Our first snowfall
two teenagers driving through Maryland’s quiet streets,
snowflakes soft as whispers,
pausing the world, binding us in its stillness.

Years later, Montana welcomed us,
its snow blanketing base housing,
our son’s laughter rising like smoke in the cold.
Soon, we welcomed our daughter,
her presence as gentle as freshly fallen snow,
our family growing beneath the frosted skies.

In New Hampshire, snow wrapped us as four,
a family held close through a winter of unknowns,
its quiet presence a reminder of resilience,
of love weathering every storm.

And now, in Florida—
where the sun reigns and snow should be a stranger,
it falls again.
Five hours of wonder cascading from the heavens,
a gift from the elements,
blessing this home, this moment, this us.

Snow has followed our beginnings—
each new chapter marked in white.
It shields, it cleanses,
a quiet protector cloaked in frost,
a sacred pause to reflect, to remember,
to hold close the warmth of our bond.

May it always find us,
this quiet magic,
this pure renewal,
reminding us that wherever we are,
we are blessed,
we are whole,
and we are home.

He's unsure and can't

do magic, yet he can do --


magical thinking.

Breakups don’t make sense to me. Am I just supposed to feel nothing now? To erase all the time we spent together, the memories etched into my mind, the quiet promises whispered in the dark? Am I meant to set it all on fire, pretending you don’t cross my thoughts with every breath I take? As if love is just a fleeting phase, something that vanishes as easily as it began. Am I supposed to suddenly hate you, to force down the feelings still rooted in my chest? Forget the warmth of your hand in mine, our fingers laced together against the chill of the world? What about the dreams we built, reshaping our futures to fit one another? Is “moving on” some sort of magic trick? Or is it a spell no one’s ever taught me, some dark art that hides the ache beneath tangled overgrowth? Do the feelings ever really die, or do they just lie buried, choked out by weeds where flowers once bloomed? The silence left in their place is deafening, and I can’t understand how hearts can simply unravel. How love, once so vivid, can close its eyes to everything it defined. How am I supposed to walk away when the echoes of what we had still call me back?

so-
A    mb-
        re,
       Sw-
       a-
      n's,
    cu-
    rl-
ing,
ne-                Rarely,
ck. takes, the time, to, longingly,
straighten out. If, it, took, a honking
step, toward; a banal, straight line. Wo-
uld, Lir, hear, his children's; swansong?
Or, pinion feathers, flip, on breezes, as,
              they,
                  flap, about?

© poormansdreams

I got my letter but I didn’t read it,
Just followed along with my kin;
I wouldn’t let the Sorting Hat touch me,
And claimed to all I was Slytherin.

I never liked the other colours,
But green seemed to fit, and I felt like a snake!
Plus, when I’d want something as much as I did,
I was more than willing to be fake.

I didn’t try with witches or spells;
I missed class on purpose, and it stung my pride.
My Patronus, the crow, still crouched in my shoulder—
But even he’d known I’d lied. Now I’m trapped inside.

My life’s about art and academia, dark...
So I’ve poured over books behind secret walls.
An INTP means something to me,
Now I’m staring, completely enthralled.

I got my House but I didn't fit in--
At least not to the same degree.
Maybe I earned it for all that I was,
But now it doesn't feel like me.

This is not meant to be a poem.

Never delete what you were. Even though it doesn't reflect your current being. You must be proud of what you were because it got you until now and it prepared you. It gave you the tools. It WAS you and hence it IS still you.

Never be ashamed of the love you felt and gave. Instead. Grow in love and grow the love.

And if things did not go the best possible way. Well. What even is the best possible way? Things went the only way possible. You learn from what happens and live the way you think is best for you. Maybe learning from mistakes too.

There are no true immortal beings, but immortal are the feelings we feel and the ideas that we bring to others. This is because ideas and feelings will move through generations as long as someone is willing to talk about them. Share them. Write them. And speak about them with other people.

This is magic.

I guess that's all.

A new town of secrets and sinners,
wealthy & the street frozen grinners,
bellies warmed with 80 percent proof
Sleeping ***** at night with rustling hoofs.

The local inn flips the sign as they see him
in the distance in rags and needing a trim.
Hair covers his rugged scarred filled face,
Ever a stranger, in a cess pool of a place.

He journeys down to the abandoned lake-house
where his visions saw 4 of them rip off her blouse
and after they took turns, buried her with stones,
His feet raising, lifts remains of her bones.

He  blasts explosions in the soil by the waters,
and buries her in the greenest of patches,
It begins Nightfall & will end by morning
and those complicit shall join the dead.

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It's funny
You would think
Your sharp edges
would scrape my skin
and hurt me
poison me with a charm
that I can't resist
you worry about the blood
on my skin

I have held sharp edges
and cut myself enough times
to find my veins coiled in infinite directions
tormented my skin for long enough
that any scrape
(you may give)
heals instantly

If you ever could
cut me open
and reach my soul
you would find the scars
symbolic of my countless victories

I suffer from the love I gave myself
for long enough to become whole again
You look at me and you see elegance
someone who has not known the bitterness of the world

Yet you cannot see the hell
tamed in my basement
it now exists like a fire that burns large enough to keep me warm

I understand,
it is difficult to comprehend
the seismograms of the earthquakes
that came before you
the breaking apart of a home that you didn't see
how I held together this body
like porcelain waiting to reach the floor
fought the wind and the chaos
-now unbreakable-
I do not let it on
I exist hushed like a calm lake
I stand peacefully
As the rage rests under the surface
and you awaken it
-testing the waters you say-
but you get swallowed as soon as the waves approach

There is so much that exists in a human
your barbed self does not know the courage it takes
to be damaged for so long
that one day you decide to become your cure
You run towards an unknown
for long enough and you find yourself
drowning, burning, breaking
and then you glue it together
like you are an artistic remedy

I am not foolish
I am the catastrophe that was
the survivor of the storm
the courageous soldier that lives on
it's bewitching you
Yet you are afraid
of hurting me?
(such naivety)

You don't understand
(the emptiness within you)
You wonder, how strange it is
for me to be so untroubled
with your knives
still in my skin
I exist, in your mind
(with my fire and my grace)
like a gift from the gods
and your failure to worship it
is a fragility
that breaks porcelains
fault lines that bring about earthquakes
and you stand till the wreck of you
becomes large enough
to awaken the desire to heal

I cannot help you
so i hope
someday when you have fought the hell
and as the battle comes to rest
you will understand
the magic of it all