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lisagrace Jul 17
My hands, smaller then, holding a ball of wet, smooth clay. Shaping it into what I thought were animals - but they all looked the same. Egg-shaped heads, dumpy legs, and fat bodies. Skewered out eyes and noses. But I loved creating these strange creatures. Once complete, they sat atop the cupboard, waiting, hoping to evolve. To solidify. To become. But they never made it to the kiln. The creatures stayed there, alone. Forgotten. Abandoned. A ghost of my childhood, one of the few joyous sparks.

I am grown now, still haunted. Still longing. But I have reclaimed the spark. There it is again. Malleable and messy. These hands, belonging to a woman now, caked with that familiar, wet slip.  My thumb presses into the ball - a pinch ***. Another. And another. And yet, another. My heart sings.

The shapes are wobbly. Tumbler cups, too small for coffee...I didn't realise they would shrink this much! There are no two alike, fingernail marks and uneven lips. But I love them - just the right size for honey wine. Dinosaur stamps — a T-rex and a Brachiosaurus. A quiet rebellion in clay, honoring the girl who shaped beasts and walked away. They stack beside the kiln now, waiting again. But this time, they are not forgotten. I see them. I made them. The fire awaits.

The girl, a phantom
I reshape her. I mold her
Coalescing, whole
The woman is set aflame
Imperfect and beautiful
A piece about returning to old joys, reclaiming creativity, and shaping something gentle from the past.
It is on my tongue—
a feeling
palatable,
aerodynamic transition,
palpable.

Redesigning for flight,
for movement through resistance,
for letting go of drag.

Whereas my muscles would tense up,
a few inches from the ground—
now I’ve learned that to clip one’s wings
is to stay anchored, be shackled down.

Not that being grounded
isn’t a form of comfort, safety, or security—
but there’s a shift that comes
from renegotiating the terms
you’ve set with your own mind.

It’s a daunting challenge,
yet a necessary one.

Because I want to see the world,
not from behind a pane of glass,
but with wind in my lungs
and wonder in my chest.

And I want to fall in love—
falling into bed with you,
multiple strings attached,
and still feel like the luckiest person alive.

To do that,
I am taking flight
in ways I could not have foreseen
as a child.
Written in chorus with the poets of HelloPoetry—this flight is ours.
VERY SLOWLY
How many years have drifted by,
Time rushes swiftly on.
And I, at times, pause myself,
So very slowly I go,
And in myself get lost.
Very slowly,
I take my time,
To lose myself,
Within my being,
Deep in thought.
I take my pause,
So very softly,
I look and listen,
I lose myself within,
Cease thinking,
And only feel,
That beating heart,
That soul,
That throbs,
That feels,
And I forget,
Of everything, no more.
I turn to me,
And let myself just sleep,
Within those dreams.
Sometimes I read verses,
So very softly,
Just as I like it.
Very calm,
I stop my clock,
And rest.
Ricardo Diaz Jul 4
In
Summer ,  
Before the fall
Into resolve
Time has healed.

Chin up
Shoulders back
Powerful stride

YOU!
Have been found
A reply to a friend
In turns you change, let it change you.
A path you find, comes looking for you.
Eternity ever fleeting, of you.
So, just be you.
Free …alas
Dust off my feelings — I could say
     I’m a little rusty when it comes to love,
so please… forgive me.
With all these needs and wants, I don’t want
to seem so needy — believe me! Sometimes I feel
like the memory of other people, a name echoed
in stories but never fully seen. I guess the fantasy
of connection never really ends. I loan myself
abundant confidence — but only in my heart,
and even then, only vaguely. Behind the irises,
tired eyes rest on the soft outlines of what
the mind believes it can finally see. To participate
in finding oneself… it’s a gruesome search party.

My floodlights are filled with a bit of drought
shining outward, but lacking what flows within.
I’m strolling where I never had the courage to step,
everywhere I turn feels like a new pressure.
I give out my heart, but don’t have much of a chest
to hold it — barely a ribcage to defend it.
Yet still — there’s treasure in this tenderness,
a worthwhile chest of purpose hidden in the pretending…
of escaping real life. But here I am, in real time
taking the first step.
In my eyes—wide shut—
I rearrange the scattered pieces, trying
to build a better version of myself from
what once felt like a creature. I frame
my thoughts to get a clearer picture,
decorating the past in shades that turn
away from mistakes, and painting the
rest with the soft light of my achievements.

Time drifts like dust—
blown apart in fragments. And I wonder
if anyone has ever truly been put together
perfectly. Even the greatest successors were
once victims, parts of themselves quietly missing.

To be complete is to keep finding yourself
again—to return, again and again, to the
reason you began. I stay committed to the
foundation of a dream, building it day by
day from these few, fragile pieces.
mysterie Jun 27
i used to think
you just felt butterflies
for boys --
the funny,
immature,
class clowns.

but now,
i know:
the butterflies don't care
who makes them flutter.
it might be a boy.
it could also be
a girl with a
soft smile
and freckles.

and maybe
girls make them flutter
more than boys.
or maybe...
someone else does.
maybe no one does.

and that's okay.
date wrote: 27/6
There’s a prayer with a sigh—
a breath let out like scripture,
written in stone, signed by a former lover.

Would you ignore every sign,
just to chase the shape of a feeling?
In over your head, thinking you’re
heading in the right direction—
when even the stars have stopped pointing.

A little too forceful, a little too often,
repeating the same mistake like it’s part
of the ritual— a pattern etched in skin,
but called love, to make it sting less.

But maybe… it’s the measure that matters most—
how the repetition finally taught you to become
your own ruler. Not of someone else’s heart,
but of your own.
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