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“And all the while, I feel I’m standing in the middle of a crowded room, screaming at the top of my lungs, and no one even looks up.”
~ Rose DeWitt Bukater
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“I am a writer, therefore, I am not sane.”~Edgar Alan Poe

“There is nothing to writing. All you have to do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.” ~Ernest Hemingway

“Writing is show business for shy people. That’s how I see it.” ~Lee Child

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My Pillow

September 14, 2021

  • a poem that shines a new light on something common/mundane. (Ismasura)
My limp and lifeless pillow is more than a cushion to rest my head.
It carries the dreams of my imagination and eases my troubled mind in the night. 

And when I am tired or am weak, the comfort of its warmth, holds me as tight as I will it to. 
For there are things in this world I hide from and its shielding body covers them. 
As if it were my guard, it takes the blows I couldn’t fake an enlightened expression for. 
Foreignness was never my specialty. 

And when I am enlightened by good spirits of tomorrow and can’t hold my excitement inside, I scream into my pillow to convert all of my highs. 
And during those moments, I remember that my pillow was there all the times I needed it the most. 

Who would I truly be if my pillow never wiped away my tears?
Where would I have gone if it never heard my whispered prayers before midnight?
How would I have even made it to tomorrow, if it’s presence we’re gone?


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  • September 14, 2021 - 8:39pm (Now Viewing)

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