For an hour I visited,
A guest to the house,
Of a poet's 'palace.'

For an hour I was there,
It took me all that time,
Just to post once.

For an hour I visited,
A weary world,
Of 'The best poets you've ever met.'

For an hour,
And I'll never go again.

Share with me your hopes and dreams,
the greatest ones with wild schemes,
what lights that spark in your eyes and
what dims the glow when that spark dies?

Tell me what makes your heart ignite,
like a warming fire on dark cold nights,
what distant shores do you long to roam
and which path would lead you far from home?

What songs awaken your happy smile
and what keeps you busy for a while?
Tell me what triumphs fill your untold trials
and what you have witnessed over the miles.

Let me bask in your greatest joys,
and share in the moments life employs,
time moves fast as friendship grows
into something beautiful that only we know.

©️Lizzie Bevis

I don't like the crumbs,  
But I eat them anyway.  
I eat them like they're whole,  
As they are the best part to me.
They are always there.
Like a man who's instead  
Learned to fish
There's more
to be had,  
Saving the rest for later.

I take slow, small, deliberate
bites,  
Like a goldfish,  
Mostly inhaling water,  
Saving the bigger pieces
for you.

Although they're all mine,  
They taste better, knowing  
That I've shared them with you.  
No matter how far these crumbs  
Drift apart,  
Whether you eat them fast  
Or you eat them slow,  
There will always be something left  
To swim around
in your stomach.

I am afraid to close my eyes  
And miss the moment you  
Savor it all.  
I could tell you that I've saved  
The best part
for you,  
Knowing that it's all I have to give.  
My hands are only so big

I’m,  living, and thinking in-between every day,
Trying to discover my soul, while constantly,
Trying to avoid, the ever changing, man - made rules,
Of today, many evil minds, trying to lead us their way.
Who is controlling, this gift from God, where we live today,
An evil deed, gets so much-repeated attention,
Then, good one’s  every day. There are true prophets, Philosophers,
Among us looking into the future, in many ways, although, in todays,
Society, most people only listen to the wealthy, who have expensive,
Boats, at the docks, on the bay.
Wow, look at it this way man, people smoked Marijuana, ***,
Mary Jane… no harm to the participants, no matter how ******,
Your buzz took you away, oh yea, it was the gateway drug too.
Hey, dig this, it was only illegal because the establishment,
Was not profiting, from sales every day, So, they formed their,
Own cartel, this must be a miracle, as soon as they started dealing,
Their dope, **** is good for every ailment today, How, many millions,
Of taxpayer’s money, was spent, hiring the best weedoligest,
So, they would have the good stuff, for many joint sessions, of congress,
Just to say, yea this the good stuff, man let’s  take an early lunch, today.
Over 50 years ago, they could have interviewed, the experts, at the,
Woodstock concert, yea three days, man, a small pond of mud, was,
The bathtub, shared food, pipes, and bongs, toking away, like wow,
A baby was born, peace & love different races, living surviving together.
Almost a half million people in a farmer’s field, his sheep were running away.
Everyone had to share, their souls, are happier today.
Almost a half million people, for real, man,
Yea the largest gathering of people, ever in the USA.
All you hear are positive, funny stories,
From the good old days.



                                                                                                                            
                           The original: Tom Maxwell  © 11/18/2024 AD
                                                                                                                                                                                                                                
                                                                                   4:20 am

I watch you write,  
your pen flowing like a river,  
each word a current
that pulls me under.  
I am ensnared in your story,  
captivated and lost
in the beautiful, broken
and hurting depths of you.

©️Lizzie Bevis

It's right after I wrote your message
That I had to write this here
Please know I dont hightlight tragedy
But this page, is full of fear...

It's also full of a bunch of NEXT ****T

To single out fear is but a guise!
one written so as to throw you off,
In hopes that you realize
That I write for more than just
Some cathartic sort of prize

It's a vehicle, A medium
unique as song and dance-
Like water color or oil paints
The rhythmic rhymes entrance

Do you know me?
Do I know you?
What secrets do you embrace?

I have my pleasures,
My little treasures.
I wonder if I am the only one?

They're not to be hidden,
Nor are they forbidden.
They're just mine. My secrets.

