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I opened that notebook again,
After ages I picked my pen.
Pressed strength on my wrist,
Gave my hand a gentle twist.

Scribbling through, I went on
In the world where ink lace spun.
But it was different from what I knew,
This ink was of a different hue.

And I flipped the pages back
A glimpse of me in the ink stained rack
The letters were bolder, deeper even
They held power higher than I now sustain.

And so I closed my notebook again,
It's ink wasn't in my own pen.
And I closed the lid once more
Let it sit where it was, before.
The ink wasn't mine to use,
It wrote a story where I couldn't fuse
Just a moment spent in prayer,
is worth more than all the wisdom this world can offer me.
Just a whisper from Jesus,
is enough to replenish,
to find the strength to finish my journey.

-Rhia Clay
Ali Hassan May 29
Three roads once lay before my eyes,
Beneath the sweep of silent skies.
The first was wide—a golden lane,
Where countless walked to dodge all pain.

It rang with laughs, with joy and cheer,
A life designed to mask all fear.
With rules to follow, dreams pre-made,
Where comfort kept the truth delayed.

The second glowed, but few would tread,
Where thinkers dwelled and logic led.
They questioned deep, they reasoned well,
But stayed within a guarded shell.

They built their truths with thought and care,
Yet never leapt beyond the air.
For all they saw, they feared the cost
Of seeking more, or being lost.

The third was cloaked in breath of shade,
A road where light and meaning fade.
No stars above, no voice, no guide—
Just silence stretched on either side.

It seemed I stood with choice in hand,
But deep inside, I’d never stand.
The first road smiled with soft deceit—
A velvet lie beneath my feet.

It offered peace, a gentle chain,
With dreams that dulled the edge of pain.
But in that ease, my fire grew thin—
A quiet death beneath the skin.

The second shone with sharpened grace,
But held me bound in one still place.
A cage of mind, of bright control,
That fed the brain, but starved the soul.

They lit the dark, but feared to leap,
So clung to truths they chose to keep.
They stood so close to something true,
But feared what change would make them do.

The third—it bled, it bit, it burned,
And showed me truths I’d never learned.
Each breath was torn, each step left scar—
A trail that broke but led me far.

No cheers ahead, no lights behind,
Just hollow winds and thoughts unkind.
Yet in the silence, sharp and clear,
I felt a voice the brave don’t hear.

It warned, “This road will lead to none.
It breaks the soul, it leaves you done.”
But pain revealed what fear had masked—
And so I walked, no questions asked.

No end in sight, no promised land,
Just storms that tore through where I stand.
Yet through the wreckage, fierce and true,
The shattered path was pulling through.

So let me fade, without a sound—
No song, no stone, no hallowed ground.
Though I vanish, lost and gone,
I walked the path that led me on.
Steve Page May 22
Your songs sweeten this bitter passing
Rudder me through to calmer waters.

Your words secure my departing
Restore my shredded sails
For this last crossing.

But first let me stay a story longer,
Tell me a tale from our voyages together:
Of past storms soothed,
Of old foes bested.

And so ready me to weather this course
To its end.
sometimes i come across a poem I've written (this time from 2017) and I'm almost convinced I must have copied it down from another poet.  But I cannot find this despite my best google-jitsu. I've concluded this did indeed come from my pen.
Steve Page May 21
Foller Gill’s story treads
seemingly softly, rhythmically,
leaves their fresh green mark
beyond the grey, beaten paths.

Foller Gill takes
the much lesser-trod course,
searches deeper, further, takes
secrets to their mainstream beck.

Euden Beck strides
hungry, curiously thirsty,
pushes past the slow, shaded fields,
scorns their hemmed-in universe.

Bedburn Beck ambles,
tramples down all resistance,
insistent in their pursuit
of an ancient destiny.

The Wear wanders,
snakes towards their final estuary,
savors the holy promise,
the gift of the free, North Sea.

Foller Gill bathes
unbound in their ocean.
And their legend continues.
After Inversnaid, by Gerard Manley Hopkins.
https://allpoetry.com/Inversnaid
You’ll find Foller Gill in the North Pennines National Landscape, as it starts its journey East.
reydmh May 19
Trotoar yang basah
karena es yang mencair,
Ungkapan penyesalan
beserta cacian terlontarkan.
Seseorang memilih hidup di masa lalu,
Seseorang yang ingin merubah semuanya,
Seseorang yang ingin mencari tujuan,
Kita semua punya dosa masing-masing bukan
"Kami tertawa kami sepakat
ini semua baru permulaan."

Beberapa pria sulit menceritakan hal buruk
yang terjadi pada dirinya,
Beberapa dari kita terjebak dalam rutinitas
yang tidak pernah kita sukai,
Pola yang berulang setiap pekan.
21 yang menyebalkan, namun penuh pelajaran
Kami melempar dadu yang sama berkali-kali dan menebak angka yang salah,
Kami anggap ini skakmat kehidupan
Menunggu dimakan atau membalas menyerang.

2025
reydmh
Cadmus May 21
🚂

We board with desire.

We return with clarity.

And somewhere between the stations,

we learn

What was attainable.

And what was worth carrying.

🚊
This poem captures the quiet transformation that time brings. We begin our journey burdened with ambition, desire, and expectation—only to return tempered by experience, having shed what we once thought essential. It’s a meditation on simplicity, loss, and wisdom.
Why BE lost at Sea
Screaming let me BE

You are not alone
On your own

When you fly through Everything
Hear your heart Sing

My Heart Knows
I'm Never Alone.

by Debra Lea Ryan & Life
18.02.2025
☀♥ƸӜƷ✿♬
In song @ You Tube https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aN0kCqkAUxE
Kshamata T May 17
As a child, I never understood the need for basic necessities. Strangely, even as a teenager, that understanding never came.

Then one morning, everything changed—not because I craved a luxurious lifestyle. I never asked for that.
Growing up, I always watched my mom earn every penny. So naturally, I started walking in her footsteps. But now, I find myself on the other side of the table. I’m the one in need.

When you've always earned everything, asking for help feels harder than working endlessly. And now—I’m supposed to ask.
The picture I had of myself at 16 never included asking for the bare minimum.

And yet, here I am, staring at myself at my worst. Seeking help. Trying to understand the blurred lines between the bare minimum, basic needs, and luxury.

Back then, talking about everyday chores was part of small talk. Now, finding someone willing to have that conversation feels impossible.
I never knew growing up would mean lowering my standards—in food, shelter, clothing... even companionship.

Being the elder daughter has always meant one thing: earn everything, ask for nothing.

The strange part? Earning is still easier.
New to the world of writing!
Trying to improve the journey ...
Grey May 14
If weeds could thrive—
Grow under duress,
Withstand the stomping,
Cling to minimal breath,
Evade the storm—
Then I want to be one.

No—
I am one.

But the downfall,
It’s a weakness:
Weeds get wiped out faster.
They welcome death
By choking what breathes beside them.
And so do I.
I realize.

I thought my forte was depth—
Roots dug well.
But now it’s dried, cracked,
And starting to burn
Others with it.
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