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Widad Apr 17
She was only five when the teacher said,
“Write your name, it’s time to learn.”
But what she felt was something else—
Like fire blooming with each word.
The pencil danced across the page,
Her tiny hands began to glow.
While others traced a simple name,
She wrote a world no one would know.
She fell in love with lines and rhymes,
With paper dreams and silent times.
Her heart spoke louder through the ink,
Each verse a breath she’d learn to think.
Down the starlight path she ran,
With notebooks clutched inside her hand.
The world was big, but she believed,
Those words could build the life she dreamed.
She wrote through storms, she wrote through pain,
In every loss, she found a gain.
Now the stars are singing back—
She’s the girl who walked the starlight path.
She sat between her sisters four,
The backseat like a traveling world.
With every mile, the silence spoke,
So she wrote the words she never told.
Outside, the trees were flying fast,
Inside, her thoughts were built to last.
While laughter danced and voices roared,
She let her pencil paint her soul.
She pressed her notebook to her knees,
And captured feelings in the breeze.
The car became her sacred space—
A moving world, a writer’s place.
At fourteen, she held a trembling pen,
But every word was truth back then.
She wrote of fear, she wrote of flight,
Of lonely thoughts on moving nights.
Then came the day—her name was called,
She’d won it all, against the odds.
The poems born from backseat roads,
Now echoed loud in quiet halls.
Regional crown, department-wide,
Tears in her mama’s softened eyes.
But no one saw the countless pages,
The silent work, the secret stages.
She smiled shy, they clapped and cheered,
But deep inside, she held back tears.
Not 'cause she doubted what she'd earned,
But for the fire that still burned.
At fifteen, no guitar in hand,
But in her mind, a dream so grand.
Her words became a melody,
Without a note, but still so free.
She hummed her poems, softly loud,
Her head filled with a growing sound.
No piano keys, no strings to play,
But in her heart, she found a way.
She'd sing them quietly in her room,
Imagining each note would bloom.
Her words were music, pure and true,
A melody only she could view.
Her sisters shrugged, her parents sighed,
“Why can’t you let the silence slide?”
But her little sister, with eyes so wide,
Said, “Keep singing, sis, don’t run and hide.”

Through every rhyme, she found her voice,
In every line, she made her choice.
The starlight path, it called her name,
She walked it through the joy and pain.
No map to guide, just heart and mind,
Her dreams were stars she’d never find.
But still she reached, beyond the night,
For every word, a step to light.
Leocardo Reis Apr 16
I cannot write.

I put aside the pen,
I turn off the light.
I step outside
into the falling dusk,
lowering my head
as if to console myself,
whispering tenderly,
'this is only temporary.'

It has been years,
I still cannot write.
Anahí Ake Apr 7
Corazón cálido y pequeño,
brinda a la chica de antaño,
para sanar lo que fue dañado,
por un pasado ya olvidado.

La soledad la cubría,
una oscuridad sin salida.
Su carisma, como brisa,
daba a su amada alegría,
aunque no era correspondida.

Chica herida y desconfiada,
se alejaba, no era abrazada.
Aun así, ella adoraba
los recuerdos de su aliada.

Una amistad de tantos años,
atada a sueños ya lejanos,
de aquella aliada distante,
que quedó en su horizonte errante.

Pero ella tomó su mano,
y borró todo lo insano.
Tocó su corazón con calma,
y limpió su mente del drama.

A su lado decidió quedarse,
sin importar los desplantes
de su chica de antaño,
con su alma hecha de telarañas.

¡Oh, recuerdos congelados!
La chica del pasado
dio su primer paso
y se quedó a mi lado,
dejando atrás el daño.

Temor de volver a sentir
sin esa “aliada” junto a mí.
Pero ella no es como antes,
no es la sombra de alguien distante.

Ella es dulce, como el anís,
con dulzura que no se ve,
pero que al probarla una vez,
queda en el alma, hecha raíz.

Aprendió a cuidarla
para que nunca fuera dañada,
como lo hizo su “aliada”
con la chica abandonada.
Jude Mar 12
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.
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
Read each line slow. Think. Evolve.
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