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preston Mar 17

She stands at the Well.
But she is not alone.

A voice speaks—
"You have no husband, do you?
Not just one—not two—but many.
And still, you are thirsty."


She freezes.
Because the voice is true.
Because she is seen.

But she resists.

"It’s not just the men…"
Her hands tighten.
"There is another ‘her’ inside me.

She fights. She *****.
She wants destruction and hunger and chaos.
She doesn’t listen. She doesn’t stop.
She is the one who makes me want to throw myself from a cliff
just so I don’t have to deal with her anymore."

"She’s gonna do something crazy,"
she whispers.
"And I’ll be gone. Like I was never even here."

The voice does not flinch.
"Then let Me meet her."

Silence.

A storm brews behind her ribs.

The "her" within her stirs—
The dark one. The wounded one.
She crouches behind the rocks, clutching her shame.

The other "her"—the one who still believes—
She wades into the water, hands lifted, reaching for salvation.

One moves toward the Light.
One remains in the shadows.

"You see, Lord? She does not belong to me.
She belongs to the dark."


A pause.

"No," The Spirit says.
"She belongs to Me."

The rocks begin to shake.
The water ripples.

Behind the trees, the dark "her" presses her back against the bark,
watching the water, watching the other "her" wade in.
She wants to believe.
She wants to step forward.

But she remembers.

The love of man is dishonest.
The world swallows and devours.
Every time she has trusted, she has been burned.

"The water will steal me," she whispers.
"The light will dissolve me. I will disappear."

But the Spirit does not demand.
It does not chase.
It does not force.

It only knows.

"You are afraid that surrender will erase you," the Spirit says.
"But you have already been erased."

The words cut deep.
Because they are true.

"You live divided.
One ‘her’ in the shadows.
One ‘her’ in the light.
Neither whole.
Neither free."


The dark "her" clenches her fists.
"You don’t understand her," she spits.
"She needs me."

"No," the Spirit says.
"She needs  Me."

The trees begin to shake.
The wind rises.

"Come, little one.
I have been waiting for you."


She takes a step forward.
The trees do not stop her.
The rocks do not hold her.

The dark "her" and the one who waits—the one who believes—
They are not enemies.
They are not strangers.

They are two halves of the same soul.

And Love—
Love has come to bring them both home.



The Art of Salvation

River running..
That rushing sound in these parts
spell out the words, crystal-clear..
Tree-lined banks, giving way
to the Dark Hills,  upslope

Giving way,  to
granite-rocked outcroppings
giving way to  elk-hidden quakeys
Surrendering their holy-huddle's
pristine stances
to tall  prairie-grass, waving
wild raspberries  and tall pines

    And I,  myself..
    am surrendering also
She is watching the water, believing
That as it flows,
she will not lose herself in it
That it will not steal,  but heal

That I will not  rage again
within my fear

I am watching her,
watch the water
I am watching the water--  believing
That as I give  of myself
further  into the flow

that I will not become  diffused
by humanity
By the love  of man
and all  of its dishonesty

and all  of its  diabolical treachery

Of its  lack of concern,
or understanding
Or ability to break through
its own,  self-centeredness

Or its need  to swallow me up
    into the mundane.
Her hands are in the air now,
praising..

Worshipping
the true nature  of the flow,
Believing..
that I will let all of this, go
And as she  wades in
I ease, back--

Retreating
up the Dark Hills, *****
Clutching tightly..
To granite-rocked outcroppings,
  weeping.

Hiding in the quakeys,
among the majestic elk
Begging for the tallgrass, cover
among the wild raspberries.
   Now, fully concealed
   in  tall pines.

Her hands
are stretched out,  now..
as if hovering  over the waters,
participating

While I hide  from it all

While I hide,  from humanity;
From the fallen,  love of man

    She is wading in,
    Believing
.    
As I am leaving;
Believing

    As the cloud-hidden sky,
    starts raining--

playing the most incredible, of tunes..
https://youtu.be/PgRafRp-P-o?si=1A3rb7ajt_ZPlMW2

xox
https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4407079/the-art-of-salvation/


"Little Spirits  were born
with their little  freedoms  intact--
In freedom.. they are only
drawn out  by Love"

youtu.be/i-kHleNYIDc

            ❤️❤️

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4736547/children-of-the-quakies/
xo
Is it finally over?
Living in fear
Of those I am supposed to trust
Breaking free of the cage
The latest prophesy reoccurring
I wondered what it meant
Could it just be a change in mindset?

