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This morning, I come to my table once more,
A cup of coffee gently steams,
Warming hands that feel weighted down
Again and again, I type my goodbye,
But I always delete it, hoping there’s still something else I can do.

You, who have filled my days until now,
Like mornings begun with easy conversations,
And afternoons spent lost in tasks, one after another—
Today, it feels different, as the countdown begins.

The longer I sit, the more I realize this chair no longer fits me
I trace the quiet walls, so familiar with laughter, complaints, and tireless effort
Each corner here has its own story.

Though my heart is still full, I know I must leave
Tomorrow, someone else will sit here, bringing even bigger dreams
For now, I leave my memories in this last sip of coffee,
Heading to the door that’s always greeted me each morning,
Now releasing me gently, like a Momiji branch lets go of its leaves around the building in autumn.
Cursed with freedom

My soles drag like burning cigarettes
Asphalt kissing rubber
And sent to heaven
Wiping my cheek, blessing my breath
Outside myself
Untethered

Kicking cans
Smelling blinkers
Taste the railing, looking over the go-between
Wishing
To float down
Untethered

Clutching for a warmth
a smirk
Cosplaying as a confident man
Airing out my forced laughs
into void
Untethered

Sinking higher
Balloon chasing the atmosphere
Escaping hands I held
Head ringing
Phone undead
Untethered

Five months Southside
Open world purgatory
Office building obituary
I’ll be on the other side of the globe soon
And still won’t elude My tether
Poem about no longer being able to Co-depend on someone
Close the door.
Put in your IV, dopamine drip
With sympathy blaring like a trumpet through your ears. Down the staircase.
wait by the road, Spare the commuters
the trauma. Creeping across the bicherman, walking dead. Reanimated by duty, or was it instinct. ‘I look good disheveled’ haircut screaming otherwise, clothes hanging off of you like a bad omen.
Shuffle into the car, driver already half infected, indifference swearing as an old drunk would. I care because I’m paid to. I’m very co-operative when I have no other Choice.

At the workplace, brutalist demeanours, menial brutality.  Welcome me back to reality with plastered smiles, they smell your ambivalence.
Shelter in the breaking room, delay the inevitable. punch into the machine ‘64’ ‘D7’ coffee and confectionery like rudimentary medicine.
Collapse at the desk, you skin loosens. Falls off. a slow 37.5 hour decay begins.
Poem about Mondays
 Nov 2024 Jill
Mandi Wolfe
I sit watching brown eyes
probe affectionately through the haze
at the mirrors created by close family.
I think the intimacy that is made possible
by the sharing of wine, **** and space
in a dim room full of sad love and smoke
will never ceased to amaze me.
The men see themselves in each other
and are both heartened in their own ways
I am drunk now in my way
and The Mirror is ****** in his
and Brown (Green) Eyes is both at once
Appalachian mouths move in turns
to take a hit or a drink or a shot at wisdom
Suddenly the truth of our three souls is laid bare
on the tiny table there between us.
My heart tightens around the words
as they echo through each chamber
growing louder with each reverberation.
“Happiness is being able to breathe”

Love you, Frank.
This was my most popular poem published on this site - I am curious to see if it fares as well today as it did when originally published.
 Nov 2024 Jill
Liana
Yes
There's a monster in my head
He makes me dread
Everything
He makes me fear
Everyone
He comes out
Late at night
He claims he doesn't want to hut me
But he always does
He makes me question myself
And those I love

Yes
There's a monster in my head
He makes me lie for hours in bed
And for some comedic relief
I called him fred
Fred the monster
Living rent-free in my head
Please leave me alone
I don't need you at all
Fred doesn't leave
 Nov 2024 Jill
Savva Emanon
In the quiet heart of Autumn, where amber leaves descend,
There lies a lesson in each golden branch that bends.
These trees, in graceful ease, surrender to the air,
Their leafy hands unfurl, releasing every care.

Each leaf once green with spring's eager, pulsing light,
Turned to gold and crimson in Autumn's softer sight.
No longer bound by summer's heat or spring's early grace,
They drift to earth with beauty, accepting time and space.

And if these trees, so rooted, so steadfast, so bold,
Can trust the fading sun and brave the coming cold,
Perhaps, like them, I too might loosen what I hold,
Let go of what was mine, of all that's grown too old.

For in the letting go, I find a tender peace,
A whispered promise, sweet, of freedom in release.
What once I clung to fiercely, now softens in the breeze,
Transforming loss to wisdom, as memory leaves with ease.

The tree does not grieve its branches bare and stark;
It stands in calm surrender as night drapes close and dark.
Its strength is not in clinging, but in the grace to bend,
To shed its worn-out stories, and trust the silent end.

So, as the Autumn teaches with patience, kind and wise,
I watch my past drift gently, like leaves beneath gray skies.
In this quiet bravery, I find a path to free
The weight I once embraced, what used to be just me.

And with each leaf I loosen, with every breath released,
I plant new roots of courage, my spirit's song increased.
For as the trees let go and rest in winter's sleep,
So too, I trust the cycles, in letting go, I keep.
Copyright 2024 Savva Emanon ©
 Nov 2024 Jill
Sjr1000
Night Blooming Jasmine on my mind
Taking me for a ride back in time
Lite up,
L.A. nights
Sunset Blvd
Melrose too
Hitting up the opportunities at Sloans
Sometimes going home together
Sometimes going home alone.

At the door,
Moths flying in the light
Night Blooming Jasmine
Wrapped around me
One more kiss
One more moment closer to bliss Apprehension everywhere
The best part don't you think.

Memory travels on a smell
Memory travels on the light of the day
Memory travels on the song on the radio
Memory travels on the look on a face.

Remembering
on a full moon's night
Night blooming Jasmine
Drifting in on the winds and
No where else to run.
 Nov 2024 Jill
Kalliope
I'd keep the walls down but
Everytime I let hope remove the bricks
I take arrows to my chest.

I think it might be best
To keep the concrete high
And nurse my wounds in private this time.
My fingers are calloused
My skin is burned
My thoughts now are malice
From the patterns I've learned
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