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Maryann I Mar 11
Hello, dear poet,
Come closer now—yes, you, love.
This poem is a cradle,
a soft hum rocking through time,
meant for the child you once were—
the one who clutched wonder with both hands,
who cried quietly behind closed doors,
who dreamt of magic even in the dark.

Shh, it’s okay.
You were always trying your best.
You were never too much, never not enough.
You were a wildflower learning to grow
even in the cracks of concrete.
Your dreams were as big as the sky,
and every fall was just a reason
to rise up stronger, a little more sure
that everything would be okay.

Remember the days
when the world was a puzzle you were eager to solve,
when the corners of your mind were wide open,
and every answer felt just out of reach?
But sweet one,
there was no rush—
time had its own rhythm for you to follow,
and you danced to it
with your tiny, unshakable steps.

When the shadows stretched long and wide,
when fear whispered your name,
and doubt felt like an endless rain—
remember,
it was okay to curl up,
to seek comfort in soft things—
blankets, warm arms,
the lullaby of the wind through the trees,
the quiet hum of someone who loved you.

And now, dear poet,
you’ve grown,
but that child,
the one with the bright eyes and the open heart,
is still with you.
They are the spark behind your every word,
the soft whisper in your chest
that says, ”You’re okay.
You’re safe now.”


Don’t forget them,
the one who believed in stars
and who whispered to the moon when no one was listening.
They are still here,
still breathing,
still dancing in your soul.

So, dear poet,
when the weight of the world feels too heavy,
remember—
you were always held
in ways you never quite understood,
always loved
in ways that made the darkness bearable.

And no matter where you go,
you will never be too far from that safe place—
where everything,
yes, everything,
will be alright.
This poem is a cradle—a soft place for your heart to rest.
It was written for the child you once were, the one who needed gentleness, warmth, and words that felt like home.
Let it hold you the way you always deserved to be held. You are safe now. You are still growing. You are still loved.
Maryann I Mar 2
Drifting like whispers through lavender evenings,
golden light pools where the fireflies glow,
Soft is the hum of the honeyed horizon,
melting like warmth on the skin ever slow.

Fingers trace maps in the hush of the silence,
stories are spun in the hush of your breath,
Laced in the air is the fragrance of clover,
soft as a promise that time won’t forget.

Murmurs like nectar drip sweet on my lips,
tangled in whispers so tenderly spun,
Moonlight dissolves in the amber of longing,
melting in ribbons of love left undone.

Here in the hush where the firelight lingers,
golden and sweet as the touch that we share,
Honeyed embraces dissolve into morning,
warm as your voice in the dawn-silver air.
Maryann I Feb 20
They tell him he is not a flower,
not soft, not meant to sway.
A man must stand like oak and iron,
unbending in the storm’s display.

But even mountains crack with time,
and rivers carve through stone.
Still, he tucks his petals inward,
pretending he is made of bone.

He’s taught that thorns are armor,
that roots must never show,
that to bloom is to be broken,
that to weep is to let go.

But flowers starved of rain will wither,
left to shrivel in the heat.
And men, too, will turn to silence,
fearing softness makes them weak.

So let them bloom, let them bend,
let them speak their pain in sight.
For a flower wilts not from the wind,
but from the absence of its light.
This poem explores the delicate nature of emotions and challenges the societal expectation that men must be unyielding and stoic. The flower metaphor represents both the vulnerability and strength inherent in all people, suggesting that emotions, like flowers, need space to grow and thrive. Toxic masculinity, however, teaches men to hide their feelings, to suppress their emotional needs, and to adopt a rigid, unbending exterior.
Asher Nov 2024
Whispers in the breeze,
Leaves pirouette, gold and red,
Autumn sighs softly.
Emery Feine Oct 2024
Raised by a pair of dragons
Dodging their huffs and puffs of smoke and fire
And if I accidentally step on their tail
I'll burn on my own fiery pyre

And I watch the others with their parents of rabbits
While I'm here, trying not to be burnt
And while I dodge these flames once more
I think about what could've been, was or weren't.
this is my 92nd poem, written on 4/19/24
silvervi Sep 2024
Drastically decided to make getting up at 7 am my new routine.
Self-compassion made me agree on giving myself 7 days to reach this.
Self-compassion also stopped me from planning any further agreements so that I can focus on only one for now.
This feels not overwhelming for a change.
This feels like I am giving myself the time I deserve.
Thank you, self-compassion!
This is from today. A glimpse into how I combine self-compassion with goals.
We'll see if it works out. :)
Spicy Digits Jun 2024
Sweet soul
Yesterday's gone.
There's fields ahead
Baby, stretch your legs.
This bright face
This tender heart.
Keep close the sun
Keep their words apart.
fray narte Feb 2022
𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑑𝑎𝑦𝑠 ℎ𝑎𝑣𝑒 𝑑𝑢𝑙𝑙𝑒𝑑 𝑚𝑦 𝑝𝑎𝑖𝑛 𝑡𝑜 𝑠𝑜𝑓𝑡𝑛𝑒𝑠𝑠. 𝑚𝑎𝑦𝑏𝑒 𝑡ℎ𝑖𝑠 𝑖𝑠 ℎ𝑜𝑤 𝑖𝑡 𝑠ℎ𝑜𝑢𝑙𝑑’𝑣𝑒 𝑎𝑙𝑤𝑎𝑦𝑠 𝑏𝑒𝑒𝑛.
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