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Give me the colors of a rainbow and I'll be your heart's extol  
or a petal from your favorite rose so I can place it in my soul;
Send me the pillow the fairies have gleaned with watermark  
I'll hold it to my chest until I hear the melodious coo of a lark!  

Be a Spiritual Gem inside me, I will polish and make you shine  
like a soaring star I'll glitter so you know,"I'm truly~truly thine."
I need a break —
A break from my thoughts,
From people,
From everything around me.

I'm tired of everything,
I need a silent 365 days,
Just to cool,
To calm ,
my soul and body.
Writing poetry
My mind leaks onto paper
Lovely visual!
Spring passed by, Winter returns
A warm moment lingers with a hint of loneliness
White snowflakes fall in silence
I lose my steps in the bitter cold sky

Oh Winter, why haven’t you ended?
I’ve died – even my verses are dead
The cold covers my soul completely
Freezing even the silent loneliness

Old memories are buried
Beneath thirst and loneliness
The harmony of frost and snow
Rises… with no sunlight in reply
Death of poems
half way to paradise
half way to hell

a right turn here
a left turn there

love is radical
a choice made.
Not all rivers
end up in the ocean–
doesn't make their journey
less worthy.

Not all love
ends up in a lover's arms–
doesn't make it any less
worthy.
Have you ever seen a pair of Nine West Folowe Pumps in Red Blooms Floral - or ever held a feathery pair? They offer the pure pleasure of perfection.

You can see them popping up lately, in streetwear silhouette, matched with Dolce & Gabbana’s floral-print leggings, making a duet of blooms—petal upon petal, like a garden in motion, or paired with the new, high-waisted barrel leg jeans, lending a flash of elegance, a bright flourish against dull denim.

They’re visions, wrought as if by the hand of Michelangelo, who once from marble freed David’s pose, or da Vinci, whose brush summoned the Mona Lisa’s secret smile.

In form, they’re d’Orsay cut, sporting curves as deliberate as the Sistine vaults arch. The stiletto heels rise with the ambition of a cathedral’s spire - neither too proud nor too meek, but balanced, like the symmetry of a butterfly’s painted wings.

Upon their surface, blood red blooms unfurl - petals as vivid as spring’s first flush - each blossom a testament to an artist’s hand, in riots of color and romance that dance with the same spirit as a flowerbed at dawn.

No flaws mar their making: the stitchings are true, the fits precise—as if tailored by the muses themselves. Each pair offers its own unique foliations, bespeaking the freedom of a craftsman’s careful art.

Lastly, of course, they’re marvels of harmonious function, lightly cradling and lifting each step - comfort and glamour aren’t adversaries here, but partners in making each step a sonnet and each stride an artist's brushstroke.

Now, maybe you aren’t into fashion - perhaps you’re a male - oh, poor you, I’m sorry, but maybe, just maybe, in times of chaos, you long for the pleasure of inexpensive perfection.
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Songs for this:
Glamour Girl by Louie Austen
This is what falling in love feels like by JVKE
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 06/26/25:
Sumptuous = something luxurious, magnificent and probably very expensive.
Some of the foulest things
Were conceived
In the most beautiful
Of places
The pure alpine breeze
Cooled the mechanics
Of the elimination
Of races
Verdant green
The backdrop
For reeducation
Stark Mother Russia
The denouncements
The Cossackification
White Plains
Trinity
The United Nations.
 Jun 24 Bekah Halle
alia
Let’s not sleep—
let’s overthink!
Let’s rethink
every awkward blink.

Let’s write a novel
in our head,
then cry about
what we should’ve said.

Sleep is boring.
Peace is fake.
Let’s spiral till
the morning breaks.
 Jun 23 Bekah Halle
Maria
I had an odd dream wherein there was the Love.
The Love that I had never met afore.
The Love where I drew in again, again.
The Love I’ve only heard or not before.

The Love for which the world is not enough.
The Love that makes me bite my lips in full.
The Love that is triumphally triumphed.
My so dreamlike Love and trully thankful.

My Love where is no dirt and falsehood.
The Love which has no other base than love...
But my dream’s passed and I’m left alone with
Alien, so ******, feather-brained Unlove.
That's the poem about Unlove, which can make too much pain. It's often ugly and ******...
Thank you very much for reading it! 🙏
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