Oh, my little flower, how you’ve grown into a tree,
Your fruit the very essence of the snake that tempted Eve.
Oh, my little songbird, what a story you may tell,
It’s chords are written from the lines that birthed you deep in Hell.
Oh, my little devil, who can match your lovely face,
Carved by sin and hatred of he who dared spite Grace.
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[Image Description: on a black background there is a crescent moon, below it text reads, "I can't tell what's mine and what's borrowed. What's real and what's sorrow. I can't pry the ache from my bones, I can't find my way home. The world begins to feel too small and yet vast in the next moment. But with all these places are any places different from the spaces just paces from me? My ribcage is shrinking again. Tears in my lungs let out hisses like deflating balloons and soon... Does my world fall in again? Is there any breath in my lungs? Am I just a machine? A doll split apart at the seams? My stuffings falling out, and when I turn my face about I realize: little button eyes wouldn't see through your lies and they sure wouldn't cry. Does that make me human? Is it enough?"
End of text. Below it is dated 2023.11.15]
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frost creeps in with night
grass still green yet wearing
a cool coat of white
If you are reading
This right now, please reblog it
And write a haiku.
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When the world becomes too much and the echo of water fills my lungs once again. Only then.
Not in the calm, not even in the crying.
But in the dark. When the past grips its claws in my skin and tears at my soul --only then.
When everything hurts and I feel like I'm dying, finally then I feel them.
Do you feel a spiritual presence?
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Which place(s) won’t you ever go to again?
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take time
to rest now lest
the pressure of living
crush constellations into soft
stardust
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from @nosebleedclub august’s prompt xxviii. go to her
Man of stardust, he steps down from his skies,
kneeling in front of the girl as she cries.
He whispers to her, “the world can be cruel.”
Even though he knows; she has learned that rule.
Still, his presence is more than the words he could say
as she asks of him this: “just promise you’ll stay?”
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lightning strikes outside
raindrops knock at your window
go, dance in the storm
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Image Description: in the shape of the author’s best attempt at a bird, a poem reads:
The loon emerges from her springtime nest. Leaving the safety beside the calm lake shore. With downy chicks resting upon her back, she sings a sweet song to greet the new season. Her melody echoes along the water’s edge and meets the forest as it hums in harmony. Only the trees and the weeds truly know how she goes about her summers they know how she’s cried and they know where she hides when the hunters come ‘round. The sun glints off her dark feathers as she swims in her pond, she teaches us peace in all of its forms for she is a symbol of tranquility and renewed hope. So we follow in her wake as she shows us the way through the trials of summer and the path to relax.
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stand in the darkness
change with the face of the moon
dance with the starlight
wayward-birdie
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Did it end nicely?
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Magic calls on a Monday night
as the fires of Beltane crackle with life.
An heirloom clock ticks the seconds by
until we will greet the sunrise.
Let me borrow your light;
hide within the blue of your eyes.
I wonder how long this can last
before I sabotage myself with the past.
Hold my hand and watch the stars;
know that the darkness holds monsters
and that you are safe, regardless.
-Birdie
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Rest now, Beloved;
the wild rose is still
in bloom. Its beauty
shines for you alone.
The wild rose is still,
frozen in fresh snow that
shines for you alone.
Red upon a blanket of white.
Frozen in fresh snow. That
one last rose remains
red upon a blanket of white.
Wilting in the cold.
One last rose remains
in bloom, its beauty
wilting in the cold.
Rest now. Be loved.
-wayward-birdie
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The storm clouds gather at the sight of my tears—they’ve been with me, they’ve known me, for all of my years. The thunder rumbles above and the sky cracks at the sound of my sob. I shake and shudder as the cold seeps in my bones. But for all of its power the storm does not strike me with fear, it is safe in the rain, for I have brought it here. Yes, I am the cause of the storm to come.
Are you the cause of the storm to come?
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[Photo ID: the background is a yellow to orange gradient, on it is a poem that reads:
sunrise inked into my wrist and it insists
tomorrow will be better than today
but the lines that lay before it say
tomorrow’s just more of the same
each new days gains its own meaning
as hope and dread go head-to-head
and dawn’s first light paints the sky
-a credit in the bottom right reads: wayward-birdie. /End ID]
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Life Beneath The Waves
Life Beneath The Waves
Breathe out, bubbles rise from your lips. Breathe in, gills flutter against skin. The world above is loud, a cacophony of sound above the waves, but below it is quiet. Forceful tides will pull and the pressure will build the deeper you dive, yet there is a peace not found on land. It is safe underwater. Even near the top, where humans may still be found. Though, those humans, they bring chaos…
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Spring
A little bird, with plumage so yellow, sits in her tree and chirps a sweet ‘hello.’ Soft sunlight streams down as she flies from her nest; awakening her friends from their long Winter’s rest. Flowers blossom and bloom as she starts to sing. The little bird, they say, is named Spring.
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