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To my dearest monsters,

  I hope this letter finds you on the brink of your doom, rotting away in your sinister cave. Because it's what evil like you deserves. To rot and woe, to know the pain of fading, before you fade away. Because your longevity is short lived, for most of you will die come first daylight.
  I hope you know, there is no home for you here. But if you try and build one, It will be burnt down. Every scrapped cinder and discarded log crushed to black dust. The substance of your soul, you're made of cinders, burning away at the human you once were. And if no one else will stand against you, know I will. Don't mess with fresh fire, lest you get burn away too.

                                                                                    Sincerely, I.
I refuse to be fooled by one of these again, I call to the writers of HP, let us make this a safe space for all writers.
Death
is a foolish
construct

When we die, we simply
transform
from one body
to the next
We dump one
skin
like a worn out shirt
with holes and stains

When we die,
our souls ascend
leaving only a filthy pile of
meat
behind

Meaningless
Meant to be cast aside and
left
to
rot

And yet, like the foolish
mortals
we are
desperate for life to
mean
something
we take these empty
rotting
bags of bones
and build homes for them
and place them in the ground
and pretend that they will be safe
in their wooden boxes
avoid thinking about the arthropods
that will find their way inside
and clean up the mess
they left
behind

We cry
We weep in front of a
slab of rock
and leave flowers
for insects
rot
and bones

We mourn them
As if they have vanished
never
to be seen
again

We are so blind that we believe this
miserable place
is all
that there is

We need not look down
when seeking those we have lost
but up

For they have not died
not really
they have simply journeyed
to a better world

They wait
patiently
for you to follow
But you are afraid
We all are, no matter how we deny it
We fear oblivion
Nothingness
For we do not understand
who
we
are

Death, you see,
is a foolish
construct
 Feb 20 ghost girl
Liana
I may not believe in a god(s)
But that does not mean that I do not have a religion

I believe in poetry
Not everyone has a god, but everyone has a religion. For some it's art, animals, money, or music. For me, it is words, or poetry. At night I do not pray to God, I write poetry. I do not ask God for answers, I write to figure them out myself. Poetry is my religion.
In the quiet of the morning, as the sun begins to rise,
A man sits by the window, with memories in his eyes.
With a wistful sigh, he journeys back through time,
To the days of youth and laughter, in a life once so sublime.

Those were the days when the world seemed so vast,
A canvas of dreams, where moments never passed.
With friends by his side and adventures to chase,
They roamed through fields of wonder, leaving not a trace.

The summers were endless, with skies a brilliant blue,
Long afternoons spent dreaming, and nights of starlit view.
They'd gather 'round the campfire, with tales to share and spin,
Those were the days when magic dwelled within.

The first taste of love, so sweet and so pure,
A heart full of promise, with a bond that would endure.
They danced beneath the moonlight, with whispers soft and low,
Those were the days when love would always grow.

Through the seasons of life, in a tapestry of change,
The man recalls the moments, both familiar and strange.
The laughter and the heartache, the triumphs and the tears,
Those were the days that shaped his fleeting years.

He remembers the scent of rain on the summer breeze,
The feeling of freedom, as they climbed the tallest trees.
With a heart full of courage, they faced the world so bold,
Those were the days when dreams were made of gold.

But time has a way of drifting, like a leaf upon the stream,
The past becomes a memory, a distant, fading dream.
Yet in the quiet moments, when the world is still and bright,
He cherishes the echoes of those days, with all his might.

Now the man sits in reflection, with a smile upon his face,
For though the years have flown, they've left a gentle trace.
In the twilight of his journey, he finds solace in the past,
Knowing those were the days that were meant to last.
Not doing very well tonight
At the edge of panicky scared
Slowly. Slowly. Patience.
Courage, please. Calm.

                   Balm.
 Feb 20 ghost girl
badwords
They will tell you there is a right way.
They will hand you a torch and call it the sun.
They will roll their words in raw linen and whisper:
"This is what poetry is meant to be."

And you will nod.
Because they have made it so that not nodding feels like blasphemy.

But listen—
the ink does not check your credentials.
The meter does not ask if your suffering is organic.
A line does not collapse because it was crafted instead of bled.

They will tell you a poem must be naked, barefoot, aching—
as if there is no beauty in a well-cut suit.
They will decry the temple and build a pulpit in its ruins,
preaching freedom in a voice that allows no dissent.

Good poets are cult leaders,
and the first rule of the cult
is that they are not one.

So write the sonnet, carve the sestina,
sculpt the page in iambic steel.
Or break it, shatter it, scatter its bones—
but let no one call your wreckage untrue.

And if they do,
smile.
Because poetry does not kneel to priests.
A counter-point mirrored in style to:

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/4983752/good-words-are-clickbait/

The morale of the story is:

try not to dictate creation and by extension freedoms.
 Jan 17 ghost girl
Traveler
This is my strength
It don't belong to anyone else
No one carried me through Hell
They simply placed me on a shelve

These are my veins
Sending life force to my fist
Those are my claw marks
Ripped from Heaven's List

This is my heart
My love weighs a ton
And it's stronger on it's own
When it's all said and done
...
Traveler Tim
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