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He said hours go by in twos with you,
2 was not my favorite number before,
But it’s my favorite now,
I pray the next girl in your life gets the flowers I never got.
I pray that she doesn’t have to guess if you love her or not.
I pray you tell her every day, every time you get the opportunity to.
I pray you hold her hand in public.
I pray you understand her more.
I pray that she finds her happiness.
I pray that she doesn’t smile less as days go by.
I pray she doesn’t forget what love is, feels like when she is with you.
I pray she doesn’t become lonely even when she is not alone.
I pray you become present in that present, instead of promising a present in a future no one is guaranteed to see.
I pray she learns how to love herself before loving you.
I pray she has a heart that understands but that also knows when it’s time to speak up.
I pray she has the courage to tell you words and sentences I didn’t have the courage to say.
I pray she stays because she wants to, not because she doesn't have any other option.
I pray she feels like loving you is an exciting adventure, not a gloomy experience to endure.
I pray you give her your attention because your money won’t.
I pray you look into her eyes and see her because your absence will scream louder if she’s unseen.
I pray she finds in her heart to love you with a love that only God provides.
I pray she is proud to be your woman.
I pray she is happy.
I pray she is fulfilled.
I pray she receives flowers, not just on her birthday.
I pray she receives hugs and lunch gifts, not just on your birthdays.
I pray she doesn’t have to hide who she is, out of fear of not fitting in your world.
I pray she doesn't cry herself to sleep because you are not around.
I pray for her, even if I don’t know her.
I pray she is happy.
In the midst of chaos, I found an anchor. One that gave me peace and freedom.
Mrs Timetable Jan 20
Not everything
Heals...
But
It
Tries
Got some boo-boos this week
Man Jan 19
I wounded myself
With what cuts you
To see if you would notice, that
You're not alone.
To see the world through your view, that
I might better understand you,
I lost myself
To see how to make it
Back onto the path.
What I saw;
No person was too far gone
That made love their epitaph.
Jade Jan 14
I let myself break like the lines of a poem,
because every break is a continuation
of this wild & beautiful journey.

Every break comes with another grand adventure.

Another chance to try again when the sun rises
(there will always be tomorrow).

Every break comes with the promise of more poetry.
Vira Jan 14
I realised that the pattern was repeating over and over.
One day, I decided to face it.
I opened my wounds and surrendered.
Praying for healing,
Feeling the pain.
Then, it came.
I mustered enough courage to sit with the sensations in my body, feeling them, instead of
shutting it, numbing it,
running away, wishing away,
I stood there and faced it.
It was painful.
It felt like
my heart was shattered into thousand pieces.
my gut was wrenched out.
the nerves in my head pulled in all directions.
as if I was looted of every ounce of blood from my body.
It was raw.
It was cathartic.
Tears weren’t enough to bear them. Self pity did not help.
I cried, I begged, I screamed, I wallowed.
Finally, I gave up.
I breathed.
I just breathed, feeling the breath.
I had to let it all in before letting it all go.
Then, came some relief.
I see glimpses of freedom and joy,
It feels like a triumph.
It feels soft.
It feels calm.
It feels good.
It feels god.
That must be the healing.
This is how the process of healing trauma seems to me. I did not know where the pain came from.
Joshua Phelps Jan 13
Close your eyes,
Pray for better days
ahead

Reach out, rise
above, and touch
the clouds.

Just know
You’re made for
So much more

Know your worth,
Know you’re destined
for something greater.

Don’t let the past
Define and tear you
to threads.

You can choose to
let it consume you

Or move forward
and leave behind
the hurt.

Put your best foot
forward, and cross
those bridges

Because this is
only a setback.

Open your eyes,
This is your time,
Your time to shine.
I look at my wall,
It speaks no colour.
Bare,
Empty,
Since the season of summer.

Your soul left,
And I,
Left too.
But an idea
Came to me,
One lazy afternoon.

I looked at my supplies,
That were almost decaying.
I opened them gently,
And soon began painting.

Your favourite colours cascading
Yellow, green and blue.
The wall began drying,
As my tears did too.

For this mural,
Is sacred,
And I,
Am now feeling.
As another sun rises,
My heart welcomes healing.
This poem is a story poem about healing from a loss and making a beautiful memory of that person. I hope you all enjoy !
BLD Jan 6
In the shadows of the walls
where laughter once reverberated
as a symphony of gleeful bliss,
intonational inclines arise in the dark
as dancing phantoms haunt
the smirking silence which dissipates
from the splotched, upended floorboards,  
while midnight footprints breathlessly creak,
cradling the demonizing affirmations whispered,
the very ones I knew would never become true.

We stood by, powerlessly spectating
as the love we once shared
gasped for air, red in the face,
its gushing carotid bulging in desperation,
four lungs incinerating themselves
with imminent anticipation
of the death gleaming
just over the horizon,
its violet hues juxtaposing
with the glimmering night skies
of faded constellations comprising the celestial
as moonlit silhouettes waltzed across the water,
a bright cerulean rippling in our presence,
the genesis of a journey unforeseen.

Brutal acceptance rains from my eyes,
a rumbling river that reigns supreme
over the rounded stones stacked high
as a towering dam of branches and rubble,
leftover waste long forgotten and forlorn;
hometown fantasies of childhood memories
linger longer than our lost loyalty,
liberating me from the rusted chains
you'd stapled into my brittle bones,
a leash tied tightly around my throat
to **** me from my courageous caution
back into the splintered wheel
dictating our selfish agendas,
empty promises of dilapidated affirmations
now turned weary and worn
with this newfound sense of reflection,
a dichotomy depicting time's own passage,
the consequence of a metamorphic resolution
of open wounds blossoming into eroded scars.  

Futuristic visions of lesions now mended
seamlessly fuse with renewed self-reception,
your broken promises stitched with the threads
ripped from the capillaries comprising my core,
blood-stained carpet of scarlet and crimson
fading into an aged and weathered maroon,
never truly waning in its acquainted pigment
yet blossoming into a stained fabric
portraying the promises of the past,
of decayed ruins now industriously erected
into a radiant utopia of gallant, rubious valor,
the final product of an unyielding resolve
to have our story rewritten, our own steadfast evolution.
pierrot Jan 5
to all the men who said i love you:
no, you don’t.
nobody ever loves a shipwreck, a graveyard
places of unrest and deathless suffering
the epitome of solitude to those misfortunate enough
to have made a home out of the debris of tragedy

to love someone is to know them
and you know nothing of the storm,
of the names carved into the tombstones
still oozing blood after years of heartache and grief.
you think of shipwrecks and graveyards
and can only imagine the sublime aftermath of poems,
pretending not to hear the screaming and wailing
that echoes off of every wretched line
the gnawing of teeth still tearing at the rotten flesh
the scraping of nails against the hard, cold cement
desperate to latch unto anything if it means keeping afloat.

to all the men who said i’m not scared of shipwrecks and graveyards,
places of unrest and deathless suffering:
no, you aren’t.
for who would ever scare of the chance to paint himself as charitable, compassionate
by just standing close enough to the ruins, never crossing the threshold
to leave flowers and sing lighthearted condolences to the corpses of a person whose voice you’ve never heard.
nothing will ever make you feel more of a good person
than grieving for this bleeding heart of mine.

to the first man who ever said he loved me, my father
who made a burial ground out of my body
before i could even think of it as anything but lifeless
staining this blank canvas before i could even think about painting anything but gravestones

finally, to me
who learned how to make a home out of the bones and damp wood
for this house may be haunted by ghosts of the past still
but it stands upon holy ground
and i will never let the termites tear their way inside again.
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