Family

Blossoms
Beneath this earth My roots abide They hold me firm through every tide 𖣂𓆱𖣂𓆱𖣂𓆱𖣂𓆱𖣂𓆱𖣂𓆱𖣂𓆱𖣂𓆱𖣂 Through storms that bend
By Sara Wilson2 months ago in Poets
A Harvest of Memory
Plant the seeds now, in the actions we take In laughter and love, joy and regret Seeds of the memories that we will make Parts of our lives that we'd grieve to forget.
By Natasja Rose2 months ago in Poets
Tonight’s Episode of “Remember When?”
Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to the only comedy show where the jokes forget themselves mid-sentence. I’m the wheelchair-bound warm-up act,
By Iris Obscura2 months ago in Poets
Avoidance>Innocence
You never misunderstood by chance You ignored my words to make them small If you faced the truth I carry You'd see yourself wrapped in it all
By Sara Wilson2 months ago in Poets
Homesick
When someone is homesick, it’s usually for their home, or their town, or their state. Homesick for a place. But you can also be homesick for a time.
By Michelle Henderson2 months ago in Poets
A Bridge to Home
Cemeteries, urns, and the vessels we use to honor our dearly departed are not just resting places of finality, but thresholds where two worlds collide.
By Chara Payne2 months ago in Poets
On The Other Side Of The Memory
I've held you in a memory I've held you in my arms Whether smooth or leathery Fair weathered or through storms Your love has etched a part of me
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 months ago in Poets
Back to the Dirt
I hit the field with pockets heavy with names, hands reeking of iron. Apples. Each stalk I snap is an answer I can actually hold. I’ve learned to hoard what ripens, coercing that brittle light into the basket, nodding yes to the scrape of the stem.
By Diane Foster2 months ago in Poets
8
I’m proud of you and who you will become Your laugh warms my soul and snuggles my heart close In the mornings, I smile seeing you stretch and greet the World with sleepy eyes
By Archery Owl2 months ago in Poets
The Narcissist Has Horns. Content Warning.
This is not a confession. It is a correction. This is not guilt. It’s grief metabolized into rhythm. I didn’t leave I was locked out.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 2 months ago in Poets
Yellow
Tap. Tap. Tap. Craaaaaaack! Hear that? That's the sound of a shell shattering with the secrets it held inside. Primary color of fear, what say you of what you find here?
By Maia Gadwall the metAlchemist2 months ago in Poets
When the Days Drift. Winner in Harvest of Memory Challenge.
I gather you walking down the hall, your hands reaching for doors that have moved. I gather your voice calling names that do not belong to me,
By Tim Carmichael2 months ago in Poets