Unlucky horseshoes,
strewn around the fields,
where I used to play.
Captured ankles after curfews,
absconded sword and shield,
laugh at me from yesterday.
I used to cry with curlews,
now my mouth is sealed,
like the word unsay.
Broad and mighty purviews,
are now wisps that yield,
to ground on which they lay.

You'll never understand,
the pain with which you struck me.
The young outstretching hand,
has wizened into an old and grizzled duppy.
The noose I wear by your demand,
has the same shape and plans,
as those; hateful, possessive, and, ******;
horseshoes unlucky.

@poormansdreams

my grandmother unscrewed
the door to my room
and removed the carpet from my floor

in the winter months
my toes went white and my fingertips hued blue
my lips marred red as i looked to the ceiling
and pondered my importance in this reality

i went to sleep that night and had a dream
i thought was so clever
in this dream i said: 'Roses are sometimes red, and violets
are rarely blue'.
Somebody hand me a Pulitzer this instant

in hindsight, my dreams were foretelling
as i awoke in the hospital with a headache
and diagnosis of hypothermia
the nurses and social workers sat in chairs
with my grandmother beside them  

i closed my eyes and visualized all the
yellow roses and white violets often overlooked
and with a few smiles
and words of affirmations to the guests judging my performance
I received a standing ovation
of vibrant violets and beautiful deep reds thrown on stage
and returned to the Tiled Floors.

I always wonder what people are thinking,
What they’re feeling, what their hearts are sinking into.
I’ve always been imaginative,
Creating worlds where kindness grew.

Once, I made up friends from dreams,
In magical places stitched at the seams.
Worlds full of people who cared for me,
Where love was simple, pure, and free.

Now, I have those friends—I really do!
But it feels unreal, like it can’t be true.
Me? With friends? It’s hard to believe,
When my soul still aches, unable to relieve.

The pain inside, it doesn’t fade,
A silent shadow, always stayed.
So I use my imagination now,
To wonder about others, to figure out how—

How they think, how they feel, how they hurt,
I try to lift them from the dirt.
To help them see their future shine,
To imagine a joy brighter than mine.

I tell myself it’s selfless care,
But deep inside, I’m so aware.
I’m not just helping them—I know,
I’m trying to fill the hole in my soul.

When I was a kid in the Virginia mountains, we had a train line that ran yonder through our quiet little town, a few miles from our house.

In the warm summer months we’d have the wooden sash windows wide open, their screens strummed by the breeze and humming a hushed lullaby.

Each night, lying in bed, I heard the remote rolling roar of the train when it blew its whistle as it neared our town.

Every night, as the dusk fell, it came: the slow rush and roar of iron engine wheels that glide along on roads of steel. The engine‘s sacred heart was stoked white hot, fed by black coal dug from those rolling hills.

Then the hush of night lifted for a rolling moment: The engineer pulled the whistle cord — releasing a long plaintive chord of a melancholy choir, pitched just so, for to sound softly through the coal-hearted hills of the Blue Ridges as they echoed in quiet reply.

It was my signal: It’s time to sleep.

The nightly ritual chuffed on. Boxcars rumbling on rugged rails. A distant engine roaring by in steam and stoked fire. Waves of lightning bugs that rose and fell in the sticky summer night while foxfire faintly glowed blue in the brambled underbrush. High above the rolling green hills, between the watchful blue mountains, the stars arced past on their tracks of old.

I’ve long lived far from home. Longer still has the now lonesome line been turning to rust. Now I know why the whistle wailed: It was wistfully aware that its last stop was near.

But I still hear the ghostly wail of the whistle past, as the slow steam train of memory glides through the dusk of my soul.

On Monday, Arthur, wooden sword in hand,
  defeats the roses in their crimson bed.
On Tuesday, Arthur makes his bravest stand,
  against the garden pond, with doughty Fred.
On Wednesday, Arthur leads his fearless band
  through snow; the flashing red - a racing sled.
On Thursday, Arthur – secret agent, creeps
    around the lair. On Friday, done, he sleeps.

On weekends, Arthur’s with his dad all day;
    who takes his son to captain England’s team:
when dazzling Arthur makes the winning play
    they celebrate with strawberries and cream.
On Sunday Arthur goes to church to pray
    then polishes his sword to make it gleam.
On Sunday night the world is right and so
    this King prepares to fight his Monday foe.

Under different circumstances who I could have become
She would be
Carefree
Smart,
Confident
Friendly
Trusting
Loving
She wouldn’t think everyone is going to leave her
She wouldn’t see memories of the past in people’s actions
She would trust that people mean what they say
She could love
And be loved
But I am not her
I grew up hard and rough
I wasn’t able to be that carefree
I will never be smart and confident
I will always struggle to make and keep friends
I will always struggle to love
And I will never be able to be loved

As a child to be a fool
To think the world outside is
always colourful

Inside a bubble
With walls of iridescence
Sheltered in a world of ignorance

But I know it's a privilege
to grow up so naive,
And nothing really prepares you
for the world outside

In an open field
it meets you - a wind so harsh
The umbrella in your hand
has now flown apart

Then the sharp sunlight hits your eyes
You catch glimpses of iridescence in its light
And that's when you truly begin to empathize
with the ones who came before and
all that your parents have sacrificed
✍🏻 maheru.......

It occurs to me that
I used to fear the dark
How odd to have known so much more of myself than of the world
What could be out there?
Lying in wait
All of the wildest threats of my imagination not yet disproved

Now the darkest corners of my mind lay unexplored
And I have grown worldly in my age
I am the monster now
And I am already in my bed