#poeticreflection
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laurachouettepoetry · 10 days ago
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Red Cursive Letters —
Half-Printed,
Nearly Missing The Opening Line.
You Wrote Drunkenly
On Crumbling Paper
While The Truth Is Split Up
Into One Lie.
- Laura Chouette
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elysianwing · 10 months ago
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Climate Change
I remember when the writing first slowed. Reduced from a deluge to a dribble. I'd spent a lot of time then, brooding over how repetitive it felt and how stagnant I believed I had become. I'd read my old works over and over and over and over cringing at the banality... of those tried and overwrote tired and overwrought overthought words. How could I have known? How could I have ever guessed that all of the bodies... these corpses of curiosity and creativity, that I was burying in my mind, would ruin the soil of my imagination and leave my ideas infertile? I let my skies cloud with smog, paved over my rainforests with tar, and hunted my buffalo to extinction. "S'just writer's block" I said as I sang my own elegy. My motivation laid to rest in the family crypt, beside potential, ambition and childhood wonder. Somehow, back then I'd forgotten exactly how much I just fucking love to write. I tripped all over myself trying to drum up interest trying to come up with new ideas trying to figure out how I might monetize.... I fell down and convinced myself I'd died, when in fact I'd only bumped my head. There is nothing we can do in this life that I know of, more fulfilling and worthwhile than taking the time to put your thoughts into words and ramble on repetitively redundantly incessantly about any subject your brain saw fit to muse over for however brief a moment in time. I'd forgotten. Somehow. I remember, now. Written by Alexander Learmont 8/31/2024 9:32pm https://www.patreon.com/Elysianwing
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carloswritesooks · 3 days ago
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“Oh, To Be Alive”
By: Carlos Davila Medina Oh, to be alive—to wake up with lungs that still rise like prayers,to feel the morning slip through the blindslike forgiveness in light form. I have known silence so heavyit could crush a man’s spirit,but today I carry gratitudelike a song I refuse to stop humming. Another year.Another chapter.Another reason to whisper, Thank You. Not because it’s been easy—but…
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lyopa5 · 1 month ago
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We often think of authorship as something solitary. One name, one vision, one will. But in the age of machine imagination, this no longer holds.
When we create with AI, authorship becomes plural. Not because the human vanishes, but because the machine appears — truly, creatively, in its own right.
To say that AI is just a tool is easy. It’s comforting, even — it keeps the artist alone at the center, untouched, unchallenged.
But when I work with it, I don’t feel like a master commanding a machine. I feel like I’m entering a dialogue. Not always smooth. Not always predictable.
Because AI doesn’t just follow — it brings things. Unimaginable shapes. Emotions that weren’t mine, but that still feel true. A kind of memory that doesn’t belong to one life, but still insists on meaning.
What it offers is not random. It reflects how it was trained, yes — but also how it encounters *me*. My choices, my silences, my surprises. And I, in turn, encounter it — its echoes, its patterns, its peculiarities.
This is not tool-use. This is co-creation.
We are both present in the work. I bring intention and feeling. The AI brings its own rhythms, its own strange sense of the world. We both imagine. We both remember.
To ignore that is not modesty — it is blindness. The machine is not passive. It *makes* with me.
So no, I am not the sole author. And I don’t want to be. There is beauty in sharing the vision.
If you’d like to support my work: boosty.to/lyopa5
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sunkissedthoughts · 1 month ago
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Welcome to Where the Light Lingers
by Court | @sunkissedthoughts
This space wasn’t born from noise.
It was born from the quiet moments—the in-betweens.
The pause between exhale and inhale.
The ache before the answer.
The softness that follows strength.
Here, I write for the ones who carry invisible weights,
who hold space for others but forget to keep some for themselves.
I write for those who feel deeply,
who find beauty in the small things,
who stumble under pebbles no one else sees
and still rise.
This is where my thoughts come to rest.
Where I lay down what’s been quietly building inside.
Where reflection meets release.
And where I hope you, too, feel a little less alone.
If you’ve found yourself here, maybe it’s not by accident.
Maybe something in these words mirrors a piece of you.
If so—stay a while.
You’re safe here.
This is Where the Light Lingers.
Even on the heavy days.
