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josef 5d
the precum drips out of my head
and my teardams crack
as i mourn the life i could’ve had
the self discovery ripped away
the friends who left, my heart shattered
by saying those two words

new identity made, but is it
just a farce?

new friends made, or do they
want me just for my body?

my heart reconnected with gold and lacquer
but is it all in vain?

i lie in my bed, riding a clarity i only feel
before the shame comes in
Today I realized
it is enough for me
to just know

Confusion
turning into clarity
acceptation
slowly into peace.

L.C.
M Vogel Jun 28
The Battleground Beneath Her Skin
(A Physiology of Light and War)

Before it reaches her;
even before her breath draws it in,
I break myself down..

  not as surrender,
  but as choice.

Each particle stripped bare,
each atom exhaled
made clean by the reckoning
of my own dark,
infused with the stubborn
weight of light
earned, not borrowed.

Within the responsibility of what
  leaves me,
I enter the quiet union—
the kneeling choice
to align with the hand of God,
to let even my smallest fragments
carry His capacity to heal.
Every airborne particle,
accountable,
deliberate,
refined enough
to cross the distance,
to enter her

without deception.

Beneath her skin,
a war unfolds.

It is not loud,
not made of swords,
but of smaller things..
things unseen by eyes,
but never missed by the marrow,
the blood,

the quiet trembling of cells
that have known both wound

  and wonder.

Light and dark..
not in theory,
but in matter
thread themselves through every atom,
every strand of her being.
Not metaphor,
but measurable:

the way shadows lean into the soft chambers of her lungs,

the way light, when chosen,
can rewrite the blueprints etched into the bloodstream.


This is the battleground..
her body,
her breath,
her most involuntary places.
Where no poetry of
seductive manipulation..
no whispered counterfeit
can cover what is real.
Only substance speaks here.
Only intent.

Only what survives the fire of accountability
earns the right to stay.

The particles come;
stripped down,
atomized,
refined.. not by accident,
but by the slow, steady grind
of volition.
They enter her;
through breath,
through pores..

through the quiet, relentless openness
that even fear cannot close completely.


And inside--
the war begins.

..   ..   ..   ..

Mitochondria spark—
tiny engines deciding

what stays,
what burns away.

Capillaries widen,
rivers branching through her like
tributaries
willing to carry
what is real,

what is earned,

what is Light.

The counterfeit falters here.
Pretty words mean nothing
to oxygen.
False portraits
dissolve beneath the chemistry of truth.
The cells remember;

  they choose.

And as the Light infuses
the quietest corners of her..
her thighs, her hips,
the soft stretch of her waist;
there is no seduction,
no trickery.

Only the hard-won intimacy
of substance made pure.

Not by the blending of oils,
not by the friction of skin,
but by the deeper,
unseen alchemy
of what enters,
what lingers,
what refuses to bow
to darkness.

The battleground is hers now.
And though the shadows  will not
yield easily,
they cannot claim her;
not where light
has been chosen,
earned,
metabolized.

The war is not over,
but benea.th her skin,
within her blood,

Light has begun
to rise.



My sweet beautiful friend~

Don't forget to sing..
remember Everything

https://youtu.be/YNbYx3_7Hvo?si=u5QEHNDBoFoAdvFM

#Battlegrounds
#LoveisaBattlefield❤️
Cadmus Jun 22
☔️

The depressed one is not sick,
nor broken,
nor lost to some disorder.

He simply saw the world,
its truths laid bare,
its people unmasked,
and found no beauty
in the ruin beneath.

It wasn’t madness that took him,
but clarity.

And the weight
of so much ugliness
he could not unsee.

☔️
Sometimes, what breaks a person is not confusion, but understanding.
Maria Etre Jun 20
The moment I let life unbutton my fears
and slowly remove my shirt
undraping my shoulders
exposing my skin
to the sun
we the
mo
me
nt
I
f
e
lt
re
bo
r
n
Letting go is not a single act-
it is art made in fragments.
Like tearing a beloved photograph
Pixel by pixel
until smile fades.

