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Sitting within myself
Belief in my wholeness
Bringing my light
Letting it shine
Most of the time
There’s no way to escape
Uncertainty
Occasionally
But that is not me
I have a powerful destiny
Maybe through this poetry
And maybe after I no longer be
These poems might still speak for me
 Feb 6 silvervi
Nemusa
Well, the night is long,  
and the silence stings,  
messages like whispers,  
caught on invisible strings.  
How will you know what to do,  
when the truth feels like a game,  
and the words that fall from your lips,  
are just echoes of shame?  

In this world of quick decisions,  
where every glance can deceive,  
the heart wears a mask,  
and the soul learns to grieve.  
A liar’s tongue can spin a tale,  
but the heart knows the score,  
underestimate the shadows,  
and you’ll find you’re wanting more.  

Oh, we’re different features  
of the same old face,  
chasing memories like ghosts,  
in this empty, crowded space.  
Time’s a thief in the night,  
it moves like a restless tide,  
risking everything for a moment,  
when the truth can’t be denied.  

So we reach across the darkness,  
with hands that tremble and shake,  
searching for that flicker,  
in a world that feels so fake.  
And when the morning breaks,  
with the dawn’s gentle light,  
we’ll find the strength to rise,  
and make our shadows bright.
 Feb 6 silvervi
Antonia
silence that fills
an empty room
no people left,
just memories.
their fights, their screams
and that first kiss.

they both poured from their empty cups
they broke the cup
and gave the glass

and piece by piece,
and stitch by stitch,
their love has morphed
into deep pain
just open wounds
that bleed in vain

it was too hard,
for them to see
the masochists
they came to be.
would you like a piece of me? that’s all I have left
 Feb 3 silvervi
Nemusa
When the blue silence presses,
and absence carves its hollow,
I search for a rare diamond,
a glint of you,
of us,
among the drifting days.

You, all edges and precision,
the logic mind.
I, the artist,
unruly and alive,
painting between your lines.
Together, we unmade the fractures
and called it a whole.

A dragonfly hovered—
fragile, fleeting—
a reminder of your soul
and the weight of what you left.
The brittle smile you wore,
I held it once,
felt the shatter in my hands.

Now, I sketch the absence,
and you map its edges.
Between us,
a quiet collaboration.
No need to name the loss,
no need to claim the light—
we move as one,
carving truth from shadow.
My Heart is a Rose
Delicately it grows, as flowers do;
I wish it were tough as nails.
Not so, although,
it's tough like a root,
That gets stronger the longer it grows
It creeps and sneaks through the dirt,
The ugly dirt.
It searches the depths for some food.
It knows what grows above,
and with love
It stays hidden, unburdened,
By the world that would judge.
It's beauty,
could never compare,
However without it there,
Everyone knows,
nothing can grow,
Without love.
Is it a sin to see my beauty within?
Some vain train of thought,
What I've never been told.
Knowing all that I'm not,
My beauty, behold, seeps through
And then seemingly out of the blue,
A flower bursts through.
It blooms, it grows, it's beauty, it knows.
And as it fades and gets ready to die,
It has no care for never meeting your eye,
to behold I.
And my ***** roots down below.
_
of all the love
and hate,
we are all
going
to the last word

End.
I lost myself
in the process
of finding happiness

©IGMS 2022
dear mother,
my mental health is not a spectator sport.

you do not get to tell me "you need to go to school to learn to be a decent person" when i am too depressed to get out of bed and then brag about my ACT score.
it is not your score. it is mine.

dear mother,
you do not get to tell me that you are sending me to a psychologist to "learn how to treat other people" and then ask me if i am okay. i am not okay.

dear mother,
you do not get to watch me hyperventilate under a bed on a school morning and get angry and then brag to your friends about my GPA. it is not your GPA. it is mine.

dear mother,
you do not get to scream at me for "upsetting your household" and order me to take easier classes and then brag to your friends that your daughter took 5 AP classes. yes, that is hard, but you made it harder.

dear mother,
you do not get to scold me when, yes, i stayed up all night but didn't finish my work but then brag to your friends about my success. it is not your success. it is mine.

dear mother,
you do not get to push me down and then comment on how wonderfully i got back up.

you do not get to cheer me in success and boo me in defeat. i am not a sports team, i am your daughter

dear mother,
you are not my mother. you are my fair-weather fan, and yes i am doing well now but i do not have time for autographs.

dear mother,
goodbye.
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