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It took a long time for me to consider myself a writer. I still struggle with saying it. I started writing at a young age to work through feelings I didn’t dare tell anyone. I learned that once you start writing, it becomes a part of you. It’s something you always go back to whenever you are overwhelmed with certain emotions. People don’t always listen to your words, but the paper always listens to the pen.

that wild, wondrous magic.

that wild, wondrous magic.

i trespass into late hours listening for wings, waiting for something luminous to pierce the night she arrives draped in the last summer green, all gypsy magic with flowers in her hair she knows every secret the dark holds, and her eyes shimmer with the light of a...

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step into the fire.

step into the fire.

a decade descends into yesterday’s ashes, minutes moving rapidly despite the debris you say we must push forward, that the lesson is in the journey, that each second brings clarity even when the dawn is gray and smoke-stained because time is a phoenix but i am not...

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maybe.

maybe.

i craved the open road, the quiet peace that comes with being alone, copper sun shining on a burning horizon, the highway sound carried like whispers on the wind i wanted to travel the world, my heart much too big for this small place we would climb to the roof and...

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we make do.

we make do.

we eat worry with yesterday’s leftovers, anxiousness swallowed down with a bit of bread that we bought with loose change found between seat cushions years of empty pockets have left us accustomed to its stale taste it will be another long day today the poems will have...

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we are poetry.

we are poetry.

words sit thick like cotton on the tongue waiting to be spun into a dress of pretty prose for strangers to wear, letters and lace to drape across the shoulders of people we will never meet, soul stories told by hands that hold tendrils of magic we move between...

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