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There was
no madness…
Yet some call
us lovers
“mad”…

Love can
drive you up
your own walls
and ceilings.
Left roped
and hung
by your own
broken heart
strings—

Sometimes,
Love leaves
the lonely—
Mad Lovers,
behind for
dead…
A line I read from a book I've been reading for english class called Circe by Madeline Miller. I thought of writing a poem.
Piled up poems,
letters left in one
dark corner of the
library garden—
Alone…

Heart’s tangled in
sharp thorns from
wherever I go,
where the cold
moon blooms—

Piled up poems,
buried beneath
the silent sun,
wilting faster than
a daisy’s death—
Unread…
My mind’s been
flaking slowly,
like dry paint off
your pristine,
decorated walls.
Every cold night
the autumn moon breathes,
my heart falls apart,
like dying leaves from
The Hanging Tree.

Doctor, Doctor—
Will you help me?
All this time,
I’ve waited so
patiently,
I became one
of your unsteady
patients.
 Mar 3 Bree17
Maryann I
A quiet room, a candle’s glow,
The gentle hush of falling snow.
No grand affair, no fleeting prize,
Just simple joy in softened sighs.

The hum of life, the steady beat,
The whispered winds, the dancing feet.
No rush, no chase, just gentle grace,
A heart at peace in time’s embrace.

A book half-read, a sky so wide,
A love that lingers side by side.
Enough is found in what is near,
In silent joy and quiet cheer.
3. Pure Bliss and Contentment
 Mar 3 Bree17
Maryann I
You hear it, soft at first,
A whisper in the night,
A fluttering breath on your ear,
A wish that won’t take flight.
Love me,
Love  me.


The pulse quickens,
The shadows grow longer,
Each moment stretching
Like time has forgotten itself.
Love   me,
Love    me,
Love     me.


It clings like the air,
A taste on your tongue,
Unspoken, yet loud enough to drown.
The silence thickens—
Can you hear it?
Love      me,
Love       me,
Love        me,
Love         me.


It’s all that exists now,
A cage you can’t escape,
The need spirals deeper,
Faster, tighter,
Love          me.
Love           me.
Love          me.
Love         me,
Love        me.


The walls close in,
The words no longer hold weight,
Just a chant,
A prayer,
A broken record.
Love       me.
Love       me.
Love     me.
Love    me.
Love   me.
Love  me.


Love me?
This poem was originally an experiment in shape poetry, but I decided to take a different approach. Instead, I focused on spacing and repetition to create a gradual descent into obsession, evoking a spiraling effect. Inspired by the hypnotic structure of Angel by Massive Attack,” this piece builds intensity until it collapses into a final, lingering question.

(I’m still not sure if I like it… tell me what you think!)
 Feb 28 Bree17
Marc Morais
Rust
 Feb 28 Bree17
Marc Morais
Fences fail quietly—
in a slow tilt
colors give way
surrendering—
a silent retreat
from brown to brittle.

I press a finger
catch the rough
edge of metal
its dust scratching my skin—
years thin us
like coins drowned
in riverbeds.

It goes this way
I think—
a long fade
grit slipping
into dark water
turning to mud
just enough to remember
we once held on.

And I wonder if we, too
were made to loosen
to dissolve—
no shards or splinters
just a long sigh—
as time corrodes
at our hearts
turning all we were to rust.
 Feb 28 Bree17
Marc Morais
We built
a tower
with hands
that did not know
how to touch.

It rose,
stone by stone.
Each word, a brick.
Each silence,
the mortar.
Promises—
vanishing into air.

We stood
at the bottom,
blaming the height
for our aches—
but the tower
was never
what broke us.
 Feb 28 Bree17
kind hands
i think we got it wrong
when we think of strong

for its not a mind
that thinks of me and mine

or controlled
by need or greed

its one thats gone inside
and dissolved all internal needs
and turns towards the world
with hearts and hands of kind
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