Activity
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sacred-chapeter shared a letter in the Poetry group 8 hours, 34 minutes ago
Black sheep like me
Black sheep
Don’t you know you are exquisite?Black sheep
(Don’t you see)
you are valued beyond mere measure?
(Black sheep)
You are like treasures yet to be found
(Black sheep)
I perceive you in your genuine form
(Black sheep)Why isn’t your brilliance
(Why can’t you shine)Black sheep
you were summoned forth to thrive
can’t you recognize your radiance?(Black sheep)
you are a constellation of hopes and dreams
(Black sheep)
you are the symphony that twirls through the night, a flicker of hope, an anthem of strength.
Black sheep
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Atarrius Jacobs, aka, AJ Devon shared a letter in the Poetry group 1 days, 7 hours ago
Injured Reserve.
I’m prone to injuries;
and forced to rehab as a result of these self-destructive tendencies.
But one day…
One day imma be the man that I pretend to be.
Don’t hinder me.
Just remember me.
Burn my remembrance in their memory.
Don’t just sing about me when I’m gone.
Turn my song into a symphony.
Cry for me, rage for me.
But promise that you’ll save me the sympathy.Injured Reserve. (Mirror Edition.)
Do whatever, but promise that you’ll save me the sympathy.
Rage for me, cry for me.
Turn my songs into a symphony.
Don’t just sing about me when I’m gone,
Burn my remembrance into their memory.
Just remember me.
Don’t hinder me.
One day imma be the man that I pretend to be.
But one day,
Because of these self-destructive tendencies, I’ll be forced to rehab;
and forever prone to injury.-AJ Devon
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Michael George shared a letter in the Poetry group 2 days, 18 hours ago
Prospects
Time for a new prospect
Have my eyes a couple.
Might Burts a few bubbles, just
To see if it is worth the trouble,
Taking a chance.
Making some plans,
With some Subtle demands
But….
Only time will tell if it’s prosperous.Subscribe  or  log in to reply
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Penny Powell shared a letter in the Poetry group 3 days, 8 hours ago
Rhythm
What’s your rhythm?
Today, I awoke thinking about mine
My rhythm, designed by The DivineThat said:
It’s a rhythm of love
Created by The One AboveIt’s a rhythm of joy
Authentic, not a ployIt’s a rhythm of peace
May it never ceaseIt’s a rhythm of patience
Open to innovationIt’s a rhythm of kindness
Graced by divinenessIt’s a rhythm of goodness
Painted on a canvasIt’s a rhythm of faithfulness
And large doses of gratefulnessIt’s a rhythm of gentleness
Created not to dismantle thisIt’s a rhythm of self-control
Gentle but boldIt’s a rhythm of the Fruit of The Spirit
With me? Let’s hear it…It’s a rhythm that’s introspective and fun
Moving to the soulful beat of the drumIt’s a rhythm of flow
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Kenia Polanco shared a letter in the Poetry group 3 days, 13 hours ago
The Fog
The Fog
The sky was wet
No drops
You could still smell the fall of it all on the blades of green
I can still hear its naked skin running across the forest
The crackling of the branches sounded like his jaw clicking
I’d open my mouth, trying to mimic his steps
The fear convinced me of what was getting closer
The vicious fog man
Grandiosity in his carnivorous form
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Atarrius Jacobs, aka, AJ Devon shared a letter in the Poetry group 4 days, 1 hours ago
Fire Sign. (not a poem, just a state of mind.)
I feel everything. I am everybody.
one soul.
seven billion minds.
seven billion bodies.Sometimes I think I’m God’s ghost;
living out the memories of my vessels before I’m laid to rest.
And so I wonder…
when did God die?
are we complicit? who’s the witness?
and when God cried, did they listen?Theories that may never be confirmed.
Secrets that I might die with. Or have to die to get.
The only thing I endorse as truth:
is that my mind is forming a temple for anger and agony to worship.True, I harbor anger.
Not normally, just recently.
and not violently, but if it was, justifiably.
