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Boris Cho Nov 11
The vintage shop sits quietly, unassuming in the heart of a small and beautiful town surrounded by a body of water and cliffs, its timeworn facade a gateway to a world where old becomes new under the hands of a gifted fashion designer. Inside, the racks are draped not just with garments, but with stories; threads of lives lived, meticulously chosen and revived by a woman whose creativity knows no bounds. She is not just the store’s curator but its alchemist, turning faded fabrics into expressions of something bold and modern.

Her ambition is clear in every stitch and seam. She reimagines each piece, blending the charm of bygone eras with her own artistic vision. To her, these are not mere clothes; they are canvases, waiting for her touch to bring them back to life in ways that honor their past but fit seamlessly into the present.

Her dedication is evident, from the way she moves about her shop with a discerning eye to the late hours spent sketching and sewing in her workshop. In her hands, something as simple as an old jacket becomes a quilted statement, a reminder that beauty, when crafted with passion, never fades; it evolves. Here, in this vintage store, old souls are reborn, one design at a time.



In the heart of Elora, she weaves her threads,
A seamstress of stories, where vintage is led.
With eyes that see beauty in worn-out seams,
She stitches the past into tomorrow’s dreams.

Her hands know the fabric, each fold and line,
Crafting with patience, her vision divine.
Upcycled wonders, they whisper of care,
Each stitch a promise, each garment a prayer.

In the warmth of her shop, the old comes alive,
Threads of yesterday help futures to thrive.
She’s more than a tailor, she’s more than a name;
A creator, a giver, her kindness untamed.

— Sincerely, Boris
Boris Cho Nov 10
The day unfolds with a heart steeped in gratitude, stirred awake by morning meditation. The afternoon finds me beneath a willow's gentle sway, a book cradled in my hands, warmth rising from a mug beside me. As night whispers its arrival, my thoughts spill onto paper, paired with a quiet indulgence. Each moment carries the weight of intention, weaving a rhythm of mindfulness, stillness, and creativity. It’s a ritual that nourishes my spirit, cultivating inner peace, self discovery, and inspiration in its delicate balance.



Through meditation, we sit with what arises,
learning to stay present with our thoughts,
to breathe into the pain of our experiences.

No longer fleeing discomfort,
we meet our fears with open arms,
letting them speak, letting them go quietly.

The thoughts, the worries, the pain;
all given the mental space to exist,
but no longer bound by our need for control.

We hold them lightly,
and as we loosen our grip,
until they all begin to drift away.

In this stillness, our healing begins,
slow and unfolding,
a lifelong journey until we are reborn.

We embrace the unknown,
finding peace in the spaces in between;
holding on and letting go.

— Sincerely, Boris
Lizzie Bevis Nov 9
Using the power of brain cells
whilst wordsmithing…
researching,
making notes
and of course,
drinking buckets of tea.

I feel that advanced technology
is going to break our art,
as AI will scour the internet,
ripping it apart
to reassemble information
into some Frankenstein monster
in nano seconds, rather than hours
and that actually kind of makes me sad.

Will AI take over everything?
Will we battle with the machine?
What a crazy lazy world
we would live in!
shudders at the thought

©️Lizzie Bevis
Just a thought that manifested into something…
Lizzie Bevis Nov 9
I watch you write,  
your pen flowing like a river,  
each word a current
that pulls me under.  
I am ensnared in your story,  
captivated and lost
in the beautiful, broken
and hurting depths of you.

©️Lizzie Bevis
What can I say, you all inspired me!
I love reading your pieces, watching your creativity bloom onto this page.
Thank you for being you. 🙂
Jasmine Rose Nov 8
I don't chase words,                                        nor do they find me.

      We meet halfway

         and dance in synchrony
Trying too hard wont work.
Lizzie Bevis Nov 3
You read my poetry,
then turned away,  
as if the words
had nothing to say.  
Each line was a pulse,
it was a part of me,  
yet you drift on past,
too blind to see  
that my verses ache,
hoping to be heard,  
yet silence lingers,
louder than each word.  
The ink may fade,
but my feelings remain,  
as I laid my heart bare,
was it all in vain?

©️Lizzie Bevis
Lizzie Bevis Nov 2
In a quiet room
where muses play,  
words weave together,
throughout the day.  
With ink as a river,
thoughts flow and engage,  
each stanza a spark
igniting the page.  
Rhythms and rhymes
dance freely in the mind,  
as a canvas of feelings
creatively applied.  

©️Lizzie Bevis
Lizzie Bevis Nov 1
With every step,  
hold me close,  
as desire lights
our intense fire.
My beating heart  
will seek and find,  
your leading soul,  
body and mind.  

©️Lizzie Bevis
Malia Oct 19
Why do I dare to sing
this melody, overused and
claimed by millions of
others, with voices nearly
interchangeable but barely off,
imperceptibly so, just a dash
too much of cinnamon, not that
you’d ever know, but still
I steal these hand-me-down
words, chasing the horizon only
to retreat back to the
well-worn reef?
Vemödalen:

n. The fear that originality is no longer possible.
Cold walls rise up and ring around
and close in to keep at bay.
Blow off the roof with a thunderclap sound,
then soar off and fly away.
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