He wrote me hateful letters,
addressed to the woman,
who was no longer his wife,
a few last disgusting words,
to remember him by.
I have them in a drawer,
of my cottage style kitchen.
Alone in the countryside,
dreaming of the life, I quietly,
manifested beyond his grip,
deep within a love, I cultivated,
on rainy spring days, such as this.
He Wore Misogyny Beautifully
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I'll breathe in the weaknesses you perceive,
a false perception, sitting on the surface,
of your beautiful, demure soul, touching,
a distant memory, to sleep in the peace,
you've left to silently suffocate in the cold.
Strength in Vulnerability
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As you rise in authenticity,
the narcissist will burn,
with hatred and intensity.
Your beautifully fragile heart,
may once again seek refuge,
in a lifeless man's cruel arms.
His love, a dissonant push and pull,
that ripped us apart at the seems,
prevailing in fragmented dreams.
Authenticity of Dreams
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Gold and blue bedroom | shishaeva
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~ ~ ~ Easy does it ~ ~ ~ (at Mermaid Beach, Queensland, Australia)
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I pray that when you feel left behind,
in love or life, that you continue to rise,
bathed in the warmth of the morning sun,
arms outstretched, ready for another try.
There are no dress rehearsals, that’s alright,
So, if sadness crawls it’s way, to your pale eyes,
do what you must to embrace, this beautiful life,
the nature of God's gifts, bestowed in due time.
Find strength in the stillness of his footsteps,
the light that bends, traveling into our darkness,
work a little harder, to find forgiveness and grace,
in the break of dawn, falling softly over his face.
And in all the peace you fought quietly to attain,
from souls who've left and ones who've stayed,
while remembering, all the world is your stage.
No Dress Rehearsals
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