I have every right to be.
Even when it’s not right to be.I don’t know how I manage it.
I don’t know if I could heal the world with all my damage.
If I could exchange my rage for flames,
I could burn every f***ing atom in existence twice over.
It’s worse with a clear mind, I could do it three times sober.Maybe it’s my anger, my rage that makes me pure.
Maybe the fire cleanses me.Burning me down.
Reducing me, not to ash, but to one of the few pillars of existence.
Pain. Fire.
And how you either want every soul to feel the flames as you did,
or you become that shield for those as you wish you had.Yeah, I think the fire cleansed me.
Because it doesn’t hurt anymore.
It just burns now.-AJ Devon
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sacred-chapeter shared a letter in the Poetry group 4 days, 5 hours ago
Orchid
I was cold, alone and afraid… I managed to survive winters. I survived rain. I survived torment. My bloom now reaches the sun and my leaves are revived and outstretched… screaming, thank you! For nothing is by chance. Nothing. You didn’t know who I would become. Yet you covered me, nonetheless. Thank you for putting dirt on my name-Orchid
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Michael George shared a letter in the Poetry group 4 days, 6 hours ago
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Barbara Lorello shared a letter in the Women's Empowerment group 4 days, 14 hours ago
Dear Julia Roberts
Dear Julia Roberts:
You and I met in 1988 when I saw you as an up-and-coming actress in a film called Mystic Pizza. I didn’t really know you, but I was intrigued by the film’s name; I grew up less than fifty miles from that little pizza place in Mystic, Connecticut. My husband used to ride his bike past the real Mystic Pizza all the time. His grandmother lived near there.
I remember watching that film, seeing a young actress with a certain twinkle in her eye thinking, boy she’s going to go far. And you did.Pretty Woman is one of my all-time favorite movies. I used to binge watch it repeatedly, watching that Cinderella story end like every young girl thought it should; with the guy getting the girl and the girl getting the guy. Of course, having Richard Gere be the guy didn’t hurt, but that’s another letter.
After that, there was no stopping you. Every film you made, to me, was a hit. Watching you play different women, some strong, some not so strong, helped me believe I could do whatever I wanted with my life. And I did.
I lived vicariously through your characters. Notting Hill and Runaway Bride were two more of my favorites. But when you portrayed Erin Brockovich in 2000, I think that was one of your best films. It allowed me to see a more serious side of you as a strong woman with a passion for the underdog. Talk about perfection; you played it well.
As time went on you continued to impress. Taking time to have and raise a family, immersing yourself in philanthropic ventures, and speaking out about causes that are near and dear to your heart. I’ve really enjoyed watching blossom into a beautiful, passionate and talented woman that I’ve come to admire.
I know we’ve never met, and likely never will. But I wanted to know that you’ve made an impact on my life. And for that I’ll be grateful forever.
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Darnel LaFrance shared a letter in the Mental Health group 5 days ago
smile
the day you begin at your lowest is the day they need you to smile,
to “look like you want to be here,” to put on the mask,
so you don’t ruin his day, so you don’t make her uneasy.
honesty is selfish, so you force the grin,
the dam holding back grief as it threatens to flood,
an apology for daring to express a neurotic emotion,intrusive thoughts rush through cracks,
the fracture in understanding reality where you don’t know how to accept what’s true,
having faith in the dark of your closed eyes that you will see light when you open them again,
these truths that shape your identity and guide your actions,
an inundation that leaves you horrified by what belongs to you,
until you fortify for mind with a pill
as i slip into comfortable delusion, breathe shallow,
my medicine tastes like lobotomy.the hollow platitudes of condolences that feel obligated to speak by the collective obligation to speak,
“hope you feel better”
“you sound crazy.”
pressing at the seams of your fragile control.
