LooseLacesPoetry

Your eyes, a translucent blue Like waves of the ocean, it encompasses me I shiver One touch, a gaze that sends me into another world Your world And I linger throughout until I perish

In this ethereal realm, where existence wavers, we converse—two souls moored, drifting between worlds. The veil is thin, just a burning paper curtain, We are but the forgotten echoes, lingering on the edge of oblivion. You seek answers, but they confuse even the cosmos. For what wisdom lies beyond death? Only whispers, cryptic and evasive. The light beckons, a distant beacon, and I, too, yearn for its embrace. Yet, here we linger, tethered by questions. "Help me," you plead, and I, a phantom of memory, extend a spectral hand. But my touch is insubstantial, a mere echo of empathy. "GET OUT," you command, desperation etched in your gaze. Yet, we remain, bound by shared uncertainty, our fates entwined in this spectral dance. Water surrounds us, a mirror reflecting fractured souls. Did we drown once in life's strange ocean, or is this the afterlife's murky river? Am I dead? Perhaps. Or perhaps death is but a transition, a metamorphosis of consciousness, and we, the wanderers, are

Religion, akin to a potent substance, in its measured doses, can cultivate tranquility, patience, tolerance, and understanding. It can instill a profound sense of inner peace, love, and harmony, resonating within the depths of one's being. Religion, much like a drug, can foster an internal state of well-being, eliciting feelings of jubilation, wonder, and awe that transcend the mundane. It has the power to inspire, motivate, and encourage, making one feel more connected, more integral to the grand mosaic of existence. Yet, when misused or consumed in excess, much like narcotics drugs, it can breed anger, resentment, and narrow-mindedness. It can distort the lens through which we view our fellow beings. When one becomes engulfed by the waves of religion, it can breed hatred, mistrust, and devaluation of their fellow humans. Misuse of religion, akin to substance abuse, can lead to delusional thinking. Sparking a descent into violence and cruelty. Under its

A pen and paper two common items in our world but as one connects with the other a conduit gets established for information from the holder of the pen into the fabric of the paper like a brush stroke on reality the incorporeal becomes tangible and ideas appear like images through a window Whether used for elements in our everyday lives or to depart into fantasy the possibilities created by simple things are among the greatest miracles ever constructed which have followed us from antiquity until

Mirror Me never seems to be my true self Shifting and changing the highs and lows Like having to pick from a cluttered shelf Strangers with the same face and clothes Mirror Me, while seldom, can be my best Happiness shining beyond just my face Letting my heart leap out of my chest All negativing vanishing without a trace Mirror Me is usually the face of my worst Sullen and pale with no light in my eyes Trying to hold back tears before they burst Feeling ugly and empty as my spirit dies All I want to see is that spark of life Mirror Me overcoming daily strife

Her hands moved over her body. It felt foreign to her, somehow. But she had not the luxury to explore this peculiarity further because a sudden urgency clutched her belly. It was a tip-of-the-tongue feeling. And it prickled the back of her mind. It commanded her to remember something, and it commanded her to remember that something quickly because she knew, in the way that one just knows, that her memory lapse was a gravely dangerous thing. May 2nd, 8 AM EST - Chapter 1 comes to life It will be read on the book podcast, The Grove https://open.spotify.com/show/3rsTuF38Mfexvo6ZWQR8lE?si=116c0c69e85545c5 CHAPTER INDEX Book One Chapter 1 - The One That Got Away Chapter 2 - The Male Predator /Not A Vampire Chapter 3 - The Shephard Boy Chapter 4 - Her Hidey-Hole Chapter 5 - One Year Hence Chapter 6 - Coffee, My First Love Chapter 7 - His Prey Drive, Her Pills Chapter 8 - Attractive Nuisance And she was in grave danger. But despite this - or because of it - she could

Fog rolls in across the countryside while milky clouds swarm overhead and moisture haunts the windows amid the taps of rainfall upon the roof It is late in Spring and almost to Summer but for some reason I feel overcome by the spooky sensations found deep in the Autumn Books of horror tales stand out on the shelves and I gravitate towards music with a chilly edge to sometimes accumulate in old monster films …nothing too extreme or graphic but the simple fun of lighthearted nostalgia A cool repose between flurries of activities restful but entertaining with fleeting and nonsensical impulses In a gentle release from

A cup of coffee To wake my soul. Warm and tasty on the go. In the morning Perfect brew. First sip, so divine. My addiction Coffee, coffee, coffee All the time.

Who’s the shadow underneath the mask Who’s the sad clown With a knife behind her back Who’s the secret whisperer And the maker of all dreams Who’s the fragile thread That connects present with the past Who’s the conqueror of pain Who is the child hurt and who licks the scars Who’s the voice that never stops As long as time ticks Who’s the watcher behind the tinted glass The true self never dies Covered by dirt and shame it hides It struggles its way through the tides The shadow and the mask The nameless one behind both lies

Cuddle with me, dear. I love the way your eyes glow Just like a demon #NaPoWriMo

Broken By J.C. Solis What does it mean to feel sorrow inside? Why, to these feelings, we must abide? What is this forlorn feeling in the air? Why do our hearts seem to no longer care? What is this darkness that starts to surround? Why is this feeling so strong and abound? For though We have tried, we have come to fail Our pasts left behind are a broken trail And though we push forward with smiles at face There seems to be none that offers us grace It is a feeling deep in our heart’s source For we’re Broken inside and can’t push forth Whether job or at home, it’s all around And sullies our strength as it now confounds The worth in our actions is moot at most As the mirror reflects the gait of ghosts We are the Broken who cannot move on For though we succeed, our joy we have pawned As joy does not come from wealth or from heart As this stark feeling now takes its cruel start This is a Broken that so many feel A feeling that, to our Fates, it will seal As the sun and

I used to love your hot breath on the back of my neck. So thick I could write "I love you" in it. Now my dewdrop skin feels like a nuisance, and your body language reeks of indifference. How easily passion is replaced by lust. How convenient is the simple betrayal of one's trust? Relationship-based disintegration in exchange for instant gratification. Again, and again, and again. Until you have nothing left to bargain.

We wake up early Sipping coffee While the babies sleep I tell you About mourning doves How sometimes you can hear one A piece after dawn Between the fire Brown colored feathers

Bound and broken splinters split rail wrapped in rusting wire leaning beside openings smooth mud exposed stone Paths snake through wood green forest and grass fields to paint flaking sagging porch stairs and slanted farmhouses nesting in the rich earth of foothills below white peaks where frost lingers long after winters cold sinking sunlight clouds clinging to cliff faced waterfalls timeless deep pool mirrored reflections surfaces silver speckled trout rippled a grayish mist blue sky rises restless on bending tall grass beside the brittle iced creek ghosts of January 18th 1863.