to pack, along with some
missing skin. i wished it were mine.
i’d gladly take it upon me, and she could
be scot free pretending to be
any number of wild things.

but she sat with me,
frozen backward looking,
explaining with awkward words
and punctured theme,
as i wrote fresh notes for god, like clean snow.

nothing prepared me for the sudden absence,
the dead moth freed of the unpinned wax paper.
as i cleaned the spill with long forms and reports
i was grateful i tried to look in her eyes.
tired in the moment to be there still,
one man choosing to pray.
I've always been one to not cause
a trouble,
I've been the one to often
struggle,
I was the one no one had to worry
about,
Now all I ever wanna do is
shout.
6/2/25
Laokos Sep 16
Tucked away in a corner, lay a wooden ruler blending in with the past. Flat as a floorboard and weathered as a dock. There are layers of built-up ink, graphite, marker and paint along one of its long  edges—the side with the incrementation, naturally. As though differentiation demands to be marked. Deep, erratic gouges from the seven and three-quarters to eleven inch mark suggest a moment of frustration—perhaps a project under the gun or a predisposition to flying off the handle. On its back are ten “safety rules” geared towards teaching children how to avoid dangerous missteps with strangers. Things like: “Never Hitchhike—NEVER!”, or “Never Tell Callers That You’re Home Alone” and “Never Accept Toys, Candy, Rides, Money or Medicine From Strangers”. However well-intentioned this small piece of wood may have been, the owner used a thick, black marker to write “MEGhan’s ruler” across them and actually painted over two rules with it—namely: “Always Play or Walk With Friends” and “Never Give Your Name or Address To A Stranger”. Additionally, there is a line etched through the safety in “safety rules” as well as the same blacked-out treatment given to the other end with the two rules. This person was clearly a child and, most probably, was more worried about other kids taking her stuff than getting kidnapped by a stranger. Yet here lies the ruler with no account of Meghan’s current whereabouts or condition. Needless to say, one cannot rule out the intervention of a stranger in her life at some point. On the other hand, maybe she just got tired of measuring things.
Steve Page Sep 14
A Madeira loaf
Calmly cooling on a rack
Inviting patience
Childhood revisited
The child looks like a clown because of what you did…

The child’s not scared of clowns now, they’re not scared of anything…

Soot on their face and blood on their lips…
They’re broken inside, yet we are the sick…
Esme Calder Sep 10
The flowers died on Monday
like my heart on my birthday
Like my eyes on christmas
and my soul every night
The flowers died on Monday
it's due for another change
but I can't get out of bed
and I don't know what to say
I can't bring them back to life
like you when you hold me
Helping me breathe a breath
that wasn't meant to be
The flowers died on Monday
The red turning to a sickly brown
The once smiling face
quickly turned to a frown
The flowers died on Monday
They were never meant to live
this society goes on
and the dirt that falls on me gives
The flowers died on Monday
like I'll on a Sunday
a day after my passing,
they'll pass too
to be in my hand to be given
to a younger girl in me
So I could convince her
that we were never meant to be
She'll hold those flowers
as she'll stand at my grave
read those carved words a thousand times
and she'll learn to say goodbye
The flowers died on Monday
Will someone put more?
Esme Calder Sep 10
To a heart born blue with the moon on one’s face
A butterfly flew and flew, trying to get out of that locked cage
A deathly curse to sleep was a fairytale come true
A life of mere seconds, a life of a heart born blue
Nameless masks stolen, words forged in the blacksmith’s hand
A merciful lie becomes armor, a purpose of a life that doesn’t beat
Though the prince searched long and wide for someone to slay the dragon in the land;
A wave would come, building up and up till all is still but the sea
A fated doom that could not be avoided, a said hero that played along
Crouching at god’s feet, his feathers falling even as he sings his lord’s songs
What mercy, must it be, to have a heart born blue
What mercy, must it be, to see the world and to fall again, for it too
Wasn’t the angel that claimed the breath, but the reaper whose sorrow was far too great
To watch sons and daughters fall from his hands, to be held was a wish granted far too late
Alone, must he be, sad, must he be
To see a thousand lives, wishing for one, to live and to breathe and not just see
For death to come at his hands, even if he sits at the top
The clouds fall away and the land becomes grey, and he knows not how to make it stop
Too late, would he grasp the child’s hands, too late would he rise
Too late would come the sun into dawn’s crying eyes
At but last, how to cry out and to be free, of a curse of eternal life
To not bring the love, the dear, into god’s arms and chosen, promised lifght
Far apart, the rain shall fall. And still the torn souls scream to be free, to fly
But alas, a mercy. To have a heart born blue.
Through this cycle, of endless tries and fails, to hold and to lose the memory
With tears as stars even as it is silent, the birds do not sing
To sleep for a thousand years, and to awake a mother of time
And to become a reaper’s child, one never kept out of sight
Oh, to a heart born blue, no blood to take away
To drown on it’ own breath, but alas, a mercy. Such a mercy, for in life they do not stay
With a heart born blue
Nyx Velora Sep 3
And Death entered her room at nightfall,
To fetch a beloved soul.
"Why are you crying, child?" Death asked the child.
"Mr. Snuffles won't wake up! I keep shaking him, yet he won't wake up!"
The child responded, cradling the small black cat in her arms.

"He has passed away, child. I'm here to take him to a place where he shall finally rest."
Death explained to the crying child.
"Where will you take him, mister? Why must you take him away?"
The child cried louder, seeming more desperate to keep her beloved cat to herself.

"It's time that Mr. Snuffles must go on and get rebirthed to his next life."
"With his short life in this world, he has already fulfilled his purpose, and that is to look after you as long as his little body allows."
Death further added.

"But you can't take him away, mister, not yet! I am still not grown, and I am still afraid to be alone in the dark!"
The child hugged her beloved cat tighter.
"There is light in the darkness, my child, and there is solace in being alone."
"Even if you wish to keep him longer, his body couldn't sustain his soul anymore. Another life awaits him at the other end."
Death squatted in front of the child, gently prying the cat from her.

"Why must you hold on to something that can no longer be there for you?"
Death asked yet another question.
"Because I still haven't made Mr. Snuffles happy! I haven't loved him enough yet. He can't go yet, please, mister!"
The child pleaded.

"Isn't it ironic that only in death humans find empathy, only in death your kind desperately asked for life when so many of you waste it away?"
Death thought to himself, seeming to wonder the irony of human emotions.

"Child, in this world, there's not a thing that remains permanent. Everything will eventually fade away, as well as the grief you are feeling in your little heart. One must know when to let go in order for the deceased and the living to move forward."
Death told the child softly.

"There will be comfort in grieving, there will be love with hatred, and most importantly, there will be life after death."
Death patted the child's head as he stood up, now cradling the black furball in his arms.

"Remember, child, death is not a curse nor is it a blessing. One must embrace this process in order to value the significance of life. Without death, life will be meaningless."
"Go forth, child, cry, grieve, be angry, yet remember that you must go forward in order to continue the existence of your beloved cat in your memories."
Death said as parting before he faded into the darkness of the night.

The child, stunned, collapsed on her bed, clutching Mr. Snuffles' collar near to her heaving chest.


- N.V. 🥀
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