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I’ve stood at the edge
of so many beginnings—
just close enough to taste them,
never close enough to stay.
The door always slightly ajar,
never open.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

People call me potential,
but never presence.
A promise, not a person.
Their faith feels like fog—
thin and disappearing
the moment I reach for it.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I speak like I know who I am,
but the echo doesn’t agree.
My words crumble in my mouth
before they ever build meaning.
Even my hope sounds rehearsed.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

I dream in color,
but live in grayscale.
My hands stretch forward
but always fall short—
of the vision,
of the version
of me I thought I’d be by now.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.

So I write.
I bleed ink and silence
trying to draw a shape
that feels like truth.
And maybe one day,
I’ll look back
and see I was becoming all along.
I want to be more than a shadow of almost.
JAMIL HUSSAIN May 17
Rise—for even the heavens seem displeased with your sleep, O’ unripe heart!
You've lost that lightning, that spectacle, that celestial art.

How long will you slumber in the chains of dust and clay?
You are a spark that even destiny cannot delay.

Know thyself—for you are the light of the eternal scheme,
One piercing glance of yours can resurrect a dream.

If you will it, you can command the stars in flight—
If not, your fate remains a captive of endless night.

This world depends on you—you are the rhythm of time,
Drunken self-forgetfulness has robbed you of your prime.

Set fire to every tune that moans the dirge of imitation,
Transform yourself—the current of time bends to your creation.

Ignite a longing, birth a flame, become a living blaze—
Let a tempest rise in your heart, and dawn break through your gaze.

You are not merely a drop in the ocean’s vast expanse—
You are the ocean itself, flowing free in your sacred dance.
A Call from Beneath the Dust 17/05/2025 © All Rights Reserved by Jamil Hussain
kaylynn Apr 15
I can't wait for spring
when its officially mine
flower fields in my mind
lets lay down
bathe in the sun
seven playing in the background...

beautiful
so he calls me
take a look in the mirror
has he seen his face?
has he seen his soul?
oh the potential of us together
he's something new
just like the springtime
everything comes back to life
makes everything new again
what more can I explain
he is spring
You examine everywhere for reasons to fight
Goal you achieve almost every night
Perfection and purpose put out of reach
Are there other methods to help than preach?
You make known exactly the ways I've done wrong
Can't tell drive to satisfy you is strong
And success a maybe despite trying my best
Do you understand what it's like to be depressed?
Instead of pressure provide pearls of praise
Small portion of patience will go a long ways
What will you trip over next?
Disagreements leave me perplexed
Staring at me as if you're scrutinizing a stranger
Alarm blaring loudly though there is no danger
This life we live occupying to get old
Sighing when shoulder turns away from me cold
I climb expectations but can't quite reach the top
Longing for lighter limbs so I wouldn't tire and stop
Your unfulfilled wishes are all engraved in stone
Won't be pleased until words are carved into each bone
When experiences are good they are beyond great
Light a room with brightness you radiate
Sparks fly from skin's surface moment we touch
Stomach starts rolling the second hands clutch
Stuck to potential so vast at the start
Before bogging under the heaviness of my heart
It seems I can't ever just get something right
Steve Page Mar 3
Night Portraits
And Night Landscapes
Leave shadows for us to fill
Or to leave full
of nocturnal potential
Viewing paintings at a local art space.
Jeff Bresee Feb 27
It’s a feeling that has no words to describe,
when the late autumn leaves fade color.
Quietly waving a final goodbye
in the chill as morning mist hovers.
 
It’s something between a pure feeling of peace
and a loneliness down to the bone.
Perfect tranquility rests on the air,
but the sadness won’t leave you alone.
 
Life has a way of drifting in waves,
up and down through the moments we live.
Yet lurking below in the dim and the cold
are so many things buried that give
 
hidden purpose to cry. Is there some reason why
we go on always holding it in?
We should learn from the trees who let go, so in Spring…
they can always start over again.
I feel like I live in an infinite void of nothingness. Between the vast worlds that I remain The Observer to. I’ve been in so many things, but never fully committed, be it by my own volition or external circumstances. Perhaps no one has and the continuity and consistency I seek is all an illusion generated by my limited presence in the spaces I transiently call home in a desperate attempt to belong to things that I feel deep down I simply can’t. Do I know it to be certain, or is it merely faulty—unhealthy—subconscious programming? I wish I knew.
I have so much potential—I sincerely know it; I see it every day. Yet, despite this, I remain a car in fifth gear, wheels spinning in winter’s freezing, putrid slush, and remain stationary as I drain all my energy, rocking back and forth across the slippery driveway.
Like my body and brain—like me—my devices’ batteries seem to drain too quickly; where’d all that time and energy go? Yet, Time seems to firmly drag me along through an eternity, moment to moment, when pain strikes me with its sour, sharp, and nearly all-penetrating hand.
The evening sunlight sure does look pretty out the window and coming in onto the walls, though. That’s something.
A group walks by. By no means a popular group–not that popularity matters much–but they, despite the game of Society stacking most odds against them, have found their people: each other. These geeks that pass by the window are happy despite this, and though I may have traits that set me apart from them, I remain set apart from near everyone else.
I fear, from the deeply-rooted subconscious program from a childhood of my depth and passions never being understood, much cared for, or even acknowledged, that those who are near to me cannot fully see it. I know they love me; no question there despite the doubts creeping in. The programming renders both nearly impossible to feel. Spectacular.
Written on 2025-02-05.

This was written while sitting in an empty conference room on my university’s campus, watching the world go by out the windows and the pretty evening sunlight hit the wall to my right that lifted my spirits after a hard few days of physical pain from chronic illness and the havoc it and attempting to recover from it wreaked on my life as of the few days prior to writing this.
This could very well have been only a diary entry, but I chose not to make it so. I suppose I did so because the part of me that felt compelled to shout my suffering to the world won out slightly over in mental diplomatic strife than the side that preferred it stay private.
Bekah Halle Dec 2024
Awkward and lanky,

not a boy and not yet a man.

Youth, litheness; potential

and yet, still teachable.
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