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We pour out our hearts in our work
We ask for corective critic
Not a boastful ****

We give so much information
about who we are
Sometimes the subjects are
too sensitive by far

The writer may have
a hard time being objective
yet we want the reader to be subjected

Can you see through
the poet Eyes
the reason for the vivid
imagery wise

I benefit from knowing
your age
it assists
my thought proces,
as a gauge

Every ten years
a person changes 100%

Birth to ten, it is easy to see
Ten to twenty,
the mindset invincibility

I am six years
into my fifth life
lived, loved,
am a mother and wife,
happiness, anger, and Strife

The more we know
about the poet
Helps us understands
the poem as we know it

As we get older
we realize
how little we know
understanding
there's so much more
room to grow

So please fill out your bio age
and all the information you want to share
so we can review your poem with competent care
I would not give the same at information to 16-year-olds as I would a 30-year-old it does matter as a point of reference where you are in life
I'm not trying to be intrusive So if you get out so if you're not comfortable on an exact age perhaps a range say in the 20s , or your teens
that still gives a point of reference
I saw my tree today
The one in the big open field

It was raining
My socks were wet
My legs tired from the walk
But it was perfect

I placed my hand on the textured bark
I felt so whole
And infinite

I was home

Walking around it in circles
My hand stroking it as I do
Just like I had done
What seems like forever ago

Memories come
Flow in
Like a peaceful stream

It's just like the tree next to it
And the one next to that
But this one was mine

Not because I planted it
But because I felt it pull me in
Even when I was a little girl
Even then
I felt we were one
(this note was written by a staircase that leased to another staircase that leased to another staircase)
In the cramped silence of the toilet,  
echoes of fractured thoughts spiral,  
the walls constrict, a breath held in,  
where shadows twist like fingers,  
clenching the air, a tightrope of despair,  
normalcy dissolves like sugar in bitter tea,  
my pulse stutters, a metronome lost,  
Hitchcockian dread unfurls its dark wings,  
memories bleed crimson, pooling beneath the sink.

I cannot endure this solitude,  
where are you, phantom of my heart?  
Your golden essence, a cruel sun—  
breaking me open, revealing raw flickers,  
sacrifices made to coax a smile  
from the depths of my ashen soul.  
Hush, now—the tears tumble,  
each drop a stone, sinking,  
a release from this coiled torment,  
trapped in a moment where time slips.

Tired of running, running forever,  
this pretty broken girl, genuinely wronged,  
the world outside a distant murmur,  
yet hope flickers, fragile as a candle’s flame,  
a soft beacon in the cavernous dark,  
reminding me that even in despair,  
life whispers its stubborn promise,  
that one day, I may find my way home.
It's been s long week and I'm exhausted yesterday I wrote two poems, feeling very burdened down, hope I get to rest this weekend.
Having trouble finding the
Umbrella to stop the sorrow from flooding
Me constantly; luckily once in
Awhile, I look up and it's
Not raining anymore
Ups and downs

(This note was written by a laundry basket filled with clean clothes. Did you check before you threw all of them in the machines?)
colors spill softly,

rainbow bridge greets the still sky,

light bends into peace.
Up through the ground,
kissed by the frost,
a tender bloom seeks
a light long lost,
with some gentle force
and quiet power,
hope emerges on the green
as a snowdrop flower.

But, if such a small
and fragile thing
can pierce the frost
to greet early spring,
then why can't we,
like a snowdrop stay,
to wake and rise
on a cold January day?

Our strength must lay
dormant within,
beneath the cold joints
that make us wince,
so, we must try to learn
to trust and be seen,
like the gentle snowdrops
growing on the green.

©️Lizzie Bevis
It is a sunny but cold day today, it is all to easy to want to stay in bed.
I must get up, like these snowdrops.
They are so pretty too.
To be loved is to be seen
And I never realized just how invisible I felt
Until you came along
And saw me in full color
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