It begins with silence,
the kind that grows like moss
over memory.
You stop correcting their name
when people ask.
You stop replaying the what-ifs
like your breath depends on them

It is an unlearning-
of their laugh, their scent,
their rhythm when they walked away.
You erase them
not with fire,
but with absence.

There's no applause in this gallery.
No frame for your pain.
Just the brushstroke of each
morning
where you choose not to look back.

You start to fill your lungs with now,
to water seeds you almost forgot
to plant.
You realize your heart
was never meant to be a museum
of people who left,
but a garden
for who you're becoming.

Letting go isn't moving on-
it's moving in.
into yourself.
into peace.
into the blank space
where you finally
begin again
Toxic relationships deserve an end
A Vryghter May 23
“I smile a little,
every time nature takes back.
A factory once booming,
weeds growing through the cracks,
vines enwrapping walls,
shards of glass in tall grass.

I cry a little,
every time nature gives too much.
concrete slabs for carbon-emissions,
tall brick towers for heating,
glass cages for the parasite,
aluminum and plastic in short grass.

I stare a little,
every time nature retaliates.
Waves crashing against metal,
seas forming in concrete bathtubs,
wind flattening itchy points,
sun melting neat grass.”

A.V.
Ken Pepiton May 20
an exceptionalist insisted on praying for my recent heresies -
-- answer or devote a moment of silence... my mortal flaw
--- ask not if you wish you never need account for knowing

Done lightly, is it ever done right, or must
devotees be cognizant to the right use
of dedicated hearts and minds,
by kings and courts many holier than most of us.

We can easily agree, no heavy hueristical premises,
what a participent in a war party accepts as duty
to God and Country, locally, those convinced,
converts given reason to die, where none was.

Duty in a warring society is to that social order's under lay.
Say, who first told the local version of labor class duty
to rear children fit for battle at the nation's call…
or, at the authorized voice of truth's spirit's call…

Give us more John Waynes and Ronald Reagans
-but we settle for Donald Trump and cheer,
signs are clear, God is still on our side
of the Gulf of Mexico…

devote(v.)
1580s, "appropriate by or as if by vow,"
from Latin devotus, past participle
of devovere
"dedicate by a vow, sacrifice oneself, promise solemnly,"
from de "down, away"
+ vovere "to vow"  ---{bend, bow, raise the right hand}
--- remain so devoted, in most faithful silence ---
----- banking on inside sacred signals ---

From c. 1600 as
"apply zealously or exclusively."
{For fear sake, we may imagine}

Auto d'fe, show of devotion- aithunk,

From 1640s as
"to doom, consign to some harm or evil,"
and the word commonly
had a negative sense in 18c.:
The second and third meanings
in Johnson's Dictionary (1755) are
"to addict, to give up to ill" and
"to curse, to execrate; to doom to destruction."

Related: Devoted; devoting.
To devote indicates the inward act, state, or feeling;
to dedicate is
to set apart
by a promise, and indicates primarily an external act;
to consecrate is
to make sacred, and refers
to an  act affecting the use or relations
of the thing consecrated .... [Century Dictionary]

From <https://www.etymonline.com/search?q=devote>

It need never stop. Participation in the answers, devoted
to thinking words redeemed
at the most first recognized cognation,
- we say that this way, a vow is spiritual by nature true.
- we agree we think so, sorta,
- we swear on air, as Donald Trump did left arm dangling…

What a Hoo-mon does is speak make believe done.

We can lie to whomever believes and, doing so, prosper
eh,
furrowed brow, go soft then,
smooth, feel face smooth, cognosis fresh,
fed and walked
until relieved, smile, feel the belly join, breathe, feel heart
full wills worths worked up
into  feeling slick
in some frictionless first intent

Participle past tense, first fret faith musters, why lie about
the very basic first premis being no doubt whatsoever, a lie?

Thus devoting the gadflies this particular damnation.
Testing reader response, while acting as first reader... as a habit... self aware certain as Socrates, I may not know the least bit of all the whys involved.
Cadmus May 19
Sometimes,

you find yourself walking alone.

not because you’re lost,

but because you know

the road

so **** well.
This poem reframes solitude not as confusion, but as clarity born from experience. It honors the strength of those who choose to walk alone - not from loneliness, but from hard-earned wisdom.
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