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Stained Glass Arts 

Stained Glass

We are told as children, To keep away from sharp objects, In fear that we might rip a tear, In our freshly spun silk. But like all things, We are in constant flux. Somewhere along the line, Our silk turns to glass, Our tears turn to shatters. Now how exactly, Did they think we could steer clear, Of our own scattered shards? The answer, My dear, Is that we simply cannot. We must pick them up, With hands, however bloody, Tainting every piece. The light of dawn, Will then shine…

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Red Wine Arts 

Red Wine

“Pick your poison” You said as you poured the crimson liquor. Warm breeze, Grassy knees, The sun was out that day. The grass grew long, untamed, Behind our picture-perfect house. Our white picket fence, Was meant to keep the monsters out. “That lawn needs a good mowing” You said as your belly swelled with juice. And I? Well, I complied. I comply with all your words, Yet you still rid my body of its crimson liquor. The sun broke through the clouds, Overhead our jungled yard. It reminded me of…

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Amours Printanières Arts 

Amours Printanières

Il me semble que parfois le temps s’arrête, que rien n’importe Que la pollution, les guerres, les humains, l’histoire, les humains, la galaxie, la nature On s’en fout Rien n’importe On pourrait en finir maintenant et ça ne changerait rien de rien Nous ne regretterions rien après tout Mort et vie seraient synonymes Mais après, il y a toi Les soleils de ma tête s’éteignent, Seulement une étoile, primitive, honteuse, heureuse Reste là, à brûler seule dans l’obscurité Et tandis qu’elle brûle, je me fiche de sortir de l’épave qui…

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Not Your Typical Love Poem Arts 

Not Your Typical Love Poem

We shared boxes of bittersweet chocolate And bottled wine, to lift your spirits. Now that you’ve had your fill, Empty bottles rest at our feet, Catching the tears that fall from your cheeks, So as to keep the grass from wilting, And unread love letters Litter the ground like kindling, Forming a hearth that warms us. So, we feed it with roses, To keep the home fires burning.   Poem by: Fin

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Who I Am Arts 

Who I Am

I’m the psychologist. The random person. The stranger that listens.   I am the whisper in the night, the shadow in the day, and the fear of fright.   I am the haunting dream, the whisper in the ear that says “you can do it, I know you can”.   I am the music box, or not. The clumsy ballerina that tries to spin in a full circle, full stop.   I am earth, wind, fire and sun.     Poem by: Sara Rebeca Palacios

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