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Zywa May 30
The birch watches me

with a purely divine look --


of generous eyes.
The birch is the "watchful tree", with aspen eyes after dropping the branches that don't receive enough sunlight

Collection "Secrets & Believers"
Dahlia May 5
there's something about you
that buries itself in my chest
growing its roots somewhere deep inside
blooming and blossoming
reaching and tangling around my veins
wrapping its vines around my bones
spreading its pollen through my bloodstream with every gentle heartbeat
seeping through my fingers and toes
crawling up my spine and flowering in my thoughts
I carry you everywhere
and as I fall asleep at night,
I think about the way it feels
to have you next to me
I've been friends with you for what feels like forever. I wish I could tell you how I really feel, but I'm scared I'm going to ruin what we have.
Sophie Mar 23
I am a flower
growing in the way of a footpath,
from a crack in the pavement,
dog ***, human feet shuffling,
bicycle tire spinning

I am a sunflower, glowing
in the morning light.
through sparkling mist,
which sits beside me, feeding
me sweet nothings and soft
droplets.

I am a wild rose,
my thorns are sharp, my
petals are delicate.
My roots reaching,
so deep into the earth,
yet the water has evaporated,
even in those depths, my roots are
cracking,
my hips are drying out.

I am a flower in the middle of a footpath,
I have been trampled and I have
been peed on and biked over.
I am trying to stand up again.
I am trying to stand up again.
Inspired by my habitat restoration work in crowded areas. Watching plants survive being trampled and peed on gives me hope and yet makes me feel so hopeless. How can we expect a flower to bloom after being so abused? It is how I feel about my own life. I have been "abused" many times by others, by life itself. "I am trying to stand up again"
Safana Mar 13
The sun is hot and
The sand is waterless
No water moisture
And the plants, thirsty
And its flower dried
Love is nearly to death
Anastasia Jan 29
Weeds grow from beneath my fingernails
Flowers blossom in my lungs
Petals blooming from my throat
I can no longer breathe
I can no longer reach
For the distant dream
Of loving you
i collect patches of poetry
and pluck them out of day-to-day musings
of a woman born before her time,
as she leisurely runs her hands
across and over too ripe fruits.
i do not complain nor place them
in tattered and worn baskets.
instead, the fruits of this history fall to the ground.
unabashed, they line up with blades of grass.
the wind is strong,
there is a clash.
my words tangle like the branches of unkept bushes
- poetry is enough, i know. i see.
a silhouette of bible verses and revelations coming
from inside me.
reverie and rhythm, festival sighs.
it takes 20 years worth of courage to stay still,
upright.
the berries would taste wonderful, i know.
but the soil is hungrily swallowing my ankles -
serving justice for my leaving,
for my formulating, and then abrupt untangling.
my adoration turning into a mirage of nothing.
the retribution is famished yet true.
and so in my head, it grows, and grows, and grows.
but i can taste the fruits now.
no rhythm, no rhyme,
no muse.
i walk away barefoot, onwards, where i am deserved
where i am worth fighting for,
where i am buried but not so i could die,
but so i could be planted.
i have been ignoring the fruits, the burst of flavor in every line of poetry my mind screams. plant me beside my favorite oak tree.

sad to say, this is not the original and first version of the poem.
Elaenor Aisling Oct 2021
Self,
Here are the ways you have been loved
Instead of the ways you have lost it.

You have known love the color of autumn dogwood  
The deep red of want
Rising in the cheeks like steam.
The magnetic pull of moon and stars
Orbits spinning until they are null
The rush of blood in the ears
Tempests in the paths of plans.

You have known love the shade of fall juniper
The argent blue of constancy
Silver dust on fingertips
Invisible until tasted.
Pepper and pine, the flavor of rain
And washes of hope.

You have known love the hue of October roses
The bittersweet fragile pink
Bright and fast and pure
delicate as a dream on waking,
fading in the opening of an eye,
Its memory more solid than its time.

Self,
You have loved and loved and loved
And you have been loved.
And on the nights this does not fill your cup
When your arms are empty
Your voice dry,
Wait, work, and wonder
Through solstice, equinox, eclipse,
For each in their season returns and returns
And all seasons come anew.
letters to basil Oct 2021
dear basil,

watch the sunrise
remember how lucky you are to see it
smell the morning air
keep it in your lungs because you can
water your plants
show them unconditional love

love yourself unconditionally
because you're lucky, because you can

love,
basil
just something about loving myself a little more. this one is for you, too. drink some water, love.

10.03.2021
Mitch Prax Aug 2021
I can sense you
in every sunflower-
in the scent of every petal,
the sweetness of the pollen
and the colour and light
you radiate.
Mitch Prax Aug 2021
Loving me is like
watering a sunflower
but without the sun

12:21 AM
9/8/21
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