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R N Tolliday Mar 2022
In making up for lost time,
Towards my dream, years-long,
The subject of many New Year's–gone resolutions,
I've made only a tiny step, in comparison to others,
But a step forward, nonetheless.

'Cause I had to breathe, and 'v'been unfolding into many, newer, earthier paths.
I've had my struggles, of consistent length and toil, and had to clear those dark clouds.
Today I stand on firmer ground.
Grounds that I want firm for everyone.

The mountain of my book is very tall and long,
But no matter it, nor the length of my stride: I'm moving forward again.
Towards those things I love the most, and of which, its end isn’t certain.
R N Tolliday May 2021
Outside the mechanisms of wallowing, and other lesser motions,
There is the beautiful world, stretching out beyond me.
With your words, my love is known.
But upon waking, such sentiments are lost until such words are revisited.

The power of ‘Writing’, is in the connection I make outside of the ordinary wallowing.
In-route to become the norm of the mind, norm of my behaviour.
Towards a life of love,
Beyond the walls of ordinary, once rejected.
xjf Aug 31
It may be that
the purpose,
Is not written into
the program.
Your gaze might not take my breath away
But when I’m breathless, you breathe back life in me
Your touch might not freeze the ground below my feet
But when my legs feel too heavy, you set my sole free
You might not be my bright sunny day
But you are the stars of my night sky
You might not light up my life
But you give me hope in the darkest of times
You might not be the love I was looking for
But you are the peace that I found
You might not be the piece that completes my puzzle
But you are the peace that holds it all together
You might not be the love that will give my life purpose
But you are the peace that sustains me
Jawad Aug 1
As days sneak away
      Like small thieves
   Taking pieces of my soul
I wonder…
                Where poems
       The guardians of time?
Defenders of hopes?
   Were they disordered seams
           Holding together a life
        Of secret sorrow
Where they artistic lies
          Perfected to taste mellow
               To hide the bitterness
                          The missing shadow
             Of my shrinking soul?
    What where they?
                   Impostor dreams?
Why do we really write poetry? To feel better, or to not feel worse? To run away, or to achieve something?
The Kimbeaux Jun 23
I feel that my presence
is a light
that’s needed.
I care a lot
of how others
are treated.

Joy is my purpose.
It’s an inside job.
I want to help others
on this journey we’re on.

I’m creative and it matters.

I’m athletic and it matters.

I’m resilient and I matter.

My presence on earth won’t last forever.

I’ll just become dirt again.
Before I do,
I’ll know that I mattered.
Coming out of a dark mental state after being sick.
Accepting the gift was always easy

Committing to it was always hard

No compass, no road, no map could lead

No language, no gesture, no one to teach

No god, no idea, no love, no hate, no reaction, no purpose, no reason, no thought, no spasm,
no fiber,
no spark.

There, I broke it.
SpiritHeart67 Apr 29
Are *****
And I find myself
With the entire species

Other times,
They do
the damnedest things,
Restoring my Faith
Just in the nic of time
(10 Senryu's)

The meaning of life
is about getting to know
who we really are

The meaning of life
has to do with finding out
what we're here to do

The meaning of life
is about rising above
our lower nature

The meaning of life
is a subject that raises
so many questions

The meaning of life
deals with the evolution
of human beings

The meaning of life
says a lot about man's place
in the universe

The meaning of life
is often misunderstood
as being pointless

The meaning of life
can be appreciated
through man's religion

The meaning of life
is knowing the truth behind
our own existence

The meaning of life
is revealed in its purpose
and goal for our lives
Written in January '23.
Bella Isaacs Mar 28
I became Holmes, past knowing true:
In every sense, I'd seek for you.

Now, taking the cobbles consciously,
Sick, mad, of the essence of this construct,
Dismantling the ancien régime to see
That I am all your stains in concert -

I am made up of every last touch -
Originality's a lie, save in
The combination that you see - as such
It is unique, but I still cave in

At the dawn that nothing is my own,
And much like as if you were a coffee
I'd downed: I could not, for my life, disown
The five million senses cutting me

For the time, for every conscious cup
I'd take and take again: Why should I dull
And cut myself this way, a life made-up
Of such a tannin-full ideal?

My way as a writer is to fall
In love, in my eyes, in yours, in raptures,
In despair, in tough crowds, on God, to call
On my muse and survive the ruptures

Of worlds and heavens, both real and made,
And feel the rain upon my face, but Lord,
How often do I feel, and feel the raid,
Engaged by scent, blush, needle, salt, word?

All too much makes nothing, and I can't flee
To seek another cup: I must seek me.
A poem made up of a few ideas I had today: the pervasiveness of a love, the unoriginality of humans - as we are all made up of each others' influence -, who on earth can I say myself to be, and what on earth am I supposed to do as a writer. Also, I can't really take coffee.
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