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To My Red Pen
When did you grow so gentle?
You, once sharp with correction
Marking every stumble
A judge in crimson ink
Now you spill like sunlight
Waltzing across the page
Not to scold
But to sing
What the hell changed—and why?
I'm left wounded, wondering
When right began to feel so wrong?
Lee 3d
I don’t know the ocean
And she doesn’t know me
Surely she remembers more
But I’m a mountains and trees girl
Patience is key
Written on the balcony of the condo we rented for the week
Lee 4d
Residue of a storm, left behind and round.
A spa for those who croak.
Nature's water fountain for those too small to ask.
A vacation in rock. Minor invertebrate have a home.
More adding into; a ripple effect.
Bespattered by its surrounding walls, some clear instead.

A new stand laced up, a day to face.
A stride cut off by some plash, the sky!
Dark and your steps now dampened too deep.
Look at it this way, the earth had a laugh.
The best you can do is entertain it.
I actually wrote this piece in middle school, I don't write poems this long unless I force myself to do so, so it's cool to see a peak into what I can do if I focus.
Lee 3d
How numb
Can your toes be?
That the horseshoe *****
Who don’t even have the means,
Can pinch your skin and make you scream?
Wrote this one after a beach day
alex 4d
“Throw her into the deep end,”
they said.
“She’ll learn to swim soon enough.”

Maybe she will,
but you know,
it won’t be easy
the tides will grasp her firm
and try to drag her under
her lungs will scream
she may wail
and desperately thrash
the tumultuous current will beat her down
her arms ache, so does her heart
she’ll sink once or twice,
wonder whether it’s worth the fight,
but with time
and I can’t say how much
she will gain strength
and slowly but surely
she will begin to swim against the current
claw her way back
to the shallow end
and she’ll be able
to look them all in the eye
scars bare, clothes torn
but a wicked smile.
For all the Heavens know,
You could be angel born
Or
Hell depths
******.
Don’t grieve for lost moments
-the seas will always
return to reach the
sand.
For a friend
Dylan A Jul 15
The sea rose,
a basswood tree
restlessly kept;

perhaps, in due time,
won’t it fall?

It’s wood,
perhaps,
it would.
Nebylla Jul 14
A lonely buoy sways in the waves of indecision,
bobbing up and down, and up and down
pacing back and forth, and back and forth,
from side to side and again under the amber road, moonlit.

The tides are calm but large, but the buoy doesn't sink.
It's prepared, designed, taught what to do
in moments like these: to swim back,
back to shore, back to safety, turn a back
to the great, lethal liquid land beyond our own.

But this time, that glow of golden light,
that hails from the incandescent majesty of the gloomy night-sky,
goes far into and over the horizon, glistening in the void sea,
glimmering on the bouy like golden lunacy,
capturing it, alluring it, cradling it gently,
shining on it like glitter and exposing it to a totally novel colour,
totally radiating and tranquilising — or so it would be
if not for the distant, real winds.

The such similar shade of orange, shared
by the sky-light and the streetlamps,
depict a tale of unfulfilled greatness and mimicry
(though I don't mean to insinuate that the lunacy is itself not enlightened)

Perhaps this is the way, to mimic
a mere fraction of the power of the giants
whose great shoulders we stand upon without gratitude,
unaware of how unfulfilled and untouched
and unkept our passions meet end.

The buoy battles with risk and reward, screaming and cursing
silently,
crashing out on the waves of both sides,
ripping and parting its poor soul;
the dark void at the horizon that divides the path
from the moon,
invites it, coaxes it, charms and enchants it to take a chance:
the leap of faith.

But the buoy sways on in the wind.
An echo of a beautiful amber moon I saw walking along the coast in Bournemouth. I couldn't ignore it, so I wrote about it that night in the hotel, weaving my own troubles into it for someone to read.
she calls me by my name,
and i answer without words—
only an offering:
a silent prayer,
bare skin,
a breath held,
a promise kept sacred,
to worship her.

she calls,
and i answer with stillness.
like dusk slipping
into the night—
utterly, completely—
pulling me apart
under the tears
of moonlight.

she calls
even as i soak
in her waves,
as they kiss my collarbone,
make heaven blush
when i fall to my knees,
laced around her soul.

her intention to claim me
was there from the start.
written in her whispers
******* my thoughts.
she never asked
what broke me.
only reached with rippled hands
to take my weight,
press it into the riverbed
like something malevolent,
already forgiven.
this one is about the ache i carry for water — for the stillness, the surrender, the quiet kind of belonging she offers.
july 14, 2025.
Tat Jul 13
A tender sea rocks my boat
it is lulling me to sleep,
gentle breeze is like coat
I fall into it deep.

I trust this stormy water
I won't be on my own
endless waves sing softer
almost semi tone.

I love this sea, these seagulls
this noisy wind and sheer sky,
some stretched canvas on easel
and painting now is dyed.

https://youtu.be/MLIWD-uVus4
Мій човен гойдає море ласкаве.
Мене заколише, порину я в сон.
Покаже картинки: красиві й цікаві,
Мелодію хвиль намугикає в тон.


Хоч море бурхливе, йому довіряю:
нехай не залишить мене в самоті.
Не було початку, немає і краю -
Лиш хвилі і небо - все як у житті.


Люблю тебе море, шум вітру, крик чайок.
А ти мене море від бурь вбережи.
Помолюсь тобі про життя я потайки
А ти мені море про силу скажи.
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