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 Mar 8 Selwyn A
Shady Kay
he’s always there,
he’s never fair…

he’s itching to play
truth or dare…

but beware
of his spiral stare,
because his game
leads nowhere.
3.7.25
 Mar 8 Selwyn A
C
So let us go then, you and I,
As the sky
Swells purple,
Vivid like petals from the asters-
Whilst pearlescent pigeon feathers pirouette down from the rafters.
As I gaze with my eyes
At your beautiful soul;
I no longer have to search for my home.
My nicotine <3
 Mar 8 Selwyn A
C
I love baking,
But I only allow myself the pleasure of making,
And let everyone else do the tasting.
Disordered in many ways
 Mar 8 Selwyn A
C
Dusk
 Mar 8 Selwyn A
C
If I am to die any time soon
Please, lord, let it be on a Sunday afternoon;
Let it be 15 degrees with a slight breeze;
Let it be under a soft sky with a purple hue;
Let it put an end to me feeling so blue;
As the aeroplane trails fade out of sight,
Let the blackbird song lull me into night.
I resign!
Hidden garden,
owns its beauty,
flowers blossom,
our feelings intertwine.

Evening sun
kisses your glow,
deep eyes shine,
your soft smile flow.

Your hand in mine,
I wish forever.
sweet love note hidden in a garden....
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove.
O no, it is an ever-fixèd mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wand’ring bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
    If this be error and upon me proved,
    I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
Hearts are meant to break
This is the undeniable truth of our human condition
Whether the blade is sharpened by lies
or selfishness
or hormones
or mortality,
others will always betray in some way

My demons are the loudest when I’m grieving heartache
My reliance on past paths to numbness breaks my heart anew
Maybe I am as weak as he made me feel
Or maybe I am just human with a heart built to break

© 2025 SincerelyJoanWrites. All rights reserved.
heart of sadness
follows the eyes
of madness
into the scream of night.

who dares to dream
in a starless night?

war and peace then war and love

and all nightmares are real
staring into

a starless night,

and all we have
are the flames
stolen from a screaming night,
and all we have are each other.
In the depths of shadows, where hope seems distant, a soul stands still, contemplating the price.
The weight of sorrow, like a heavy blanket, suffocating, an endless night, where even the stars refuse to shine.
A heart quivers, devoid of light, every beat a struggle, an echo of despair.
Within the darkness, soft murmurs arise, faint echoes persist, despite the fall.
In the heart of grief, a spark kindles, a flicker, faint, like a firefly in the night.
Through eyes bathed in tears, strength emerges, in moments of stillness, a heart is reborn.
Even in the darkest hour, resilience blooms, a delicate flower, pushing through the cracks.
As the sun begins its ascent, a burst of colour illuminates the sky, from profound pain to soaring joy, a long journey, an endless quest.
When elation's wings lift you, a heart soars, boundless sky, laughter reverberates, a joyful sound, a symphony of life.
Both the highs and lows, integral parts of life, as the river flows.
For each tear, a smile may appear, in every sorrow, joy takes form, a dance of contrasts, a delicate balance.
Embrace the dance of light and dark, the ebb and flow, each fleeting spark.
In balance, we find our path, through night and dawn, to each new day, to each new beginning
Summer began soft—
honeymilk pooled through mango leaves,
pigeons feather-heavy on telephone wires—
the whole world gold—
still ripening—
like something that didn't know how to end.

I remember the river—
thin-*****, sun-fed—
wearing the sky like a borrowed veil—
bruised lavender by dusk,
silver-stitched by midnight.

We were half-salted, half-feral—
knees green-stained,
pockets lined with papaya seeds,
believing if we never named the days
they could never leave us.

Evenings folded in hibiscus hush
mothers calling from verandahs
their voices trailing jasmine heat
but we stayed
bloom-fed—
learning how silence could taste like belonging.

There was a boy
wild-haired, sugar-grinned
who carved his name into the gulmohar—
said it was the only way
to outlive summer.

I never carved mine.
I wanted to belong to something
without leaving a scar.

The river kept what we couldn't—
pocket marbles clouded with spit,
cicada shells,
prayers hushed into cupped palms—
half-wishing, half-forgetting.

When the rains came—
soft at first—
then harder—
we waded knee-deep through the swell,
our laughter thin as dragonfly wings—
something breaking beneath it.

But rivers don't keep secrets.
They carry them.

By August—
the gulmohar stood stripped—
his name unstitched—
washed down to sea.

By September—
the river forgot itself—
spitting up broken dolls,
rusted bicycle chains—
whole summers gutted in the mud.

By October—
we learned
the world is only ever borrowed.

I wonder if the boy remembers
if his name still flickers beneath the water
stitched somewhere too deep to touch.

I never carved mine—
but if you pressed your ear to the current
if you listened long enough—
I swear you'd still hear me,
a salt-thin breath
folded beneath the hush.
wrote this after returning to my grandparents' house—they had cut down the gulmohar tree. I never carved my name into it — but somehow, it still feels like I lost something.
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