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Every poet is an old soul
with the remarkable talent
of carrying the centuries
of all poets' legacies
with just a pen
and a piece
of paper.
Being an old soul is a good thing. It means that you are wiser beyond your years and see the beauty in things that this current generation may fail to notice.
 Apr 1 SCHEDAR
Eve
🪶
 Apr 1 SCHEDAR
Eve
Angel of anguish, take this from me.

your feathers brush away my sins,

but your talons carve my guilt into my chest.

sweet Angel, carry me to oblivion,

rest your head in the lake of inaction,

tasting wordless pleas.

eyes, eyes, they say they never lie.

but you have none, only an empty promise lay in your skull.
The life of a poet lives on
through all their poems,
but the day I do depart,
I want to be cremated.

I will entrust family
and some fellow poets
to let my ashes sink
into some deep black ink.
And I'd want them to write
the stanzas I secretly saved
just for the occasion.

That way
they can say
that I put
all my heart
and my body
into poetry.
Literally.

My soul,
on the other hand,
would live on happily
as an eternal poet
having fun rhyming
while everyone's crying.
(and I'd wish they'd stop.)
I wouldn't want my loved ones to be saddened.  I'd want them to rejoice, knowing that my dream of becoming an eternal poet finally came true.
 Mar 30 SCHEDAR
Liana
Different
 Mar 30 SCHEDAR
Liana
They said I’ve changed
That I’m different than I was in September
That they liked her more

Of course they did
She was another dead fish going with the stream
She was scared
She didn’t want to make them upset

She tried to pretend that she was sane
That she was normal

She was sad
All the time
She was trying not to cry

She’s gotten better
Why is that not good enough for you?

The scars are starting to heal
Don’t make me make new ones
People make small comments/jabs about how I was better before.
 Mar 30 SCHEDAR
Liana
Untitled
 Mar 30 SCHEDAR
Liana
Blood
Pours
Down
Onto
Skin

Pain
Pain
Pain

I am alive
I am screaming for help
It is silent
Like my cry

Why
Why
Why

I think it’s gotten to the point
Where only poetry can save me
I did something that reminded me of my dad, and it was just too much.
sunshine in my heart
you were shade.
flowers in my hair
you made them fade.
honey on your lips
so bittersweet.
with the words goodbye
you set me free.

I am free
I am free
I am free
Now at the end of all things
As we're breathing sulfur and
Lead's pouring over our heads
I'm glad you're the one I'm
Sharing the trenches with
This is the first thing I'm able to write in almost a month. A little piece about my mental health struggles and how grateful I am to the ones that have my back right now.
'There is, at midnight, a swoosh,
a backward sound
unheard at 6 o'clock.
Time licks the moment,
the bells, the knock on
tomorrow.  

We amaze
as dawn asks for its
audience and our last
guesses fade into
today.  

Nascent trails
of memories rise and
fall

into the rescue mission
the sunlight brings on
feet of clod.

It will be a day of reaching
into the pocket of love
newly incarnate.  

You
receive me.

Caroline Shank
March 3, 2025
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