Gratitude
Saying No, Living Yes
Learning to say no is, in essence, learning to "cherish yourself." Many times, our unhappiness stems from our inability to refuse the unreasonable demands of others. Therefore, a skill you absolutely must unlock in life is learning to say no.
By Emily Chan - Life and love sharing3 months ago in Poets
The Sad Old Man Next Door
The Sad Old Man Next Door The sad old man next door once married a fish wife, He thought she’d bring him happiness and brighten up his life, But every night she flapped her tail and sighed beneath the moon, While he just stared into his tea and wished he’d left her soon.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
One More Day With Nana
One More Day With Nana At twenty-five, he stood a man, or so the world believed, But deep inside, he was her boy, with all his heart bereaved, For Nana was his safest place, his comfort and his home, And when she died, his whole wide world was suddenly alone.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
One More Hit
Yearning and cravings so bright they trip the light of my hovering steel wings flapping above dreams of one more hit in that sanctuary called No Return. I never asked for steady hands. I've held the ones that clawed and cried and dragged themselves through wastelands. It calls me by a different name at wrong turns, while the spurned hours of an old epoch forget the single seed buried beneath the slow, clotted bleed of using and drinking. Your name has not changed for what you've done. Not forever, just one hour, the whole unbroken sky for hating yourself self a little less. My trauma cinched these seat belts tight, a cul-de-sac of knowing where freedom devours its own shadow. And my small, defiant body. Or that tiny ass up in my face blocking the view of a pile of benzos. I'm not scrubbed-clean altars. I'm the the burnt-down house, still standing crooked but not in your way. But I take another, and another still, the porous pill so full of promise, a small white lie of overspreading pall. It swears my words can grow talons again, that my stories can sharpen into eagle eyes. I've seen you curled like a comma, unfinished, in rooms where the light gave up and left. So, I stop. There is no such thing as escape. For having created a god who learns to die, the likelihood of moving again in form, wicked or not, in a teacup of temptation, is so significant it hurts. Tomorrow you'll want to burn this poem, call it weakness, call it a lie. That's better than pretending the wolf's gone by.
By Paul Aaron Domenick3 months ago in Poets
