Why did you only love me when I made you proud?
Why didn’t you help me when I asked for it?

Why did you threaten to leave me behind?
To send me away?
To give me to someone else?

Why did you blame your illness on me?
Why did you say I wouldn’t even cry if you died?
Why did you tell me I could leave anytime —
And never show my face again?

Why do you still say things that hurt?

I hate that I can’t talk to you.
I hate that I can’t ask for help —
Can’t ask for something I need, like other kids do.

I hate that I have to hide the cuts.
That I have to lie about the bruises.
That I have to pretend I’m okay.

I hate coming home.

Why did you treat me like an adult when I was still just a child?
Why did you guilt-trip me...
And then confess why you did it —
As if that made it okay?

Why did you do that?
Why did you hurt me like that?

Can you hear my voice
screaming into the void?
Can you feel me loving you
in the silence?
Do you know me
in the blur between seasons,
when time loses meaning,
and memories breathe like now?

There are strange mystery’s,
All around us in many ways,
Why certain events happen,
And different actors, come,
Into our world, as others fade,
The timing is often perfect,
To help us air out our thoughts,
Questions without answers,
Can lead to confusion, for days.

No one is right, all of the time,
Being wealthy, does not make,
A person more wiser, in their mind,
The words that one person speaks,
Can lead another, to a lost find,
Everyone is on a personal path,
Accept, honest simple things too,
Listen follow positive signs.

This life, just a slice of our journey,
For our soul, which learns, in many ways,
Meet, inter act, with many different cultures,
Sharing, understanding, creates, positive times,
No trust, when money, more important, than people today,
From, wanna be the dictators, buying positions, to fabricated news,
Good ratings, are more important than truth is, for their bottom line.




                                      The Original: Tom Maxwell  © 08/04/2025 AD

Will I ever recover?
From what you put me through?
Will I ever become a lover?
Or is that ruined too?

Will I forever be broken?
From what you said to me?
Will I eventually have forgotten?
Or is this just destiny?

Why is it that even now?
After months of no contact?
You still affect me somehow?
Every thought you still impact?

Why are you part of my history?
Why did you put me through this?
Why can’t I forget already?
Is this just how it is?

(In answer to Mister Truth's poem:
"https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5117352/my-poetic-slice-for-anais-is-she-really-a-true-lover-of-the-tasty­-italian-triangle/"  because he mused me.)

I'm not just going to analyze pizza,
Or simply strategize about pizza.
I'll romanticize, evangelize and tantalize with pizza.
Because, honestly, I actually fantasize about pizza.

Papa Johns, Pizza Hut, Dominoes
Euuw, please, none of those

Garlic Crust? That’s a must.
Parmesan? Bring it on.
Anchovies? None for me.

What about cheese in the crust?
The whole idea leaves me nonplussed.

Ham and pineapple - that's just satire.

I say, “spare garlic and spoil the vampire.”
If that makes me hard to kiss - tight juju - I embrace my bliss.

Sausage or pepperoni, That's your question?
Put 'em together! That's my suggestion.

A simple cheese pizza has a timeless cachet,
but sometimes I take my pizza all the way.

And yes, I’ll still respect them the next day.
What? You put it in the microwave?
“Ok, you - be on your way!”

ring ring What, you’ve got pizza leftovers?
Ooo, baby, unlock the door, I’ll be right over!
.
.
matters of the heart by lovlaine
Overthinking IT by WILLOW

Does a cactus understand it’s prickly?
Does a pencil know it’s writing lines?

Does a sock realize it’s being worn,
Does a teapot know it’s boiling over?

Does a cloud understand it’s floating by?
Does a brush realize it’s painting strokes?

Does a coin feel its journey in someone’s pocket,
Does a door know it’s opening or closing?

Does a match know it’s sparking flame?
Does a pebble realize it’s part of the path?

Does a river know it’s always moving,
or does it simply follow the current,
without thought,
just being?

Maybe it’s the not knowing
that makes us move,
that makes us be,
each moment unfolding
without question.

or maybe its 3:16 a.m. and I’m just going crazy

देव भेटला तर विचारेन त्याला –
तू ही सृष्टी बनवलीच कशाला?
का बनवलास तू हा सूर्य,
आणि का बनवलीस ही ग्रहमाला?

का पाणी तू निळंच बनवलंस,
का चंद्राला ठेवलास पांढरा?
आणि का आहेत हिरवी झाडं,
अन् का केशरी भंडारा?

का पृथ्वी सर्वात वेगळी?
का फक्त मानवच हुशार?
का मानव एवढा क्रूर,
आणि का प्राणी लाचार?

का मनुष्याने केली प्रगती?
का बदलली ही दुनिया सारी?
स्वतःला संपवण्याची करत आहे का
स्वतःच मनुष्य तयारी...?

Today, I'd like to take a journey
and if you'll allow me, I'd like to take you with.
But don't pack much.
Just bring someone you love.
Go ahead, grab them, I'll wait.
If they're not near, find a photo,
a voicemail, a sweater they wore.
Hold them in your arms
in your mind
however you can;
as if they could vanish when you blink.

Let's walk awhile
through questions we rarely dare to ask

Tell me:
if science offered you a perfect clone
of the one you loved most,
same laugh, same eyes,
same habit of laughing at your jokes, even when they aren't funny
would you say yes?
Or would you find comfort
in their imperfections being unrepeatable?
Do they have any imperfections?

If you and your loved one had one final day:
no illness, no warning,
just 24 hours gifted to the two of you
how would you spend it?
Would you dance in the rain like its a movie?
Would you say things out loud
that your heart's been whispering for years?
Would you smile, laugh, cry, yell?

And tell me:
have you studied their face lately;
like a sky about to lose its stars as the sun peeks over the horizon?
Do you remember the first moment
you knew they were your favorite word
in a language you thought you'd forgotten?

We tend to wait for grief to ask these questions for us
when the voice is gone, the phone is quiet
the sweater is folded in a drawer like a secret tucked away.
But what if we asked now
while we can still kiss the answers?

So,
before this poem ends,
before you scroll,
before time wins its race,
hold them,
call them,
love them,

Tell them the things you'd regret never getting to say.
Watch how their eyes answer you.
Notice how lucky you are
to have someone
worth asking these questions for.