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Rose 2d
i have this dream of having a garden
a big strawberry garden
alone in a modern cozy cabin
with my three cats -- black, orange, and a mix of every color

wind breeze blowing inside my big windows
mesh pale white curtains dancing
ducks are swimming gracefully in the pond
the ding of the oven, smelling the freshly baked cinnamon bread

jazz music playing, wine glass in my hand
silk night gown touching my soft skin
swaying through the rhythm nonchalantly
breathing in clean vanilla perfume

as i've said, i have this dream of having a garden
a big strawberry garden
alone in a modern cozy cabin
i'm still dreaming...
i mean, who doesn't want to live in a cabin with a strawberry garden?
L Aug 27
A girl

A girl with a dream

To see and explore the world

A girl with a fire

A burning passion

For adventure

A girl

A girl looking out her window

Waiting for the day

Her dream will become her reality

One day
Love is the shell of the oyster
The caramel centre
The worrisome weather

Coast coasting shooter
Cyanide chaser
Hand with the feather
That beckons, bats, pressures

Love is a dream without dreamers
The real thing

Love is the magical realm of beauty we wanted to lift...
A waterfall pounding
All streams of past to the place...
Love is everything missed and remade
Space grey minds – made complicated –
These hotel mind-mansion muddled mud-bloods’ migraines, migrate through marble madness in a world where mirrors set a wide mould...

Bouquet of the fitting brain,
these silverfishes, odd souls, under glass mass,
forge their separate ways -
to avid void identities,
paving stone by paving stone, thought by thought,
scar by scar, screen by screen, smelling and selling our spirit...

Like the gold smoke whispered clouds from her serious clown mouth...
and the deep blue sky night turbulent feeling,

We’re stone dragging dreamers,
born gutter of the night,
eyes always feeling...

With roof rows of crimson,
these car attached mannequins,
Wake up where magic meets music -
Strange sheep soft in the glitching hope hearts of these sugar plane crash cities.
Tonight, the moon is dressed
in lavender shadows, and
rhinestone starlight.

A showgirl dancing on
a windowsill, she tempts
a dreamer to shed inhibitions.

There’s no yesterday
or tomorrow at midnight.
Luna’s wink through the curtain
is a kiss without regrets.
In my desk drawer
are broken things,
bits of what were,
hopes of what could be.

It’s a journal without words
where a red paper clip
holds nothing together,
and a tape measure
never reached the length
of a bookshelf.

Tucked in a corner
is a faded love letter from my husband,
a few words about roses, and
how beautiful I was at seventeen.  

Sticky notes lay scattered
in confetti colors of green,
pink, yellow, and blue
waiting for ink instead
of just taking up space.

I should clean it out…
send most of it to a waste basket,
but not every treasure box holds gold.

Mine is a cluttered drawer
filled with broken things, the
archaeological site of a dreamer
with a catalogue of stories to tell.
Dua lamari Jul 17
''A beautiful weather,
Where trees float in the air,
Where the sound of rain
Just makes you want to catch a train.

It's all in the picture now,
Since the day I made a vow.

Nothing lasts forever,
I thought it was impossible to say the word “never.”

I'm just a girl whose dreams are too high,
But never high enough to defeat me.

I'm still the same girl you see every day,
I am the girl that I dream to be.

No matter how many times you blow,
I will still let myself grow.

For every leaf that fell from the tree,
For every tear that escaped and said, “I'm free...”
For every flower that I was given,
That made me fly in the dream I lived in.

I'm here today, for all the women who never got to say:
“I wish to be whoever I want to be... and someday, I will be.”

You see, this is not a drill,
Or a game you can finish on a grill.

It’s ourselves—our rights, our voices—who will be heard,
Within our dreams that will be free, like a bird.

The sky is clear,
And the sound of rain is all I want to hear.
While the moon is gazing at me,
And the stars are inspiring me.

Ugh…
No better day to write how I feel.''
''Note every candle dies in the dark,some bloom instead.''
Wandering around the room like I'm in a cycle, spiraling.
Hours passed, it hurts my knees from within.
Creating the millionth dream in my fantasy,
Will I ever stop this pattern or has it become a part of me?

Witnessing all these blurry images in me
Happy crowds and smiling faces, rising from my tragedy.
Is it my brain that is protecting me?
By creating false realities I've never tasted.

Should i be grateful for it or just stop?
My tasks are overflowing from the desk, a pile so high, someone could climb to the top.
My intuition tells me to cut this habit off,
Like a tumor that should be chopped.

Finally discovered it's all just parts,
Drenched in dark pitch, starving larks.
The moments i should have been in,
Have they turned into curses or are they just blessings?

Constantly putting off, it's addicting
Cause as long as I am in my head and dreaming,
I wouldn't need any other thing
Still, I can sense my higher self hoping:

Someday in the future I'd be quitting
Replacing these fake memories with something genuine
I don't know if it will happen but if it ever does
My legs would finally sigh and be greatly thanking.
I’m just the dreamer, lost in the static of the world—
a perfect schemer trying to carve a shape from shadows,
trying to make something of my own in a place that feels
prewritten. But who really knows what it means to lose a piece
of your ******* soul

not metaphor, not poetry— but that quiet, splintering
ache when belief begins to bleed.

And that’s the cruelest part: when the dreaming continues,
but the dreaming itself feels so ******* lonely.
When every idea echoes in an empty room, and you realize
the silence is louder than your hope.

Still— you dream. Not because it’s easy. Not because it
makes real sense. But because what else is left when the
world stops listening, and you still believe? A piece of
that dream!
Kalliope Jun 5
To the girls who grew up too fast,
now women who cling to hopes of magic,
I'd like to propose a toast and raise a glass-
the reality we escape from is tragic.

Whether your vision is a knight or prince,
or even a jester at times,
I want you to know I feel less alone,
drinking tea and reading your rhymes.

To the ones who whisper to stars at night,
who still make wishes when clocks strike eleven- eleven,
we may not have fairytales etched in gold,
but we scribble our own versions of heaven.

To the ones who carry too much weight,
and still find time to dream,
here’s to healing in fragments and poems,
and patching our hearts at the seams.
Therapy is expensive
Poetry is priceless
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