it thrives on this quiet, this forced calm,
i’m impatient.makes you wonder where the clear water went,
if it was ever there at all,
makes you feel like you had it coming during the day you’re at your lowest,
when you’re meant to lead a presentation for your boss- pace your self and inhale deep so they can’t hear tremble in your voice,
when you’re meant to join your family for dinner- running through multiple choice scenarios in an attosecond to formulate the intricate lie you’ll tell your mother in lieu of causing her worry,
when you have no thoughts to share as tour body puppeteers your actions to fulfill your daily routine,
somewhere deep within no matter how hidden,
a forcefully forgotten memory of trauma is randomly triggered and you lose control, embarrassing yourself by letting see the face behind the mask,
the pain behind the smile,
makes you feel like you deserve to hurt*** yourselfSubscribe  or  log in to reply
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Michael George shared a letter in the Poetry group 5 days, 4 hours ago
The Journey is the Destination!
Conversation for reciprocation
But don’t follow my suggestions.
I’m self healing self medicating.
To follow this you’re gonna need
A deeper understanding.
I have a few books I recommend you read.
If you can understand it
Let me know what you think.
I was brought to the brink.
Had to broaden my prospective.
Then became empathetic,
Eccentric to the public.
With these feelings exerted
Comes exertion.
Had to explore while reciprocating
Information & understand,
“The Journey is the Destination”.Subscribe  or  log in to reply
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Michael George shared a letter in the Poetry group 5 days, 7 hours ago
New Project
I use to hate writing
But I think it was the action.
Now, I’m writing with
My thumb, never cared for penmanship
Or my grammar & punctuation.
I liked drawing, took my time with it.
Now I’m creating different images.
Writing these words
From past experiences.
You can see this projection.
Working on a new project.
My prerogative turned poetic.
Forget the pen, man, ship. These thoughts,
You can hear & see this plot.Subscribe  or  log in to reply
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Don'shea Graves shared a letter in the Poetry group 6 days, 23 hours ago
Under the stars
The hot, oily aquatic liquid begin to build up in my eyes as I glanced at the night’s sky;
A moment’s glance and I saw only a single star;
Pondering for a while, more appeared before me;
How lovely this world of mines, that even in the heart’s darkest moments the light is still present
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Michael George shared a letter in the Poetry group 1 weeks ago
Illuminated
Spelling out my feelings
Casting a spell.
But there’s no magic here.
Only darkness being Suppressed.
With a extremely bright light
Pointing towards the direction I’m heading.
Concentrated with reflection
The colors coming out of a prism.
Im like a leprechaun chasing the gold
At the end of the rainbow.
After the dark Grey clouds dissipate,
You can see the colors start to
Take shape.Subscribe  or  log in to reply
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Oswald Perez shared a letter in the Poetry group 1 weeks ago
Remember, Remember The Month of November
Dear Unsealers…
It’s November 1st. It’s surreal as it’s seventy degrees outside right now.
Sixty days are left in 2024. This month is an eventful one, from Election Day, all the way down to Thanksgiving.
Though it doesn’t feel like November, I wrote my welcome to this month anyway.
Remember, remeber the month of November
60 days left to go in 2024
This month has arrived through the spooky doorHonoring saints, the dearly departed and veterans
A time to give thanks for what we have
And to set the path for the next four yearsWith the last 30 day month here and now
The clock ticks down, the last days of 38
39 is fast approachingWith Croatia and A Poetic Journey in the distance
It’s time plot a forward courseAs there’s time to remember, remember
Before the month of November, gives wayTo the year end’s mad dash, known as December
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Oswald, you are so right that it does not feel like it should be November yet. This month always seems to sneak up on me! Despite the unseasonably warm weather (at least in NC), I always enjoy the opportunity this month brings us for thanking those who have served and those who we are personally grateful for. And you’re right, December will be…read more
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Barbara Lorello shared a letter in the Women's Empowerment group 1 weeks ago
Dear Betty Crocker
Dear Betty Crocker: (My mother’s name is Betty)
I met you at an early age. You were in my mother’s kitchen long before I was born, but you were not there alone. Another woman, Fannie Farmer, graced my mother’s kitchen in her small cookbook collection.