For example,
Do you like to dance crazily with music loud?
Do you do art, paint, draw, create?
Do you go for a walk late at night?
Do you sit in your room and contemplate?
Or do you think about who would win, superman or batman?
Do you feel sad? Do you feel happy? Do you have a secret anger that burns you?
Or are people as plain as they look upfront?
What is it that you do that you hold dear, near and out of fear you keep inside?

I wonder. Am I the only one with secrets that no-one knows?
Why do I hold them so close? To make them feel like mine.
What am I afraid of, That if someone knew my secrets, they would no longer be secret?
Why does this make it feel special? If no-one knows about them?
If they were known, it would no longer be enjoyable.
Is it for the lack of judgement that I tell no soul I know?
Or is it to keep it mine and by sharing it, it is no longer mine to share?
Is it my secret and do you have any you want to contribute?
Then it will be our secret.

If anyone ever see’s that girl,
Tell her, I am doing fine,
It’s been forever since I saw her,
Feel like, I’ve been doing time,
She will always remember me,
The guy playing music, in the garage,
With the bright lights, and signs,
We touched each other’s heart,
It happened in such a short time,
There are no bad feelings,
I remember, those days, as special times,
If she ever needs a friend, my arms are open,
No late fees, or fines.
It was crazy the day we met,
She is half my age,
We shared a lot of fun nights,
I remember them, like yesterday,
She knows, if she is ever lost,
I would talk to her, any night or day,
She never gave a reason, to keep her true emotions in,
She just turned and walked away,
I hope sometime, I’ll see her again,
She will always be,
One of my favorite memories, that will always stay.
Song Lyrics by: The Original: Tom Maxwell ©12/14/2023 AD

I’ve always loved music. As a little girl, I could spend hours going through peoples CD collections, sampling them with my little battery-operated CD player. If you showed me a stack, rack or box of CDs, I was in heaven.

When I was 8 (2011), I got my first iPod for Christmas, an iPod Touch with 32GB of memory! The sticker said it was from Santa, but ‘Step’ got a package in the mail from Apple three weeks earlier, so I knew who it was really from. Upon opening it, I rushed upstairs to my older brother’s computer, plugged it in, carefully copied the username and password for the family iTunes account (from a wrinkled post-it note), and the world was never the same.

It never occurred to me that my parents could see all of my playlists and that they were automatically downloaded to their devices - like my break-up playlist, inspired by Antoine, my French-boy fifth grade crush. It didn’t work out because he didn’t have an email account and our recess times didn’t line up, but my playlist helped me through it.

I could burn playlists to CDs and exchange them with friends - or gift them to middle school boys who I hoped to amaze with my awesome musical tastes. There’s an art to the playlist that involves controlling pace and mood - every playlist was both a gift and a seduction.

Today we have Spotify with its unlimited streaming of every song ever made - on demand. Exchanging playlists, these days, is as easy as pressing "Share" and typing the first few letters of a friend’s or lover's username.

Like most of my girlfriends, I consider myself a playlist queen and as I continue to work this career path I’ve chosen, regardless of what's weighing me down, I know I can turn to my playlists to push me through. The band ‘The Narcissist Cookbook ’ assures me that my shocking honesty is fun with ‘Broken People.’ ‘K. Flay’ allows me to dance-out my rage with ‘Blood in the cut’ and ‘New Move’ motivates me to keep-at-it with ‘When did we stop.’

I’ve countless Spotify playlists: one for waking up, one for writing papers, one for doing problem sets, others for walking to class, doing the laundry, for nostalgic reflection, and for embracing the astounding depth of human pain.

Of course, as time passes, I find new favorite songs and older playlists are replaced with updated ones; but thanks to the archival nature of Spotify playlist collections, all my old lists remain intact. I’ve never deleted one. Search my archives and you’d see playlists from my freshie year, when I was new here, feeling insecure and alone, or from my sophomore year when I first fell in love.

This piece is a playlist love story, about how music reflects our identities and allows us to share ourselves through the vibes, melodies and beats that move us. I think playlists have a lot in common with poetry, which uses words, phrases, metaphors and imagery for similar purposes.