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I stopped listening to songs
with bridges—
they always begged.

I shrunk my appetite
until it fit inside
your gaze.

Then I shrunk
my gaze.

I killed the part of me
that expected softness.

She died
like a deer:
slow,
staring,
unconvinced
until the end.

I buried all of it
in poems
and told myself
that was healing.

But I check
the dirt
sometimes.

And things
move.
Linden Lark Apr 21
Come sit with me
beneath the moon,
when you feel lost
and hopeless—
like there is no light.

She’s learned how to shine
through all-consuming dark.
Inky, unforgiving.
No light of her own,
yet she gives enough
to make the shadows
yield in their mission.

Talk to the moon with me,
while the wind caresses your face.
Call the moon by her name.
Ask her about balance—
the never-ending dance:
how much to give,
how much to keep.

She never apologizes
for waxing,
for waning,
or even disappearing
completely from the night sky.

Yet still, the tides rise,
and the wolves
never stop howling.
Never questioning her power
In her absence.

Let the wind carry your words
Whisper her name,
Luna.
Then ask her questions with me.
No one else is more likely
to hold answers for hearts like ours.
She’s fought more battles than we can count,
yet look at her tonight—
scarred,
and utterly stunning.

And perhaps,
if you can find the silence
on just the right kind of night—
where her scars glow the brightest
And the wind is humming soft through the trees—
the moon and the breeze
might conspire,
and bring you something
your heart desires.

The lessons of the moon,
carried in whispers on the wind:
how to stay soft,
and just a little magical,
in this savage,
yet ordinary life.
Ronit Apr 20
I heard the other day that you went to touch the blue horizons, riding the lonely waves.
I heard the other day you were walking along the endless shores, stretched across for miles upon miles.
Leaving only your solitary footsteps behind ...

I have never seen these shores, never glided on the blues.
Never caught a glimpse of the vastness that embraces eternity with such grace.
Never for a second in the life of a singular eternity have I thought that maybe, just maybe, serene feelings lie in simplicity.
So, next time, when you go to the and walk along the endless shores to meet the horizon,
Will you take me along? ...

It's just that I've been thinking recently.
How, from the beginning, we are rigged to self-destruct.
How much we yearn for oblivion with every atom in our flesh and blood.
Yet, we never think for a moment about these footprints we leave behind.
And our parting sighs ..

If you look at me now.
Sleepless nights, bloodshot eyes, weary soul, and still trying to reconnect.
But you were always beyond my reach, always up so high.
Endless foolish attempts of mine to reach you among the stars.
But everytime I have overlooked one simple fact.
That you have always belonged to the sky ...

Live on, and keep dreaming on.
These self-centric lifestyles, mine and yours, ours and theirs, closer and torn apart.
If this is the definition of love,
Why am I fighting for peace? ...

But I heard that you still dream, still write stories, poems, and songs about all of us.
Chant music of the olden days from the depths of your soul.
The saga of human existence still makes you think that love still blossoms.
In the far corners of this world, like a still blooming rose.
So, the next time, when you write another song about the love that still blossoms,
Will you write some lines about me? ...

You should write something beautiful, something only a foolish romantic would say.
"Hold my hand close in the middle of a crowded street, and maybe I will reconnect."
So that I can answer you with this,
"Make me believe in closure again, and maybe I will again look at your face." ...

If it's not too much trouble, can we just talk all night?
Just you and I?
Until the stars cross our paths,
And sing us a lullaby? ...

I heard that you still wait for the end of the eons at the edge of eternity.
Still watch the starry skies on melancholy evenings with the eyes where the horizon finally came to rest.
I have never seen this edge before, nor have I seen such evenings.
So, the next time when you go there,
Will you invite me? ...

Maybe we will watch the starry explosions in the sky.
The end of everything on a melancholy evening,

With your hand in mine? ...
Maryann I Mar 11
Hello, dear poet,
Come closer now—yes, you, love.
This poem is a cradle,
a soft hum rocking through time,
meant for the child you once were—
the one who clutched wonder with both hands,
who cried quietly behind closed doors,
who dreamt of magic even in the dark.