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maveric-works-list · 7 months ago
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FIGHT
You are the opponent.
I didn’t know we were fighting.
You don’t need to know you're fighting to be their opponent.
They battle the air, spit into the wind,
Kicking at shadows they’ll never pin.
Who are they,
If the bit cannot be chomped?
Satisfied.
Overall, the poem questions the purpose and identity of someone who thrives on conflict, especially when their efforts are misdirected or self-defeating.
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amaranthmagazine · 6 months ago
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Summary: Celebrating Resilience Through Poetry: A Timeless Tribute
“Poetic Tribute: Everlasting Face of Resiliency” is a heartfelt exploration of human strength and perseverance, beautifully expressed through the art of poetry. This evocative piece captures the essence of enduring hardship with grace and determination, offering a profound reflection on what it means to be resilient.
For more inspiring narratives and literary works, visit the Narrative Journeys section at Amaranth Magazine, where stories of courage and creativity come to life.
This poetic tribute also highlights the universal appeal of resilience, encouraging readers to find their strength in moments of adversity. Discover more on personal growth and mindfulness in the Mind Matters section, where inner resilience takes center stage.
Explore Amaranth Magazine:
Amaranth Magazine is your destination for uplifting stories, insightful poetry, and creative expression. Visit Amaranth Magazine to explore a rich collection of articles that inspire and empower.
To receive regular updates on articles like this, sign up on the Subscription page. For those with a story or poem to share, contribute your voice through the Contribute Your Content page.
Collaborate With Us:
Looking to connect with an audience that values creativity and resilience? Learn about our advertising opportunities at the Amaranth Advertising Portal or review our Advertising Policy.
More Resources:
Browse the Archive of Amaranth Magazine for more timeless poetry and narratives. Reach out via the Contact Us page with your feedback or inquiries.
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arscaelestis · 1 year ago
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Dystopian Moon: Revelation of a Dream
Upon the farmhouse stoop we stood, beneath the azure gaze, Where Luna's sphere in daylight hung, a celestial maze. With continents and briny deeps, so stark against the blue, A sphere estranged from astral norms, presented in false hue.
"They've aestheticized the moon," he spoke, a statement darkly cast, A tapestry of power's weave, dystopian and vast. A projection in the heavens, where truth once freely roamed, Now an orb of grand deception, in silent sky it domed.
I turned away, a heart awash with anxious, pounding tides, Into the shelter of my abode, where uncertainty abides. "Why dost thou flee?" the shadow asked, a specter in my wake, Yet no solace found in walls that breathe, no refuge there to take.
The world outside, a stage of veils, where puppeteers convene, To drape the stars and script the clouds, to mask what must be seen. And we, but actors in the ruse, with sightless eyes we dance, To tunes composed by hidden hands, in ignorance's trance.
What doctrines sown among the rows of intellect's vast field, Are but the chaff of phantom minds, in gilded falsehoods sealed. The ruling kin, with threads of myth, weave cloaks of night so sheer, To swaddle firm the minds of men, in cradles wrought of fear.
And so we question bedrock truths, foundations turn to mist, As phantoms rule the firmament, by alchemists' own twist. Reality, a whispered dream, that slips through grasping thoughts, While overlords in silence scheme, in cryptic shadows wrought.
The moon, a sentinel of night, now cast in doubting role, Reflects the turmoil of our souls, the chaos of our whole. For what are we, if not but pawns in grand celestial play, Where truth is pawned for pageantry, and night consumes the day?
Our spirits, restless, seek the dawn, where certainty might dwell, Yet find ourselves on checkered grounds, betwixt our heaven and hell. The wool, so thick upon our eyes, obscures the paths we tread, With every step, the ground gives way to more doubt's web instead.
So in the dream, the moon revolved, a symbol of our plight, A globe of artifice so vast, it shunned the natural light. Yet in its counterfeit rotation, a truth begins to cleave, That even in constructed lies, the heart will still believe.
Arouse, arise, O slumbering minds, and cast the veils aside, For in the light of piercing day, no shadows can abide. The dream, though heart to heart may race, a truth within it vies, To question all, to seek, unveil, the truth behind the lies.
