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Vida Mar 28
When words fail what's left?
Song?
My praises singing
Hands?
I gesture, paint worlds with my movements
When words fail do we write?
Put my pen to paper and let the words spread like watercolor
Words
speech, are all I know
Silence is a foreign language to me
When words fail I have little left.
So I pray my words do not fail.
Because words are mine.
The heart of a writer is frail, like that of a flower waiting to be plucked. Life itself, or love, could uproot it, for no rhyme or reason.

I hate to say that my heart has been salted by the woes of man.
This never-ending race has left me wanting for watering.
Hang my heart on your wall with the others to dry out, my love.
I'm tired and weary—I need rest.
Life can be so bleak sometimes.
Oh, to be loved by the writer,
Here, you become the poem you never wanted to.
You'll be her words, where she bleeds her heart to write a single line
And pours all her love into the pages.

She keeps you alive in her poems,
Where you live a life of bliss.
But if you hurt her,
The same words of hers become the knife that stabs directly into your heart.

She becomes the one to make you feel loved and hated every time she writes.
The love she has are words that burn with emotions.
And if you love her the way she does,
She becomes the kind who dies when she loves.
J Bjork Mar 18
Summer slips away
while I hide in my room
wasting time falling down
wondering if I’ll ever share
this wealth of love
I hoard on my mound
with someone besides myself:
a tragedy, curled up on the rug,
jaded by the compassion
that has been given up
and I can't get enough

I pinch in further to zoom
on the microcosm of my life
and see that it’s cropped
into a frame
without resolve or
anyone to blame-
a picture of me
with the blinds drawn,
frozen in a still shot,
hiding from the moon,
and it has me believing that
I might die alone
from lack of sleep
as I howl and brood

Morning breaks through
requesting me with warmth
and calling out to
wake me before noon-
I hear but don't listen,
instead I'll bask in this gloom,
listless

That surely must produce
some worthwhile art
in the end
even if something will always
feel like it is
missing
09/22
J Bjork Mar 17
I am consumed by
negative spaces,
floating in between
death and the void,
looking for reason
that won't come
and there is no use
in running from darkness
when it's what brought us
here at birth
and the only thing
we part with in the dirt

If the way out is through,
why do they stay and
mock the despair
behind my eyelids?
They laugh as I search
for purpose that doesn't exist
in lieu of aliens that
I swear are real,
when reality has always been
my achilles heel

It's a dance of avoiding gravity
until inevitably strikes
a heavy blow
that life is
random circumstance
siphoning into black holes,
a collection of moments
that we will
forget to remember,
but how does one find peace
without answers?

Daylight starts peeking in
to see if I'm okay,
I disguise the sentiment
as irrelevant
when I could really use a break
from this carousel of fear
that only
wants me to want more
as if I am owed a life
that is somehow past due,
checked out by someone
who was less afraid
to step outside of their room

Sunlight omits
more concern over
reckless abandonment
as it greets my pacing force,
but there is no stopping
what was designed
without brakes,
carried by all the love and hate
that glorifies impulse to
sift through emptiness-
a sacrifice to this
blank screen
that consumes me with dread
over a deathless dream
stuck inside my head
12/24
LONE STAR Mar 17
Tonight, I just want to make love
Not with a person
But with my passions
I want to tap the strings of my guitar
Caressing it with the fondest of desires
Driving myself over the edge
To get that beautiful intoxicating feeling
A beautiful high

I want to take my pen
Lightly stroke
Every line I write
Brushing softly against my quilt
As I get my pages wet
Spread so apart
To get the perfect feel
I want to taste them on my tongue
So they flow

I want to exercise my vocal cords
Into soft delightful noises
To give you thrill
I’ll start low then go high
As the pace increases
I’ll hit that high note
Leaving goosebumps
All over your skin
Then the music
Will at least be heard
write poet deep lines
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. 🥀
Thomas W Case Mar 11
I sleep with my
top hat on these days.
It keeps the rabbits from
crawling out and running
away.

They are the safest close to
my brain when I sleep.
I don't want them eaten by
feral swine or to wander
off and drown in a vat of wine.

The magic show will
start soon, and I'll pull them
out when least expected.
The crowd will gasp and groan
when I saw the woman in half.

"It's just a trick,"  I yell.
"She's okay, sleight of hand...see."

They know better, the blood
isn't fake.
They see the horror of the
magician's life, even though
it entertains. We all wish it
was an illusion, but it's
showtime.
Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I read poetry from my latest book, It's Just a Hop, Skip, and Jump to the Madhouse.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nOOnc9BpmIg

Spring is almost here, which means I will be posting fishing videos as well.  I can't wait.  Here is a link to my latest book.
Vida Mar 9
Just because you didn't like what i said doesn't make it inherently mean
I will always be the angry Black girl
Unfortunately
I am angry
I am perpetually Black
And a woman beyond my control
But is it wrong to be angry
At a world that doesn't want me
A world that hides me
Tells me
I got that bad hair
Im not good enough for TV
Fix your
Hair
Fix your
Nose
Fix your
Additude
Grown folks business
I am a woman built to mother children
My womb built to harbor
Pray to God they aren't a girl
Pray to God they aren't
Black
I dont have to be angry
Sit back
Let someone else be angry
Let someone else be the Black girl in the room
But my blood won't let me
My veins will jump up and run away
My body's inclined
My soul won't sit
Sit for *******
So I'm forcing myself to bd the angry Black girl
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