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Jude 1d
She never really thought about age gaps before. Not in the way people usually did, where it was about romance or life stages. No, this was something different—something about understanding, about the way words landed between two people and how deep they could actually sink.

She had a conversation once, with someone much younger. She spoke, explained, even poured out her thoughts, but there was something missing in their response. Not disagreement, not even disinterest—just… a gap. A difference in depth.

At first, she couldn’t put her finger on it. They nodded, said the right things, even echoed back words that sounded wise. But it was like throwing a stone into shallow water—it made a splash, but it never sank the way it should have.

Then, she compared it to speaking with someone closer in age. A 25-year-old talking to a 29-year-old. The words flowed, deep and open, like an endless sea. There was no need to explain every little nuance, no frustration of trying to be understood beyond the surface. It was just there.

And that’s when it clicked.

Maybe understanding wasn’t just about words—it was about where your mind was, how much life had shaped it. A younger person could say the same things an older one did, but their understanding of those words was different. Not wrong, just… not as deep. Like reading a book at twelve and then again at thirty—the same words, but an entirely different meaning.

She wondered if that gap ever truly closed. If understanding was something time alone could fix, or if some people would always be standing at different depths in the same ocean, trying to reach each other across the waves.
First time publishing. Hope right people find this. 🥀
souletry Feb 25
There's a blockage in my creativity pipe.
There's some potential I haven't tapped into yet,
I read old pieces and wonder
where is that inspiration?
I'd hate to think it's because I'm over the fact you left.
Why am I only able to create when my heart
doesn't function how it should?
The words are falling out of my head
I wish they would fall onto the page.
I used to be all the 3 "I's" in imagination
Originality ran through my blood
I could mold my pain into something so delicate.
I touched people's soul with a simple sentence.
And now I can't even create something I'm mildly okay with.
There's no endearment to kiss on letters.
Nothing to set my eyes on.
I guess alterations had to be made.
There's a blockage somewhere inside of me.
A change is coming.
This is more than a simple poem.
When you feel this lost, you are bound to find
what your soul is searching for.
everything feels weird, derealization is a understatement.
Archer Feb 13
So you ****** up,
he spoke up. He shrugged as if it were no big
deal, but really it was; it was a huge deal.
No big deal,
his face betrayed his tone.

Uhm? No- really it is, it’s a huge deal,
I protested.

Okay, bud, take a breath…
He threw me a sheepish smile
That I pathetically fumbled.

‘Take a breath’?
I echoed with a scoff.
‘Take a breath’?!
I grabbed a hand full of my hair with each arm and squatted on the concrete.
First you said ‘the worst she can say is: no’;
and now you tell me to ‘take a breath’?
I tucked my head between my knees
and stared at the white paint
that had begun to fade off the parking lot.

Well, yeah. I, you know,
he chuckled.
I was certain he was doing that stupid thing,
where he scratched the back of his neck,
even if I couldn’t see it.

No,
I groaned,
You don’t know.

Okay, this is embarrassing… Get the hell up,” he crouched down and yanked us both up by my wrists.

Is everything you say a lie?
I took a long and dramatic drag on the word “lie”,
pulling my arms away from his grasp.

So she called you a b#tchless, d#ckless, f#ggot who would die such a big ****** that your wiener would invert at even the
slightest touch of a woman,
no big deal,
he repeated once more.
All he got in response was another groan.
He leaned against his Toyota before trying to remedy the situation,
I mean, you know, who hasn’t been called a-

I really don’t need to hear you to say it again.

He chuckled and scratched the back of his head. “Right, sorry. Probably not helping, huh?

Yeah, no.

For some reason,
this kid just did not know when to
shut up.
Well, I, you know there are plenty of other fish in the sea, right?

Yeah, but no angel fish wants to go out with a sea urchin!
I gestured to myself before pressing my stomach against his car.
We’d been at school far too long after the bell.
I was sure some of the teachers suspected we were doing crack,
or something.

