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always the child
who never got appreciated
just an unwanted child
trying her hardest
to be the perfect one—
just once.
trying her hardest
to be appreciated,
dying to hear:
“you did a great job,”
“the dish you cooked was very nice,”
“i’m proud of you,”
“you scored 98% in maths,”
“i’m proud of my daughter.”
she just wanted
to be loved.
to be seen.
to be appreciated.
 Jul 21 Maryann I
mysterie
we learn
the abcs
by repeating them.
we learn
how to do things right
by doing them
every day.
so why is it
so hard
to learn kindness?
don’t we
repeat it
every day?
date wrote: 20/7
 Jul 21 Maryann I
lisagrace


Last night I'd dreamed
That my hair dye
Ran away from me,
Faster than Road Runner
From Wile E. Coyote
I stopped and froze -
my face aghast
A boring old brunette
I was once again,
A sad little ghost
Of my deep blue past

Self-expression is the key
To me being me
With my rainbow locks,
And my funky socks
If I can't have magical
My Little Pony hair,
Then what would I be?!

I used to be so monochrome
No makeup
"Just an ugly betty" I'd donned
No cute and fun hues
On her colour palette,
Just more shades of grey
That faded to black -
Betty was always
The habit rabbit

At first I said
I wanted pink hair -
But lots of "fun" women
Have pink hair,
So I'd told my stylist
I wanted green
But she knew colour theory
Would muddy its sheen

I thought long,
I thought hard
And then -
A spark
Orange would certainly
Be a light in the dark!

Who said
I couldn't be a traffic cone?
Or a carrot Bugs Bunny
Munches on?  

No yellow-bellied lizard here,
Brown study Betty must take
Her books elsewhere
Scootaloo is tickled pink -
And to think,
She used to believe
That she couldn't gleam!


Somewhere between Scootaloo, magical hair, and colour theory—I found me.
The joy of finally being a little loud on purpose.
🧡💕💚
Stars hung in velvet night,
peek down upon us,
gleaming the heaven,
with their presence.

Yet, I feel dark,
deep within my chest.
Perhaps the moon
knows what I mean.
Just felt like writing it
:)
 Jul 21 Maryann I
Zeno
I could've just laid down if
I wanted to

ignoring the bells that echoes
inside my head

Let the earth swallow me
among withered leaves that decay
beside me

Let the world dry out
as if all lamented things
belong to me

I could act as if
my heart is an icy winter water,
never to beat, never to warm at all

Granite skies would drift above me,
haunting me in my night and
summer days

But in the thunder that frightens me
A swift lightning would pass me by,
a crack of gold in my darkest night

The flood crashing through doors,
through all the breathe that I've lost
I would learn to hold every air that I touch

All the celestial mass throbbing in my chest
The distant rumble of supernovas
that tears me apart,
and black sunshine that shines on my face

Even if midnight splatters beneath my eyes,
with all the stars that glimmer
that badly wants to fall

Even if half of my shadow is blown to nether
I would suffer everyday, and in my pain
I knew I could feel

I would die everyday, with all lamented things
and in all my deaths

I have learned to live
You Are the Texture

…………………………

~ for all of you,
you, you poet~



Impasto

is a technique used in painting,
where paint is laid on an area of
the surface thickly, usually thick
enough that the brush or  painting-
knife strokes are visible.

Paint can also be mixed right on
to the canvas. When dry, impasto
provides texture; the paint appears
as if, to be coming out of the canvas.


<1:47pm>

Cut & Paste

is a technique used in poetry writing,
we refer back to our visions,
heard words,
the eyeful, the earful, scents,
the reads read,
all in the mind’s palette blended,
thickly, but
when

the merging fused,
every word~in~coloration,
it is unique, reincarnation,
copying impossible.

The imagery, cut and pasted from thy heart and soul,
upon canvas,
your poems~pieces each appear

as you-are-texture,
you becoming out of, you,
the canvas.

<2:04pm>


Postscript*
………………

it is not lost on me that the
scars, our words, herein,
as we note all too frequently,
almost casually,
are, can be, those selfsame
words/painting-knife
employed
for our first and foremost canvas we utilize,

ourselves…
our bodies,
our
very selves
salved
Fri Jun 23
2023
Your scars,
Deep rivers,
Etched with veins and blood.

Your storm,
A raging fire on your ship,
Screams hidden
Beneath the fiery roar.

It's YOUR fire,
A smoldering core
Of you—
Born from your heart,
Soul,
Experiences,
People you meet.

It's your flame,
A fierce flame,
Licking at your weaknesses,
Boarding your ship
And burning it—
Not giving up the fight.

You're not broken,
Only shaped by your fire—
So is your boat.

You're reborn,
Shaped like molten metal
Through your wildest flame.

Your story is never "soft"—
It's your sword,
Carved from
New-found courage,
Love,
Hate, and strength
After each rebuild.

We all break,
But then we bloom,
Like dandelions
Bursting through
Cracked concrete—
They stay alive no matter
How many times they get crushed.

You can rise
From blood—
The crimson ink
Is now your story.
You shed
It all
As your power
Of writing.

The sky will
Turn blue,
Washing away
Raging waves
Who roar
Like the largest lion.

Cotton ball clouds
Will patch your wounds,
Gently soothing
Your battered heart—
Shattered boat.

We'll all come together,
Helping to build
Your sails back up,
From frayed, worn threads,
Repairing the wooden boards
With boards
Like bones,
Holding strength inside.

Your storm is beautiful,
Just like you.

It's your storm—
We'll be here --always--
To help you fight through.
 Jul 21 Maryann I
Rosie Mg
Believe it or not -

I gather you do.

I’m fueling, a growing fire

which burns bright
and gold.

Since my shy heart,

loves beauty

for it, is all of you.

A glowing sun,

playful and greedy,

as I.
P. Written in 2025.
I hardly think about you
Except when the music plays
And I realize that no one else
In the whole wide world
Knows the lyrics
But us...
Once or twice a day is not that much, after all...
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