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jǫrð Jan 2021
You lost that look that
Kept me by your door waiting
To see where we'd go
The History: I'm the dog that waits over zealous by the door, ready to pull the leash and gag itself. Simple dreams, I suppose but you forgot to take me out.
Louise Jan 2021
Almost three decades later,
and the position I take in my own life is second place.
I placed the blame of my position on the loved ones I trusted
but they are not the ones to take blame.

Two decades have passed,
and I still placed myself second to those
temporary in my life.

Most nights I lay my head on a pillow
filled with the tears I cry myself to sleep.
These tears carry the pain of invalidation
from the loved ones I trusted to love me.

The kind of Love
that I should be giving myself.

A decade into existing on this planet,
and I am so confused by the mixed
feelings my young heart felt.

She craved the loving touch of her mother,
but it was met with bitter words.
She ran into the street to play with the neighbor's kids,
just to be met by mockery and confusion.

She awaits her father from yet another work trip,
just to be met by a distant stranger that
rather be occupied with anything else
other than time with his daughter.

She sits in a classroom filled with
other kids that don't look like her,
confused with many questions
but too scared to ask.

I have put myself second in my life,
believing that I do not want anyone
feeling that way.
So I took it upon myself to put them
in first place in my life.
And now,
I am the one feeling the pain
of always being in second place.
There's an upside up topside
unless they've lied to us.

The only thing we can do
Is that Hill Street Blue thing
and be careful out there.
Red Nov 2020
Second chances exist in the smell of pine needles on a winter day
A walk as the day wakes, bleary eyed and yawning
As dawn breaks to show sunlight over the steepest cliff
The wind in my hair even after I swore I’d shave it off

It exists in the Avett brother songs
Words I learned from someone I used to hate
Melodies that help me heal even now
While the record spins by my bed and I feel like like I’m just now breathing for the first time
The birds chirp to their tune and I can’t help but sigh deep,
in and out

Second chances exist in these moments I’ve crafted
The smell of a candle from a friend long ago
A necklace someone once thought I’d hate
On the dresser my mother built for me
Books I shared with the girl I grew up with
Pages I prayed she’d hold dear even when we parted
A well loved shirt and a hope for my future

Of coffee and cold mornings with you by my side
As we dance to no song, in time
Step, and swing.
You in my arms and your love in my heart.
Onward, towards nothing in particular.
L Nov 2020
Today, I helped my mother with her garden. I made the earth soft, I placed the seeds carefully, I added a little bit of the nutrient-rich soil. I tried to place the seeds upright in the ground. I’ve never done this before. When I ask her how I’m doing, she says I’m doing good. She says I plant them so carefully.

My wrists and back haven’t been doing very well these past few days, but I know that if I let her, my mother will sacrifice her entire body to her flowers. She’ll offer her exposed skin to the sun and her aching joints to the earth. Her muscles will cry and the tears make the earth richer.

The doctor said she needs to rest. Her knees, the bad arm, her back.
My body hurts sometimes, but all I have to do is stretch and rest and it goes away.

I have to plant the bell pepper seeds.
I have to sacrifice my own body to the sun, to the earth and the flowers. It is a duty to the selfishness of giving. I must because I want to.

What would I do if I saw you weep again? How could I bear to see anything keep you from joy for a even a single moment?
How incredible to see you after all of the sorrow. You touch the earth, you plant the seed. Every morning I walk outside to look at the flowers with you.

And this is my dark soil. This is my water.

I wake up. I see her dutifully tending to her garden. I put on my shoes.
I am the flower blooming with the love of a mother.
Hammad Oct 2020
Should we give people
a second chance?
She asked,
It depends
"Whether we want to be stung
out of the same hole - twice" - I replied
Nikh Oct 2020
The song begins as you drift in

Not unlike another being,
albeit I may be weary.

But I watch you dance before my very eyes; your movement reminiscent of silk in the wind.
Flowing with grace and confidence.

As the tempo rises, your actions speak louder than ones screams ever could.

Calling in those who care was no hassle for me, for your dance is a delight for all to see.

You spin and brace yourself for what’s to come,
I watch you mouth those words, ever so familiar.

And with your final Jeté all is revealed.

You fall exhausted and on the verge of tears; the weight finally off your chest.

I close my eyes... and breathe

The morning sun kisses my lashes as I break from my trance,
And you’re gone.

As your performance has come to a close I finally recognize your tune.

You always were a creature of the night.
Nat Lipstadt Dec 2020
<>

11:03 Sun Sep 20 2020
2nd Day Rosh Hashana 5781
S.I., N.Y.

when I was twenty years younger, I wrote oft introspectively,
nowadays, today, provoked by the High Holy Day, the New Year,

it is my only filter, lens, and this solitary perspective that this moment affords, permits, demands, commands, insists on,  
prepared by this confession, so that I may better return to the union of my divine spark, unify body and soul, recover my true self,
by acknowledging that I am
not beholden to anyone,
therefore, thereby,
     beholden to everyone

how inconsistently wonderful that additional experience, alive in a time of upheavals, pushes me past the first stanza, where most often, my poems, prayers, go to rest uneasy, incomplete, only to be buried alive in me.

Yet, here I am stuttering, sputtering, words that come unexpectedly!
I have reached a second stanza, with the ending well sighted, nearby. The collective, overlaid wake of each passing boat, finger pointing, a road line for following, to a larger directive, a river emptying into a great ocean, birthplace & graveyard

premature celebration as it’s weeks till I return to this poem-in-progress on a bleak week, the winterized grays have dominated, the freshness of sunlight is just an occasional peekaboo.

The larger directive now suppressed, the pilings of damp brown leaves, multi-message; funeral. mounds of good days gone to hell, the inward perspective has returned me to a deep, dark place.

(Stutter, stutter, each day asseverates solemnly with tinges of rancor, no, no, no, still no answers yet, the second and third stanzas are *******, suns of no man.)
Left Foot Poet Apr 2014
The first cut, indeed, the deepest, for when they cut the umbilical chord, and a life forever, alone, now forever commenced, another
sea of troubles, a cursed journey begins.

"Judge, O you gods,  how dearly Caesar loved him!
This was the most unkindest cut of all"

julius-caesar act-iii-scene-ii
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