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This life, we are traveling through,
Our classroom, to learn, respect,
Very important, accept, be thankful,
So much to explore, always try,
Different ideas, at any age
Your best talent, maybe,
On the
Other side of the door,
Even if a garage, is center stage.
Our body and brain, are to be used, they need movement,
They give us signs, aches and pains,
Then negative thoughts, passing through, a board brain,
Do the same, start forgetting, can’t concentrate then insane.
Our fuse is lit, we never know, when we will go,
Forget, the sayings, I can’t, I wonder, what if, …
Take the time, be proud, even if you’re slow.
None of us know, the best day of our life,
Or when we will die, until our last, goodbye.
The Original: Tom Maxwell © 12/16/21AD 5:45 PM
My Dear Poet Oct 2021
I’m not broken
Just dinted

I’m not burning
Just scorched

I’m not shattered
Just splintered

I’m not dying
Just hurt
Alyson Lie Oct 2021
Bow. Bow to it all: the loss, the deluge, dams broken,
lives buried in beds of mud, square miles of charred forest,
all those for whom those forests were home.

Bow down to the loss, let it fill you. Their loss, your own loss,
each loss emptying the world of its having been. The ever-flowing
waters carving out new routes from higher ground to the depths.

Nothing is lost, only changed, reborn as a new sapling here
by the edge of the receding water line.
From ashen forests floors oaks sprout.

The loss of loved ones filling multiple hearts with compassion.
Where there was the touch of a hand memory serves up
sublime moments. Sitting, talking quietly on a brownstone stoop.

You remember her last words. She was in her wheelchair and it was time for you to leave and as you said goodbye you asked: “Is there anything else I can do for you before I go.” And she turned to you with that deadpan expression of hers and said: “Yes, take me with you.” And you laughed, hugged her, and left her there with her husband and cousin – her dear cousin who called you the next night and said: “Susan died today.”

You sob, then later that night you begin remembering the
sublime moments with her, each one filling you up again
as you honor her request and bring her home with you.
Zywa Jul 2021
Trees along the road

continue to grow as if --


nothing had happened.
Exposition "Without a trace" in De Pont, Tilburg

Collection "Bruises"
Kate May 2021
No one tells you that the hard part about dying is surviving
                    

                     Coming to terms with your end
                           but its only the beginning of a new end
                                                                                      

                                                                                          I mourned for life
Him Jan 2021
I am the boy who sits at the back of the class; I am the myth and legend, that you have never heard laugh.

I am the eloquent, who so seldom speaks "Good day." and "Goodbye."
I am the b r o k e n, though you will never see me; p a r t i a l or cry.

I am the Lie.

I am the Lie, well housed in the illusion of an ever-present smile.

I am the wary traveller, exhausted yet still encouraging others to walk the extra mile.

I am the dying and ill, who screams to others. "Keep surviving and living, hold fast to your will; life once truly lived, has both bad and good."

I am a human... for better or worse. I am a duality to all others; either a blessing or a curse.

I am a song sang, though others remember only a verse... I am a play, that has been exhaustively rehearsed.
I am tired... so very exhausted of it all; inside of this frail body, heart and mind wage a war. I am human, and only human after all.
Mary Shanti Dec 2020
The word peace
Conjures up images of hippies
In tie dye shirts
And flowers in their hair
But Personal peace
Now there is something there
Bubbles floating
In the steaming bath tub
That makes me feel like
A rose petal
In a hibiscus tea
Melting me into
A softer side of me
As I dose to sleep

Mornings rise
And I breath in
Breath out
Mantra moments
Spent with an app
That filters into my body
And let’s go of the crap
Of noises and neighbors
Of people who blather
On and on
This stream
A river
Of unconscious anger
Yet it has become a leaf
In my tree
I breath in
I breath out
Letting my branches stretch
Farther
As I repeat the mantra
I embrace all of the good in me
I embrace love, life and harmony
Mariyam Ridha Dec 2020
My heart is beating rhythmically
 In resonance to the beat of 'End Of Time’.
My soul is breathing in tranquility,
In response to the gleaming full moon.
My body is surviving poetically
In reply to the poetries I write.
‘End Of Time’ is my most favourite song which is By Alan Walk
eva-mae coffey Nov 2020
I loved you so long that I turned into something
I could not recognize.
By the time the ordeal was over I was no longer a girl but the shell of a shivering shipwreck left to rot among the rocks.
My senses had all been cast astray in the disaster, and, dressed in white waves, I had crawled my way back to shore.
I still do not know how I made it out of that wreckage. I only remember the voice from the depths assuring me I would survive, and I did.
and I am.
who am i now?
Grey Rose Nov 2020
Here is a poem

I made it from the words I found on buses, newspapers, blowing in the afternoon wind
and in daydreams.
And from the words you never told me..
Like "I won't give up on you"
Or "I'm staying".
I assembled them along with the leftover words from my suicide notes.

Just for you.
Just like how our lost brothers used to make them.
Or would've.
I want to see these words living on your lips.
Or falling down your cheek.
Or Running Along Your Wrists
OR WRAPPED AROUND YOUR NECK
Or even just reflected at the back of your eye.

In the hope that you'll receive a call at 3am on a Sunday morning about these words.

Then hear them again on the evening news.
About how they were found ISOLATED, HANGING in the dark,
AND SPILLING ACROSS THE ROOM.
Haunting it for centuries to come.
Let them talk about how it was the words.
Instead of one of us.
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