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Zywa Nov 28
I'm invisible

when I read a poem, I'm --


eavesdropping on it.
Maria Barnas on Mia You, in the review of You's poetry collection "Festival" (2024), in the NRC of November 8th, 2024

Collection "Within the walls"
Man Nov 18
5:30, 4:30 -
Up ever earlier.
40, 50, 60
Pages of the encyclopedia open.
All with tabs,
Of the many windows, pages, & folders.
Through the looking glass,
Roaming far & near as an extraterrestrial.
Silent days, delicate rains,
clip clopping like marching horse,
on thin, steel roofs, and nylon umbrellas.

Drenched, sweating foreheads in summer climates,
consistent, cool winds like drooling  ice,
drying sopping skin, a rough cloth to an oily pan.

Starved road trip bellies, after intermittent rests and games of eye-spy,
salivating at laminated menus, and passerby plates,
pre-meal hot fries, fulling deep guts with salty chips and fizzing raspberry.

Waking hours before blaring alarms,
knocking parents, a whistling kettle, and the popping toaster;
an hour to lay restless head into the deep world of snug pillows and warm blankets;
as if your whole universe is one big cushion.

Finishing a chapter and curling rough page with soft finger,
placing floral bookmark into the straight crease,
placing it back into its spot on the shelf or bedside table.

Dawn coffee.
Friday afternoon.
Saturday morning.
Kind encounters.
Meeting deadlines.
A finished poem.
It's much easier to be a debby downer, so here's something happier.
Boris Cho Nov 10
The day unfolds with a heart steeped in gratitude, stirred awake by morning meditation. The afternoon finds me beneath a willow's gentle sway, a book cradled in my hands, warmth rising from a mug beside me. As night whispers its arrival, my thoughts spill onto paper, paired with a quiet indulgence. Each moment carries the weight of intention, weaving a rhythm of mindfulness, stillness, and creativity. It’s a ritual that nourishes my spirit, cultivating inner peace, self discovery, and inspiration in its delicate balance.



Through meditation, we sit with what arises,
learning to stay present with our thoughts,
to breathe into the pain of our experiences.

No longer fleeing discomfort,
we meet our fears with open arms,
letting them speak, letting them go quietly.

The thoughts, the worries, the pain;
all given the mental space to exist,
but no longer bound by our need for control.

We hold them lightly,
and as we loosen our grip,
until they all begin to drift away.

In this stillness, our healing begins,
slow and unfolding,
a lifelong journey until we are reborn.

We embrace the unknown,
finding peace in the spaces in between;
holding on and letting go.

— Sincerely, Boris
Malia Oct 29
When your heart races,
Rushing out of a dream,
And words leave spaces
And lines in between,
Where your heart heals
To be shattered again,
Like oceans surreal
Once the reverie ends,
Frantically you strain
To let yourself sink,
With a mind soiled, stained,
And brimming with ink.
That feeling when you close the book but the story keeps going.
Malia Oct 21
it feels like locking
the door on your loyal dog
who loved unconditionally
and saved you from your
sorrowful depths,
but you must go and
all things must end, though,
can’t you hear the whining
through the cracks?
can’t you hear the groan
through the cracks in the spine
made from opening what must
always
be shut?
Looseleft:

adj. feeling a sense of loss upon finishing a good book, sensing the weight of the back cover locking away the lives of characters you’ve gotten to know so well.
Alex Braun Sep 20
i am going insane over a love that cannot exist.
a love made not of soulmates
but a bond, a tether, a string
forged and formed by two creatures taken to understanding. to knowing.

knowing when one is wearing a mask for others.
knowing what the littlest twitches of muscles mean.
knowing where one is even in sleep.
knowing someone beneath what they project to the world.
knowing how to steady the world for one whom it blurs.

knowing and desiring to know.
hearing and keeping hold.
this love drives me mad
the soul of my heart aches for such a profound connection
yet the written words of other authors must suffice.
i read and read and i feel like my heart is being dragged out of my chest
Unknowingly,
You are taking the time and effort
To read what others make.
A big step in making writers feel proud
That someone read their work.
Unknowingly, your spreading joy
To the hearts of new, or old, poets
Thank you, readers
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