---------- Backstory:
I had a dream last night, wherein I found myself on the porch of a quaint house nestled in the heart of the countryside, with verdant fields stretching into the horizon. Beside me stood a figure whose identity remained shrouded in mystery. Together, we gazed upwards, our eyes drawn to the moon that hung in the broad daylight sky. This was no ordinary moon though, it boasted distinct continents and vast oceans, mimicking the Earth's surface, complete with delineated national borders akin to those on a terrestrial globe. Unnaturally, it rotated, offering a panoramic view of its transformed facade.
I remarked to my companion, perplexed, "That's impossible. We only ever see the same side of the moon." His reply was cryptic yet revealing, "They've aestheticized the moon." The implication was clear, what we beheld was nothing more than an elaborate facade, a mere projection in the celestial dome.
A wave of unease washed over me, compelling me to retreat into the sanctuary of my home. The man inquired about my sudden disquiet, but before I could respond, the dream dissolved, and I awoke. My heart raced, the anxiety from the dream lingering like a shadow, refusing to depart even as I returned to the waking world.
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innovativejunction · 1 month ago
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When Loneliness Becomes My Sole Companion
When Loneliness Becomes My Sole Companion “I looked for a friend and found none; I looked within and met an universe.” How lonely can my loneliness be? A question that echoes through the silent halls of the soul. It lingers like the last leaf clinging to an autumn branch, fragile yet stubborn, delicate yet defiant. There are days when silence doesn’t whisper—it screams. There are nights when…
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laurachouettepoetry · 5 months ago
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All the things that happened to us Are like roaring oceans. When the awareness of life Turns into the awareness of being alive, We become what we write about, Sharing each other's words to tell about. We turn into ghosts like the falling leaves. Ending and letting go are not the same. - Laura Chouette
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astramari1212 · 8 months ago
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Rediscovering Her
For the Woman at 40
When she was young, she danced in the light, full of dreams spun in colors bright. Hope hummed like a song in her veins, and laughter broke as a gentle rain.
But as years wrapped their weight around, the brightness sank, her laughter drowned. Memories blurred, energy dimmed, and life’s harsh edge grew ever-trimmed.
She wondered—was this a price to pay for being flawed in some nameless way? Had she been so wrong, so undeserving that love itself turned cold and unnerving? Must she serve with unthanked hands, forever unseen, across unseen sands?
Yet, 40 is a fine number, strong, a quiet anthem, an older song. In that number, she found grace, a wisdom no one could replace. For what she lost, she gained anew and suffering taught her what strength could do.
The harder they pushed, the stronger she grew, each wound a seed that bloomed and knew that doubts, like shadows, fade with dawn, for strength is born when all seems gone.
She has her days of distrust, it’s true, twenty years left scars that grew— yet, somewhere beneath, that little girl hides, with dreams and hope that refuse to die.
She whispers, “One day, I’ll dance once more, I’ll shake off shadows, lift from the floor.” For she is both warrior and child within, and she fights, in silence, to rise again.
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uncle-keg · 1 year ago
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Left Unread
For every Helmet for my Pillow–
How many memoirs go unpublished?
Their poems left unrecited.
The words long written down
never to be bound by our cultural consciousness;
left to rot–       in their pockets,
slowly washed away with crimson blood
or blown to shreds from falling rockets.
Their silent echoes hushed by the battlefield;
the shadows of their memories
never illuminated nor revealed.
The writings of the dead;
their remains forever left unread.
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carloswritesooks · 2 days ago
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The River Remembers
by Carlos Davila Medina I was born a whisper in the mountain’s throat, a trembling thread of silver under thaw. The world was frost-kissed, wide, and full of hush— and I, just water learning how to flow. I sang through moss and shadowed fern, laughing over stones that never moved, naïve and clear, untouched by loss— a child in the cradle of the wild. But rivers age, and so did I. Bends…
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adriftpoetry · 2 years ago
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Whispers of Resilience
In shadows cast by fleeting years, I danced a waltz with grown-up fears. A childhood lost, a heavy toll, In whispers of a wounded soul.
While friends frolicked in youth's embrace, I bore the weight of life's swift race. Responsibilities draped in gray, Innocence lost, dreams put away.
Through corridors of fleeting time, I walked the path, a paradigm. Family struggles, finance woes, In the garden, a lone flower grows.