Shh, it’s okay.
You were always trying your best.
You were never too much, never not enough.
You were a wildflower learning to grow
even in the cracks of concrete.
Your dreams were as big as the sky,
and every fall was just a reason
to rise up stronger, a little more sure
that everything would be okay.

Remember the days
when the world was a puzzle you were eager to solve,
when the corners of your mind were wide open,
and every answer felt just out of reach?
But sweet one,
there was no rush—
time had its own rhythm for you to follow,
and you danced to it
with your tiny, unshakable steps.

When the shadows stretched long and wide,
when fear whispered your name,
and doubt felt like an endless rain—
remember,
it was okay to curl up,
to seek comfort in soft things—
blankets, warm arms,
the lullaby of the wind through the trees,
the quiet hum of someone who loved you.

And now, dear poet,
you’ve grown,
but that child,
the one with the bright eyes and the open heart,
is still with you.
They are the spark behind your every word,
the soft whisper in your chest
that says, ”You’re okay.
You’re safe now.”


Don’t forget them,
the one who believed in stars
and who whispered to the moon when no one was listening.
They are still here,
still breathing,
still dancing in your soul.

So, dear poet,
when the weight of the world feels too heavy,
remember—
you were always held
in ways you never quite understood,
always loved
in ways that made the darkness bearable.

And no matter where you go,
you will never be too far from that safe place—
where everything,
yes, everything,
will be alright.
This poem is a cradle—a soft place for your heart to rest.
It was written for the child you once were, the one who needed gentleness, warmth, and words that felt like home.
Let it hold you the way you always deserved to be held. You are safe now. You are still growing. You are still loved.
Maryann I Mar 2
Drifting like whispers through lavender evenings,
golden light pools where the fireflies glow,
Soft is the hum of the honeyed horizon,
melting like warmth on the skin ever slow.

Fingers trace maps in the hush of the silence,
stories are spun in the hush of your breath,
Laced in the air is the fragrance of clover,
soft as a promise that time won’t forget.

Murmurs like nectar drip sweet on my lips,
tangled in whispers so tenderly spun,
Moonlight dissolves in the amber of longing,
melting in ribbons of love left undone.

Here in the hush where the firelight lingers,
golden and sweet as the touch that we share,
Honeyed embraces dissolve into morning,
warm as your voice in the dawn-silver air.
Maryann I Feb 20
They tell him he is not a flower,
not soft, not meant to sway.
A man must stand like oak and iron,
unbending in the storm’s display.

But even mountains crack with time,
and rivers carve through stone.
Still, he tucks his petals inward,
pretending he is made of bone.

He’s taught that thorns are armor,
that roots must never show,
that to bloom is to be broken,
that to weep is to let go.

But flowers starved of rain will wither,
left to shrivel in the heat.
And men, too, will turn to silence,
fearing softness makes them weak.

So let them bloom, let them bend,
let them speak their pain in sight.
For a flower wilts not from the wind,
but from the absence of its light.
This poem explores the delicate nature of emotions and challenges the societal expectation that men must be unyielding and stoic. The flower metaphor represents both the vulnerability and strength inherent in all people, suggesting that emotions, like flowers, need space to grow and thrive. Toxic masculinity, however, teaches men to hide their feelings, to suppress their emotional needs, and to adopt a rigid, unbending exterior.
Asher Nov 2024
Whispers in the breeze,
Leaves pirouette, gold and red,
Autumn sighs softly.
Emery Feine Oct 2024
Raised by a pair of dragons
Dodging their huffs and puffs of smoke and fire
And if I accidentally step on their tail
I'll burn on my own fiery pyre

And I watch the others with their parents of rabbits
While I'm here, trying not to be burnt
And while I dodge these flames once more
I think about what could've been, was or weren't.
this is my 92nd poem, written on 4/19/24
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