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I saw a little girl in a lively red dress
sitting patiently before a plastic table.
I didn't think she was too wise at first,
until I saw a sign with a colorful label.

"Let Me Be Your Lemon-Aid,"
the signage brightly declared,
and through my own curiosity
I stopped my car and stared.

I asked her what she was selling,
and she cheerfully said back to me,
"First tell me 3 of your problems,
and then you'll surely start to see."


                                                         ­  "My car constantly needs repairs."
                                                       ­                                       
She started to write on a cup,
and it was only a short while,
before she asked, "What else?"
with a bright and cheery smile.

                                                  "Well, finances are starting to get tight."
                                                     And my sister and I sometimes fight."

She nodded up and down
and told me she'd give me
the best lemonade around.

Then she took three lemons from a crate
and ignoring my slightly perplexed state,
she took out a juicer and began to create.

I watched her as she poured the juice
into that same white paper cup.
She added some sugar and water too,
and handed it to me to drink up.

And when I looked at the cup's writing
my eyes brightened at the sighting
of my three problems on the side
and as I realized, my smile grew wide.

The three lemons were my problems,
so she took them and made lemon-aid.
And I insisted that she took fifty dollars
to ensure her kindness was well repaid.
Clever kid. We need more youngsters like this.
LoReLy 2h
Adrift in shadows, hollowed by the night,
Yet gratitude still flickers, frail but bright—
A thirst for dawn, though weighed by whispered sorrow,
We clutch the fraying thread of tomorrow.

The ache of absence hums, a silent hymn,
Melancholy’s wine pools to the brim.
But in these ruins, treasures softly gleam:
A map of scars where longing dared to dream.

Our story trembles, ink on splintered wood,
Yet pulses warm where hopelessness once stood.
The thread, though thin, spills gold through vacant air—
A silken ladder climbing despair.

We’ll stitch the rift where darkness bleeds to blue,
And weave the tale our hunger dares renew—
For even fractured light still claims the skies,
And dawn persists in tired, stubborn eyes.
My story is becoming

I feel it in the wind

It beckons to my soft heart

And aches within my soul

My story is becoming

I see it in my pen

The way words form together

The way they have become

My story is becoming

So listen for its whisper

I hear it quietly yearning

It waits for me to answer

My story is becoming

Though I don’t yet know what I will write

I know that it is forming

Beyond my very sight.
Archer 1d
Not enough hours
In a day to love you when
You’re not even here
MacGM 1d
The other night some man took a trip outside city limits.
He ambled along until he got to a pasture where the ghosts were warm and thoughtful,
missionaries in a newly old land.
They looked as though they were brimming with knowledge on how to live correctly,
but he was just a visitor looking for freedom from thought,
and so asked nothing.
Though he did learn the ghosts weren’t fully translucent.
It seemed there was still blood in them.
A story unfolds in her eyes,
the little runaway recites,
depth in an iris of secrets,
halcyon days and sapphire nights.

Release the words dearest youngling,
bleed the emotions you regale,
let the narrative entice time,
weep the history of your tale.

She blinks and the page slowly turns,
another chapter taking shape.
The story unfolds in her eyes
and lids close as she seeks escape.
Piyush 4d
A violent night,
A crucial sight—
A family living
A tragic life.

A boy with blurred eyes,
A disturbed wife,
A husband who cried,
A child who sacrificed.

Why is it so difficult
To earn a dime?
I'm trying, trying, and trying,
But in the end,
I'm just a boy who's always crying.

The eyes saw the child
Holding a knife.
To him, it was right—
But to the wife,
It was an inevitable crime.

What should I do
To stop this fight?
The home is broken,
And the eyes are, again,
Just crying.

The vision is blurred,
The colours are blind—
Am I dying—
Or am I again trying?
Thea Apr 5
In a world devoid of meaning, she wandered alone,
A soul forsaken, lost in the void, a heart of stone.
Her eyes, once bright, now dimmed, like stars in the night,
Reflecting the emptiness that consumed her light.

She walked with steps of lead, her feet heavy with despair,
Her laughter a hollow echo, her hopes a distant, fading air.
Time, like a thief, stole away her dreams, leaving only ash,
And darkness crept in, a slow and silent crash.