I,
he started, looking to me at his side.
He stepped off his car and
opened the passenger side door for me.
Then, I guess you just gotta find
another sea urchin.
Steve Page Feb 9
Poets write with crooked lines
Lines that zig and zag
Lines that duck and dive

Poets write with messy lines
Lines that weave and wave
Lines that come alive

Poets write with spiral lines
Lines that slow and speed
Lines that fall and rise

Poets write with broken lines
Lines that leap and climb
Lines that launch and fly

Poets write with solid lines
Lines that fully embody
Lines that wholly embed
Hope
I started with an old proverb: 'God writes straight with crooked lines.'
And I played with a parallel idea.
Abi Winder Feb 5
i have this sinking feeling that i will never write again.

that all of the hurt
that i used to infuse into poems
has run dry.

i let the blood sit in my body,
simmer around my bones,
force myself to bottle
the trauma until it burned.

each time i wrote i rationed
out a little of the overflowing pain,
let it trickle,
and drip onto page.

but all at once i poured
crimson so now poems
exist - flooded red.

poems, whose words were so
deeply engraved in my soul
that nothing exists there now.

because they are living,
outside of me.

there is no life to feed the art.

just this emptiness.

and it should be freeing,
the purging of all this pain.

but it's not,
because i can not write
with any form of brilliance,
now that this thing has been
written out of me.

(should i have held onto the pain,
sacrificed living,
just to give art?)
Heidi Franke Feb 2
Fate slips
As a fallen horse's
  hoof
To prove there
Is a yonder, unwritten
Which we can not
   write
With our fingerless hands
Stumbling through life
Gripping guideless
    reigns
Tripping over a wish
Never to be ours
Fate did never
     find
Heidi Franke Jan 29
How sorry I am
That's the title of the
Book I will write.
If I say,
I may write,
Where does my sorry go?
My son unintentionally caused the death of another man. There were and are so many victims. Four years on I remain bewildered it even happened. If you knew the story you too would be dizzy. If any of those involved had altered anything they did by just 10 seconds there would be no story to write. We are all so fragile. Don't let vengeance eat you up.
Nancy Maine Jan 27
In a study of sonder, I found your words,
Like whispered secrets from unseen birds.
They fluttered through the air, soft as a sigh,
Inviting my mind to wander, to fly.
Each line a current, deep and profound,
Pulling me gently to places unbound.
With every stanza, the world expands,
A mosaic of hearts, of dreams in your hands.
I'm moved by the echoes you weave through the night,
By the subtle shadows, the tender light.
In your verses, I see the truths we all share,
The hidden connections, the souls laid bare.
Your words are a map to lands yet unknown,
Where thoughts and emotions can finally be sown.
I follow them, guided by each careful thread,
A journey where silence is also said.
In a study of sonder, I found my own voice,
Awakened by yours, I made the choice…
To write, to dream, to seek and to find,
A poem of my own, now forever entwined.
Inspired by the work of Geof Spavins
Sara Barrett Jan 21
We are galaxies wrapped in human skin,  

Infinite and diverse

Short, tall, curved, angular,  

Painted in every shade beneath the sun.  

We carry stories like hidden constellations,  

Symphonies unheard by casual ears.  

Mothers, creators, dreamers, doers

More than the roles they give us.  

Some wear scrubs that heal,  

Some don suits that lead,  

Some wrap aprons around quiet dreams   

But always, there is more beneath the surface.  

We are silent strategists,  

Mapping emotions with a glance,  

Untangling life’s knots with quiet magic.  

We repair not only what has been broken.

We restore what is unseen.  

We write novels at midnight,  

Teach yoga or calculus with equal grace.  

We climb walls others fear facing,  

And drive highways under moonlit skies.  

They see simplicity where we hold storms,  

Calm exteriors hiding infinite layers.  

Mother. Worker. Wife.  

Labels are too small for the worlds we contain.  

Stop. Look closer. Listen deeply.  

We are not just women

We are universes waiting to be discovered,  

Galaxies hidden in plain sight,  

Architects of futures yet unwritten.
This poem explores the hidden depths of women’s lives—their untold stories, unseen challenges, and unrecognized strengths. It reflects on how women are often defined by surface-level roles—mother, professional, wife—that fail to capture the vastness of who they truly are. Beneath their calm exteriors lie galaxies of talents, passions, and resilience, quietly shaping the world in ways that often go unnoticed. This piece is a call to look beyond appearances, to listen deeply, and to acknowledge the infinite complexity and quiet power that women carry within them.
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