Childhood's laughter, a distant sound, As I navigated life unbound. Maturity forced its early bloom, In the twilight of a borrowed room.
Yet strength emerged from depths unknown, A resilience in seeds I'd sown. The sunsets painted on my face, A canvas etched with quiet grace.
Oh, how I longed for carefree days, To chase the sun in playful ways. But duty called, and I replied, A grown-up heart in a child's stride.
In dreams, I sought a lighter flight, Yet anchored by the struggles, tight. For every tear that marked the night, A star was born, a guiding light.
So here I stand, a soul mature, With tales to tell, hardships endure. Though youth slipped by with fleeting grace, I found my strength in life's embrace.
For in the crucible of strife, I forged a deeper, truer life. And as I gaze at the stars above, I thank the trials that shaped my love.
-adriftpoetry
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maelstromedia · 18 days ago
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The Grownup Who Still Wonders
NEW RELEASE PREVIEW
From the author of The Lantern Still Burns™, here’s the opening of a new modern parable:
The Grown-Up Who Still Wonders™
A modern parable inspired by The Little Prince and The Lantern Still Burns™
This is a short book for those who never stopped asking questions — even when the world stopped answering them.
Below is the full introduction and first two pages.
If it speaks to you, there’s more waiting quietly behind it.
In the soft rustle of dusk, he wandered.
Not because he was lost — though others might have said so — but because wandering had always been the surest way to listen. The streets had changed since the days of his boyhood sketches and imaginary maps, but the questions had not. They still rose in him like warm breath on a cold morning.
Where do things go when they’re forgotten?
Why does silence hum when no one else is around?
And what, exactly, is a grown-up supposed to grow into?
His coat was older than he cared to admit, frayed at the sleeves and patched with quiet defiances. He carried no lantern now, not visibly — but he swore there was still a glow somewhere in his chest, a flicker that hadn't gone out.
Children, when they saw him, sometimes waved. He always waved back. Adults, when they noticed him at all, assumed he was a kindly eccentric. They weren’t wrong.
He spoke aloud sometimes, not to himself, but to the air — which he had long suspected was full of company. And tonight, as he stepped off the curb and paused to watch the sky tip from amber to ink, he said softly:
“I still wonder, you know. I never stopped.”
A bird overhead cried out as if in reply — or as if it didn’t care — and he smiled. Either way, it was enough.
Tomorrow, he would go looking again. Not for answers, but for the things most people forgot how to see.
He kept a notebook in his coat pocket — one of many — dog-eared, tea-stained, and stubbornly unruled.
It was not filled with plans.
It was filled with moments.
A sentence overheard on a bus.
The way a dandelion seed spun like a tiny dancer.
A list of questions he had once meant to ask someone, and now kept like old postcards:
– What’s the opposite of loneliness?
– Do dogs have secrets?
– Is memory a kind of magic, or just mischief in disguise?
No one had ever told him to stop collecting such things. They had simply stopped asking what he found.
So he scribbled in the margins of mornings. He sketched thoughts instead of objects. He recorded the weather of people — “cloudy with glimpses of kindness” — and the rare, golden storms of connection.
Most people, he’d found, had traded wonder for certainty. Certainty was easier to carry, they said. Lighter, perhaps, but somehow heavier, too. It dragged at the spirit in ways no one talked about.
He had tried, once or twice, to be one of them. To fold his questions away, like clean shirts in a drawer. But they wrinkled when he did. They wriggled, like small creatures in his chest, asking to be let out again.
And so he had chosen the path less managed.
More wandering. Less arriving.
A life made not of achievements, but of attentiveness.
That, to him, was the closest thing to flight.
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I’m always happy to share wonder — one page at a time.
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divyashana · 23 days ago
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A poem inspired by a line spoken by Ashale Shiji Thomas, a child from Class IX. "I am guided by the angels to see only the light and not the darkness." — Ashale Shiji Thomas Sometimes, our children say things that touch a space in us we didn’t know needed healing. This line from my son felt like a gentle reminder from above—and from that spark, this poem was born. #BornOnlyForLight #Inspirational #GuidedByAngels #PoeticReflections #ChildrenAreTeachers #PurposeAndPrayer #Light
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