It didn't come all at once, but trickled in like sand,
Grain by grain, until the light was lost in the land.
Her smile, a forced and fragile thing, like a blade held sideways,
Couldn't pierce the shadows that enveloped her, like a shroud that wouldn't fade.

She didn't scream, she didn't cry, she simply stopped shining,
Her light extinguished, like a flame that's lost its spark, its meaning.
The world around her lost its shape, its color, its sound,
And she was left with nothing, but the echoes of a hollow ground.

But then, one day, an ember appeared, a spark of light,
A small, yet fierce, flame that flickered in the dark of night.
It didn't promise, it didn't call, it simply existed,
A tiny, glowing point, that beckoned her to follow, to resist.

She reached out, with a hand she thought was lost,
And touched the ember, feeling its warmth, its gentle cost.
It didn't move away, it didn't fade, it stayed,
A steady, pulsing light, that guided her through the shades.

She followed, step by step, through memories like thorns,
Through fear like fog, that shrouded her, and kept her from being reborn.
The ember led her, through the dark, through the pain,
Until she saw, a glimmer of light, a world reborn, a new refrain.

The darkness peeled back, like a curtain, like a veil,
And air, sweet, warm, alive, brushed against her skin, like a gentle gale.
She blinked, and the world bloomed, like a garden in spring,
Colors she had never seen, spilled from the sky, like a rainbow's wing.

She stood, trembling, on the edge of something new,
A world of wonder, a world of beauty, a world anew.
And there, in the gold-soft hush of morning, she met a heart,
A heart as gentle, as soothing, as the morning breeze, a brand new start.

He didn't ask for her story, he just listened to the silence,
Between her words, where the truth resided, where the pain existed.
He didn't try to fix the cracks, he just held them, like a work of art,
And showed her, that even broken, she was beautiful, a masterpiece, a work in progress, a brand new start.

His laughter was rain on a window, his voice, a gentle stream,
That flowed through her, like a river, and washed away her pain, her scream.
His eyes, like the morning sun, shone bright, and warm, and kind,
And when he smiled at her, she saw herself, reflected, redefined.

She, who once flinched from affection, like a wounded thing,
Now leaned toward his kindness, like a flower, that needs the sun's warm wing.
She let herself soften, let her hands learn to hold,
Without shaking, without fear, without the weight of her past, her gold.

He showed her, that love didn't have to be loud,
To be real, to be true, to be a love that's proud.
It could be the quiet way, he stayed, even when she tried to run,
The way he said nothing, when her fear said everything, when her heart was undone.

The way he called her beautiful, not to convince her,
But because he simply saw her, like a work of art, a masterpiece, a treasure to discover.
He saw her, like a sunrise, like a sunset, like a work of art,
A beauty, that's rare, a beauty, that's unique, a beauty, that's a work in progress, a brand new start.

She still gets scared, still waits for the light to leave,
But now, she holds his hand, and the journey, is a different beat.
It's been a journey, of magic, stitched into the mundane,
Of coffee cups, and stargazing, of midnight confessions, and slow dances, in messy kitchens, in the rain.

It's been a journey, of missteps, and meltdowns,
Of moments, she nearly ran, but he was there, to catch her, to hold her, to love her.
He's been there, through it all, through the laughter, and the tears,
Through the fears, and the doubts, through the moments, that seemed to last for
It's a long one, a bit like a story of sorts but I hope you all like it, I got inspired after watching numerous movies in the past two weeks and I've wanted to write based on that.
Hope you all love it and that you all have that special someone in your life
Archer Apr 3
They say that choices made
(Be it by yourself, others, or nature)
Can drastically affect how a
                                 Single
Person’s life plays out.
It’s quite like the ocean that you sail on now
With the seawater swaying
                              Back
              And
Forth
Or in
Loud
Violent
STORMS
Fate works in mysterious ways
It could be high tide at one point in the day
And then later show you
Beautiful things
That were previously
                               Under           Water
You can feel at peace one second
Bobbing
^ Up ^
              And
v Down v
And then
PAnICKinG -and- DRowwnIING
The next
You inhale deeply
Breathing in the salty fresh air
The sharp cold cuts through your lungs
…it’s painful…
But you Don’t Mind
You Don’t Mind your red cheeks
  Or the crashing waves
      Or the rocking
                                 Back
             And
Forth
You only Mind having to
Leave your
|Home|
-But-
We’ll see,
We’ll see.
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