Fannie was much older than you. Her original cookbook was published before 1896 for the Boston Cooking School. The book I inherited from my mother was last copyrighted by Wilma Lord Perkins in 1959. The binding is compromised, the cover torn, but the pages are intact, although stained from years of use.
I remember my mother using both cookbooks often. By nature, she was not a good cook. She stayed in a lane of soups and stews that left a lot of room for error without being inedible. Although, there were times when she concocted creations that left much to be desired. Like the time she “emptied the refrigerator” and decided to put shrimp cocktail sauce into my father’s homemade Sicilian gravy. Horseradish, an ingredient in cocktail sauce, gets hotter when cooked. This made the gravy so spicy it was not fit to eat for young children with delicate palates. Epic fail.
You and Fannie spent years trying to teach my mother to cook. While there were glimmers of success throughout the years, ultimately she would not master the craft.
A tradition in our family, as in many families, was that my mother would cook our favorite meal for our birthday. One of my last birthdays before she died, my mother made one of my favorite meals: galumpkis (polish cabbage rolls). She made them in the crockpot (stew-like meal) and served them over egg noodles. It was one of those comfort foods from my childhood.
The last time she made them something went terribly wrong. They were dry and burnt and not at all what I remembered from my childhood. Turns out she had forgotten to add the liquid ingredients to the crock pot. I think that was the last time she cooked for me. From there I would bring ingredients to my parent’s home on my day off and cook for them. It worked out better that way.
Betty, I gave you a bad wrap for a while. Pictures of a perfectly coiffed woman in a red dress with a white collar was what I remembered. Back in the day, there wasn’t all the information there is today, so I drew my own conclusion of who Betty Crocker was. For me, the stigma of being a stay-at-home mom cooking cobblers and pies was not what I was in for.
When I received my own copy of your cookbook for a bridal gift, I smiled the obligatory smile, feeling like I was pigeonholed into being the perfect wife. But as time went on, I learned that I needed you. My mother was not a great example and taught me little about cooking with fresh ingredients from scratch. Now I’ll admit I’ve had my fair share of mistakes, none of which I can blame on you or Fannie. Like the time I left chicken quarters on the grill unattended on low for over 30 minutes. By the time I got back to them, they were so dry that they were more like chicken dust than chicken quarters.
Or the time I made nacho pasta out of a can of nacho dip I bought to get us through a storm. Those who know me know I don’t eat much canned anything, but I don’t like to waste food either. This was my way of using something instead of throwing it away (boy, wonder where that came from).
My husband and son, who tasted it and refused to eat it, still kid me to this day. When I ask what they want for dinner, their response is anything but nacho pasta.Betty, I am honored to call you friend, and Fannie too, but now you sit at the table with the likes of Ina Garten, Giada DeLaurentis, Joanna Gaines, and Paula Deen, just to name a few. These ladies are included in my collection of over fifty cookbooks written by various chefs, both men and women. I believe you paved the way for their success.
In closing, I’d like to thank you and Fannie for laying the foundation for woman, and men, to create an entire industry around feeding people delicious food to fill our bodies and our souls. Bon appetite (let us not forget Julia Child).
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Barb, I love this letter so much. My mother is not an excellent cook, though she tries her very best. Sometimes, things just don’t mix! After reading your letter, I feel compelled to eat at her table and devour her mediocre food for as long as I can. Whether we enjoy baking pies or casseroles, we can all appreciate the process and show gratitude…read more
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Sara Johnson shared a letter in the Mental Health group 1 weeks, 1 days ago
Killing Me Slowly
Insecurities of my own keep me hostage to this life, A life that needs to change, deserving better, wanting better.
Daydreaming of what could be, the only ability that’s preformed. Slowly choking, as my internal demons slowly kill the life with in.
Depression, trauma, memories keeps their claws deep within. Coping anyway to make another day.
Cutting, turned into drinking. Drinking into pills, pills turn to suicidal thoughts, finally paper and pen keep me alive for today.
