If
No word works
Any word will do..
Well..no
A story is told best
With better words..
Seems we have
Two stories here
Which are not two...
The old book lies open
as if it finally gave up
trying to hold its spine straight.
A faint mustiness rises~
not unpleasant, just honest.
Someone left wildflowers on the page,
thin stems crossing the margin
like they wandered in
and didn’t bother to leave.
A few petals rest on the sentence
that once meant something important.
Raindrops cling to the blossoms,
small bright beads
that look as though the sky
paused long enough
to add its own commentary.
The words underneath don’t complain;
they simply share the space,
letting the flowers speak
in their quiet, wordless way.
For a moment,
the whole thing feels accidental
and perfectly right~
a story meeting what grows
without needing permission.
Continuity
Seems the glue
For a story..
No continuity
May seem as
Chaotic..but
Unpredictable
Happenings
Seem what's what..
What are stories
Anyway?
Are we just waiting to Questions the Problems?
Are dreams just stories that have not been turned into facts?
Or are facts things that turn into dreams to tell stories?
What happens to lies that are stretched, does it just turn into truths?
So then lies are just pieces to the absolute truths?
Who dares enter the Chambers of ho-lies?
And a-tempts to open the Arks of Covenant?
Would you even need to balance lies with truth if they are part of the whole?
For what you perceive is what you receive?
Then shall I say "receiving is perceiving/presieving"?
I once heard a warning from a sailor:
"Don't look at the ocean at night—the darkness offers an escape."
I wonder if it is the same for a soldier staring down a gun barrel.
As they run through dark trenches, fleeing death,does that cold metal cylinder promise a release?
An end to fear.The death of anger.
Or a quiet peace brought to a desolate land.
Many wonder, staring straight into that deep ocean of unforgiving quiet.
But peace demands a price in an empty country.
It means
a mother you will never see,
a wife you will never love,
a child you will never guide—
only eyes wandering a horizon that never ends.
But the sailor never taught me what remains unseen:
the sea always stares back.
It cannot feel your agonizing rage.
It does not share your lonely sadness.
It has no thought of family or friends.
Instead, it only waits for you to jump, and find your peace.
The sky unzips its heavy coat,
And lets the hidden whispers
float.
A thousand secrets, locked in
gray,
Are spilling down to earth
today.
They pelt the roofs and slick
the street,
Confessions pooling at our
feet.
The thunder speaks in
rumbling tones,
Of ancient sins and buried
bones.
Each raindrop is a story told,
Of promises the wind
couldn't hold.
The dirt drinks up the liquid
lore,
And begs the heavy clouds
for more.
By dawn, the storm begins to
fade,
The sky forgets the vows it
made.
But every leaf and blade of
grass,
Now knows the truths that
came to pass.
She opens her eyes at dawn,
Finding a moment of peace
Before the day is drawn.
Noise of life soon intrudes
To underscore futile busyness
Like improvised etudes.
Aries burns like the first flame,
and I remember how beginnings never come quietly.
Taurus roots me in the soil,
reminding me to hold steady when storms arrive.
Gemini speaks in twin voices,
just like the arguments I carry inside my chest.
Cancer is the tide pulling me home,
waves carrying memory I thought I’d left behind.
Leo rises with the sun,
and I know hope is the roar I cannot silence.
Virgo stitches my scars into patterns,
turning survival into wisdom.
Scorpio bends me into shadow,
yet I rise, carrying ashes as proof I endured.
listen to the stories of the past-
to the ancient stories that tell warnings.
only a fool would cast away the memories
instead of awakening and listening-
not only with ears-but also with your heart.
dont they teach history anymore?
In our love story of us,
Every chapter written,
Shines brighter than the
first chapter,
When we write it together.
Life seems as
Ever arising forms~
Included in this
Inexplicable story
Is the arising of
A separation sense
Synonymous with a
Desire for restoration
And home~all
Told in stories
Of loss and fulfillment
And already complete~~
I wrote a short story
About the Chee Chee Mong
someone commented on it
I want to rely on the comment
So i tried several times
Each time I tried -
Nothing happened
So I tried again
I ended with the
same results
I went to search for my problem
i saw a lot of articles of my short story
I did not see my short story.
i do not know how to reach my shrt story
So I thought i would ask a poet
i pressed my poems to press a poet to ask
i pressed edit and now iI ae trouble with that.
Now I am very upset.
I walk the sky the way I once walked summers,
barefoot through fields that smelled of sun and rain.
Clouds remember me~
they call me back with their slow-moving shadows,
their hush of almost-forgotten stories,
their promise that dreaming is still a place I can go.
As
a story appears
its emptiness may
seem as peace~~
The last of us
meander in rolling hills
by the misty stream
tinkling round slate rocks.
A doll size cottage
hewn of ancient limestone
silhouetted in rainbow flares
creeks and rumbles forlorn.
Withered lace murmurs languid
framed by dark embrasures.
We enter the void
over a parquet threshold
to greet mirrored visions
in ever rewinding portals
that unveil the stories
of our dreams unlived.
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