Is it finally over?
Hiding who I truly am
Who WE truly are
Masking
Pretending
To be whole, to be one

Is it finally over?
Fearing we will have to hide forever
Wondering if anyone will ever believe us
Wondering if anyone will ever care

Was it a misunderstanding all along?
Were we isolating ourselves without reason
Believing it will be not different than the other times
Are they finally ready to listen?

Hope is a cruel thing
Please don’t hurt us again
Turns out we didn’t have to hide. They want to talk about it. I’m both petrified and elated. It’s not going to be like I hope it will. It never is. But we’re so, so tired of pretending
No one is as they seem
We all hide behind intricate masks
Carefully crafted
Rarely cracking
Concealing the truth that lies behind the eyes
Lynn Mar 14
She smiles because she's your go-to child
The one that gets all the praise
The one who accepts all your rage
Even as she's growing
You won't ever know it
Because hormones are bad
And mood-swings won't ever be had
Even though she hates it
She smiles as she fakes it
Her facade or innocence
Is quite actually painfully brilliant
She has everyone around her finger
Though the tightness of it always stings her
She smiles as she's called sweet
Kind and lovely
Smart and hardworking
Honest and trustworthy
Strong and preserving
Beautiful and genuine
Because she's not she's
Mean and unlikeable
Dumb and lazy
A liar and unhonest
Ugly and fake
But somehow no one sees
Her broken and horrid self
Through her sickly sweet
Kind and innocent
Full of joy and love
Fake facade
Aurora Mar 12
Run
If you find yourself
feeling your wounds
or trying on old clothes-
you should run.

If you find yourself wandering
around the halls of your dusty heart-
you should redirect
your attention to more pressing matters.

If your brain is stumbling
through fields of poppies
and you find yourself
reveling-
you should hit the eject button.

Exploring the kaleidoscope of human emotion
is illegal under federal law.
Watering your own self,
potted plant that you are,
is a waste of company time.

Just
parachute away from the place
where your nerve endings tingle
and get back on the wheel.

Clock is ticking.  
Don’t you have better things to do?
5 minute stream of consciousness babble
I write music in the record store,
I'll use their piano to pen the tune.
They won't find me,
I'm good at hiding,
So someday my record will be sold there.

We kiss in the record store,
To the sound of men making music.
They won't find us,
We're good at quiet love,
So someday we'll kiss to the men playing my record.
Had my double date yesterday, it went great!
A girl, made of paper
She blows in the wind
All her thoughts, written on her pages
Creative and calm and curious and careful
She sings, shyly, softly
In the middle of the night
She doesn't want to be heard
She wants to be heard

A girl, made of stone
She stands steady in the storm
Her face, emotionless, expressionless
Strong and stony and stoic and silent
She writes, fluidly, fearfully
In the middle of the night
She doesn't want to be seen
She wants to be seen

A girl, made of light
She shines in the dark
Love glistens in her eyes
Luminous and loving and lighthearted and loyal
She glows, boldly, beautifully
in the middle of the night
She doesn't fear being seen
She doesn't fear being heard

Girls made of paper
And girls made of stone
Hurt too many times by those who claim to care
Hiding from the world no longer
Girl made of light
Hope is her name
Burns like a spark in their hearts in the night
Whispering softly, gently
It's ok to be seen
It's ok to be heard
Found this SUPER old poem, pretty sure I was 12 when I wrote this. Randomly unearthed it when going through a box of old stuff (I'm a bit of a hoarder), and decided it wasn't terrible.
i never seem
to be able to

to be able to
be
accepted

to be able to
belong

but
fitting in
is

different than
belonging


molding yourself
Into the
neatly
labelled
boxes
life sets out for us

to fit in


becoming what people want from you

hiding your
true self.
hiding behind a mask

hiding yourself

fitting in.
lil one today
I have a drawer,
Full of poems,
I never want the,
World to see.
I feel like we all have poems like this.
Odd Odyssey Poet Dec 2024

In the quiet corners of my
mind, I get lost
in my words –
as are my thoughts swirling
like leaves in the wind.
My notebook and pen become my
abditory:
a secret refuge where I
can disappear.

__

And it is here, in this
cherished hideaway, that I
lose
myself completely,
enveloped in the embrace
of
ink and paper,
crafting a reality
all my own.
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