She whispers a beautiful sound in my ear
telling me I am still here
she gives exuberant freedom around me
from the world that is so bare
is freedom really free or is it just a plea
i screamed for bloody mercy
And no one heard me
awakening my soul, from depths within
she shoots radiant tones like a violin.
the surge of her vigilance
gives me a sense of consciousness
near water is her stimulus
she rarely will deliquesce
she’s the gust of fresh current
never once slashed or burnt
never a strain, always a servant
to the broken hearted person.
About the Creator
H.b. Woods
I am a mental health warrior; I battle it daily. I’m a mom to 5, a wife, a daughter, and a friend. Some of my poems are brutal as my ‘journey’ continues. Thank you for taking the time to read my poems.
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Amazon River Is Cursed
I wander through the dark and mysterious night, lost and alone, my heart and soul drained; it was once full of wonder. The world is a dull and faded gray, once so full of beauty, a heart heavy with weariness. But like a beacon shining in the dark, a glimmer of hope appeared. The chance to escape, to break free of my fears. A journey, a quest to return to the magic I once knew. I must reignite the spark. I am once again full of wonder. I find myself in a place full of myth and legend. A place where the Yacuruna roam with their unrelenting power. The guardians of rivers, their secrets, and treasures untold. The place where the unknown lurks and the brave shimmer as gold. I think of the stories of beauty and the might of their ability to lure a victim into their sight. Their power to bring bounty and despair, the capricious figures dreaded beyond compare. I see them as beautiful, alluring beings. As guardians of the rivers, they might be unseeing. I see them use their power and their right. To bring life or to extinguish the darkest night. I think of the rituals and the offerings made. The worship and chant that promise aid. The shamans and healers do them for the respect, the beauty, the curse, and the land.
By Owen Belenabout 16 hours ago in Poets
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In memory of the 12 girls who were among the first victims of the atomic age. The screen on Mara's smartphone screamed beams of blue light into her eyes as she doom scrolled through social media. It was 4:13am, and she was still laying on her side in her bed unable to let go of the news headlines whipping past.
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