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Sara, you are not alone in the battle against yourself. Sometimes, even though we want and deserve better, we can’t find a way to change our lives. We might feel stuck and defeated. Though life can seem bleak at times, finding ways to cope with our feelings, however futile it may seem, is the best way to make it through. I’m glad that you have…read more
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sacred-chapeter shared a letter in the Mental Health group 1 weeks, 2 days ago
Pieces...yet I am whole
There’s a part that won’t let me cry
A part of me that’s says: it’s over now
The part of me that has forgiven
The part of me that has regained
The part of that has decided to love
even StillI choose love, even when it hurts,
In the wreckage of grief, it builds anew,
A tender thread weaving through my scars, resilience blooms in the ashes of pain,
And I can see my tomorrow in today
I can see my smile in the pieces that remainpieces…..yet I am whole.
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D’Elve, we are all a little broken, but still whole in our core. I love the way you describe choosing to love even when it hurts. This is something that we must be able to do if we want to find true happiness. We can’t hold in our love because it is too painful. That would only lead to a darkness that we would have a hard time escaping. Keep…read more
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Thank you! I love that line when you say: ” STILL WHOLE IN OUR CORE.” That’s the part I long to explore in my poetry. What is that thing that’s keeping up together although we feel like we are falling apart? Where is the secret place of wholeness….I’ve been feeling like i’m in a place of Limbo recently. I’m happiness but even happiness carries…read more
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sacred-chapeter shared a letter in the Poetry group 1 weeks, 2 days ago
Where Silence Dwells
You smile, but silence speaks within,
a yearning vast, a quiet spin.
Your laughter rings, yet shadows grow,
a hidden ache no one may know.Eyes bright as stars, yet far they gaze,
through layers thick, a woven haze.
The world can’t see what’s left behind,
the quiet storms within your mind.Each word a stone you dare not throw,
each glance a place you will not go.
You laugh, a spark beneath the night,
but sorrow clings to borrowed light.Oh, fragile heart, so brave and still,
your silences, a whispered will.
We hold what’s felt, but never shown,
in shadows cast, we are alone.Subscribe  or  log in to reply
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D’Elve, this is a beautiful poem that captures the quiet secrets of the heart. Personally, I think and feel a lot more than I articulate and I’m sure most people are this way. Even though people think they know our truth, we bury it somewhere deep inside us so that we can keep it safe. Thank you for sharing!
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Matthew Jablonsky shared a letter in the Poetry group 1 weeks, 2 days ago
My Horse Named Bear
Trotting along,
without a care.
My dearest friend,
My horse named Bear.His hair so black,
It matches the night.
Standing so tall,
In all of his might.If you listen real close,
You can hear him run.
His hooves strike the ground
Like the beat of a drum.I could watch him all day,
I’d stand here and stare.
My dearest friend,
My horse named Bear.I’ve been there for you,
that’s for certain.
But let’s take a look,
behind the curtain.You were there for me,
After I lost my Dad.
You kept me happy,
When my world seemed sad.All of my children
have rode on your saddle.
You helped me raise them,
and that was a battle.Through all of the hard times,
You’ve always been there.
My dearest friend,
My horse named Bear.It’s been so hard,
to see you in pain.
I’ve cried so much,
My tears are like rain.I know in my heart,
What I have to do.
But how on Earth,
Do I say goodbye to you?You’re more than an animal,
You’re more than a pet.
You’re a part of our family,
that we’ll never forget.These years with you,
Have been so great!
But its time for you to go,
to an even better place.And I know one day,
I’ll see you there.
My dearest friend,
My horse named Bear.-Poem written for my mother-in-law, Susan, and her horse, Bear, for his day of passing.
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Matthew, I think it is so amazing that you took the time to write this poem for your mother-in-law. It sounds like Bear was a great horse and an even greater friend, and I can’t imagine the pain she feels at losing him. I hope that the beautiful memories she shared with him, along with the words in this poem, will bring her comfort and peace.…read more
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