Often as adults we question everything where children care blindly without remorse .

The jaded no longer control the meek and we all find our own way somewhere in between.

Nobody has the answers , just a few are far more gifted at selling lies as answers .

We are strangers locked within the same tomb.

Castaways from are truths so we covered ourselves from their lies .

Lost within and somehow standing beside others we have little hope for.

Do we settle for the comfort or embrace the truth to understand all with little to show .

So close even the rejection can be sensed without a word spoken between.

Manipulation with dirty fingernails and dry tears cease to effect the outer shell anymore.

Numb and faded by the games that are played finding that hiding is the best we can do.

Fear of;  the unknown rapes my senses to the point of slamming all doors while painting lamb's blood across the entry.

Hence casting away all menacing shadows of past demons.

This isn't a life, but in being spent, broken, and abused I simply can't afford more than hiding.

Can you?

Sid 1d

Just maybe the stars used this navy blanket as their catharsis;
did you think that your uncaring hands on my face
my arms
my torso
was the same?
Because the stars had a
and the night sky was more soundproof than these walls-
though you didn't seem too concerned;
lashing words out like slaps
or was it the other way around?
(connecting the dots
with unscarred patches of skin left is easier said than done;
you made me hate the colour violet anyways.)
Fast forward to a few light years
where the same swings I'd enjoyed during my childhood
repurposed itself
as the rope I'd temporarily worn like a necklace;
(they weren't supposed to be that tight anyways
and silly me hadn't kicked the chair away far enough.)
Dazed eyes and mind all muddled up taking in my new surroundings-
unmarred white with my hands secured to the small bed;
hadn't I been so disoriented
I might've noticed that familiar shadow hurriedly slip from my room
just as the monitor
The night I died
the stars shone on;
I'd like to believe their way of release
was easier than mine.
// there has to be more than this //

The shadows in the poets graveyards,
Are constructed from the littered scraps of good intentions.

Olympia Oct 5

nothing is more beautiful
than your shadows dancing on the wall

tall afternoon shadows were cast
all giants of mast
across the block
height's soaring stock

stretching from fence-post to fence-post
many feet in host
the tip flies big
a great lofty sprig

trees towering like skyscrapers
high of tapers
late eve's lanky stalks
lie on ground walks

Minute Poetry

The Minute Poem is rhyming verse form consisting of 12 lines of 60 syllables written in strict iambic meter. The poem is formatted into 3 stanzas of 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4; 8,4,4,4 syllables. The rhyme scheme is as follows: aabb, ccdd, eeff
Brianna Oct 2

We wasted our youth on numbing the pain with alcohol and cigarettes.
We were young and naive.
You were charming, I was a mess, and we jumped into the flames together.

We wasted our twenties on screaming into almost full answering machines and bars with mindless conversations.
We were wild and free.
You were a mess, I was  fed up, so we danced down dark alleys together singing rage filled songs to the moon.

We were best friends; we were trying to fight the same battle with scars across our wrists and blacked out livers as mementos from this war.
We were family;  we were just filling up boxes with old pictures of smiling and happy birthday cards from a mother who was never around.
We were lovers; trying to scream ourselves back into each others arms in hope that we could be the heroes we always wanted.

We were the kids your parents warned you about.
The ones with the broken past and the empty futures they said.
The ones with the alcohol addictions and the drugs habits we refused to kick they said.
The ones who lived in the night, who danced in the shadows but dreamed of the next morning they would have to make it through.

Cheers to numbing the pain at the expense of our livers and wasting our youth on impossible dreams.

Shadows and Reflections
Thrive in the Bright Light
Under the Warmth of The Sun

Shadows and Reflections
Best of Friends
Together they Frolic
By the Shore On the Beach
Playful and fun
Under the Warmth of The Sun  

Shadows and Reflections
The Pitch Dark
As ghosts Loom and Lark
Without , The Bright Light and The Sun

Shadows and Reflections
Fear not The Dark
Together , will They Be
The Bright Light and The Sun

Thank you all for finding the above piece inspiring, this is actually a part of the footnotes of my other write ' Impermanence... Permanence '
A friend of mine wanted something for her son , who is in 6th grade .
The comments I received here , have reassured me that I shared the right thoughts with her :)
Blois Sep 26

In a great sea of unknown,
what does it mean that
shadows are all around
trying to grab light
from each other.
The hands are tied
behind all their backs
but they act the same
like they are saved.
Words can do that.
Like doors, until you open them
nothing exists behind,
like the cat in the box.
Werner would be proud of me.

I should have posted this one first (as a presentation card, that is).
Jay Lewis Sep 25

We're in perfect symmetry.
We're shadows of what could be.

And you, you did me wrong.
For far to, for far to long.

Lyn-Purcell Sep 24

My Lady Ophelia of the Golden Fleece.
With hair spun by the Sahara Sun
and alabaster skin. Eyes of indigo
flames and lips that have the
pop of the poppy. Her lush
body fitted in emerald
enchantments and
silver thistles.
See her sailing by the
moonlight on an ethereal sea,
upon her ship, the Tears of Joy.
The Emperor's Butterfly in her hair
with shining wings of gossamer threads.
Oh! I marvel the twilight afterglow
kiss her skin, making her a peach
rose. From her carnelian cup,
she sips the nectar -
moscato sweet.
Her first sip was of
gumdrops, then roses,
and after that, the more. Salty
tears from a mermaid's cheek, the
whispers of wisteria, the laughter of
springberries, the kisses of sweet neroli
and the tartness of plum toffee. She
passes by Aegean Ruins, her
secret retreat upon the
White Cliffs
that is west of
the moon. The beauty of
this lost history is as soft and
deep as an angel's sigh, with its
enchanting mist like graceful tendrils.
The shadows of the Black Hills bloom. She
coats herself in a cloak of midnight and
she descends down, setting foot
ashore. She walked down
the winding road of
burnt orchids
and lavender sands.
She had heard whisperings
of an unfound door and the Dream-
weavers of the Sable Heart. And so she
wanders... passed the midnight trees and their
sad serenades. The chill of sea ice and the
sharpness of pewter buds. The mist
dances. It twirls. Pirouettes.
It circles and hisses.
Circles and hisses. Circles
and hisses! And there it was, the
unfound door made of crystal shadows.
Lady Ophelia of the Golden Fleece, extends her
hand and holds the knob. She twists and

This poem is based on a dream I had while working on my stories. But I woke up so I have no idea what comes happens next...
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