Click your heels, darling—
red as fresh-spilled secrets,
lacquered in the longing
of a girl caught between worlds.

The shoes gleam under studio lights,
a crimson promise, a whispered lie.
Tread lightly—the yellow bricks burn,
hot as stage-lamp sunbursts.

Magic is a contract signed in dust—
not fairy dust, but the kind that coats lungs,
turns breath to wheezing lullabies,
fills dreams with silver-flecked scars.

The witch shrieks, fire swallows her whole—
the flames don’t wait for cut.
She vanishes, but the burns stay,
seeping beneath the green of her skin.

The Tin Man rattles, hollow but breathing,
lungs stiff with powdered metal.
His tears are made of oil now,
his smile a polished afterthought.

Toto limps off set, paw trembling—
no curtain call for the crushed.
The monkeys drop like fallen stars,
wires snapping mid-flight.

And Judy—oh, Judy—
her laughter is stitched together,
a patchwork of amphetamines and exhaustion,
eyes wide as if searching for Kansas
but only finding the next scene.

Still, the shoes sparkle.
Still, they tell you to click.
Because every girl wants to go home—
even when home is a fairytale
built on broken bones.

Click, click—
but the magic is only real if you believe.

In shadows of 2020, your words still linger,
Soft whispers that dance on time's gentle finger.
Like the mystical sky that weeps with grace,
Your verses drip softly, leaving no trace.

Your tears, they seeped through the lines we read,
Like radiance that persists, a light we need.
Where have the unraveled scars gone to hide,
Those marks of growth, where truths collide?

Your mysterious mists still haunt the air,
With empty promises and unspoken care.
Where is the dream that once flew so free,
Like jellyfish effloresce, drifting to be?

The curves of heaven, the grain of truth—
Your words once captured both youth and proof.
Now silence remains where the cursed night drifts,
Where your wobbled strokes once found their shifts.

Where are the glorious jams of your art?
What stilled your pen, what made it depart?
For in your absence, your poetry stays,
Like a mark left behind, lingering always.

We wait for your voice to rise once more,
To hear your spirits and the world you explore.
So tell me, dear poet, where have you been?
Will your ink ever rise, to dance again?

Time drips slow like falling rain,
upon a heart weighed down with pain.
A thousand thoughts fill up my mind,
but no place left for peace to find.

By the sea, the wind still calls,
whispering stories through hollow halls.
Beneath the moon, beneath the sky,
I watch the stars and wonder why.

My soul is torn, yet still I smile,
walking cold and lost for miles.
The sun once warm, now barely light,
shadows stretch into the night.

I hold my breath, I close my eyes,
feel the fire where silence lies.
A single dream, a fleeting touch,
a whispered hope, but never much.

My hands still shake, my lips still burn,
for memories that won’t return.
The truth is heavy, life is loud,
the past is just a drifting cloud.

Yet in the dark, I still believe,
that something waits, beyond the grieve.
For even lost, we still remain—
a whisper carved into the rain.