Words worth staying for.

U tišini bljedolikog papira Žurim dotaknuti živahnu prošlost I njezine plamenove Koji gore odasvud I ulaze u svaku poru Neslućenih mogućnosti U zlatna zrna tajne U bezbroj vječnih vitica

Like a vacant house I sit before you Dark windows reflect but the blueness of the sky Doors remained locked, as you fumble for the keys Soo many keys Soo many doors Manuals all upon the floor I can hear your heartbeat Empty is my stare Empty my thoughts I lose eye contact Your hand slowly places the ballpoint of your pen gently on your notebook (A nervous sign) You look up as if you have found composure I can hear your heartbeat louder At this point I make a choice based on your response Do I become the psychologist, and play with my food? Do I feel an emotion believed to be known as empathy? This answer is not written in a manual You are fa…

Without much to write, a simple profile was all she left But she was never good with distinguishing her right from her left Yet the words she left, were simply right So confused by her complex simplicity He was left with no option but to respond Intrigued Encapsulated His mind had to bend He questioned reality and tried to challenge her mind He left no question to respond Just a statement “Her intoxicating scent, I'm just another victim”

In my darkness I waited hoping my eyes would adapt. When they didn’t, I had to allow myself to feel. You can’t see me, As I am still here in my darkness. Monica Hoppen 19/08/2024

You Can Invent the Story, Not the History Literary craft article about historical writing and research Author Note I have always been fascinated by the way history and storytelling meet. The more I write, the more I have come to appreciate how much careful research can strengthen a story, whether the final piece is fiction, nonfiction or something in between. This article comes from that belief: that imagination and accuracy do not have to compete with one another. When writers take the time to understand the world they are writing about, research becomes less of a restriction and more of a doorway into richer characters, stronger settings a…

I saw this broken girl Alone in her darkness Every night I became her only light I was too far to feel all her pain I would have saved her But on me her life I could not sustain Every night I lit up the sky Just a full moon, needing this little broken girl To follow my light

I’m a realist Well now a Revelation A once “pebble in my shoe” noun I thought out of your shadow, to see blinding light, I saw myself. For 45 yrs I instinctively craved without knowing Searching without reason Longing, without but not one vision of what I longed for Trust? The Key to my revelation. To trust myself. I sit here thinking of ways to reveal what I finally saw Minutes pass Time falls like glass from above me Fracturing my fear of myself, it is Beginning. Reason Reason without reaction Clarity, Ease, Softer I am but a gentle breeze kissing your naked body Your eyelids fall for their last time, my poison I learned, steals your life…

My reality of Mental Health A Soul Mate A sociopath once asked me, “Is it possible for two siblings, with borderline psychopathic tendencies, and propensity for violence, to love?” I remember my first week at my new store. I asked a co-worker, “if you were never taught love, would you know how to love?” She answered without hesitation, “of course.” “But how would you know it was love?” Like a train wreck her mind derailed, well what little cargo was onboard. The conversation was closed. Mental Health. No one gave me a manual; I was so blind to 'mental health'. I failed at first and I never fail. Do you know the diagnosis: suicidal iodization…

Poets and Poetry I think your writing needs to be more positive People relate more to happy rather than your darkness, darling So, shall I only write poetry when I'm high? To hide this girl and this darkness I possess deep down inside? Giggle my way through life, just to protect the poets of this world The poets I considered to be my own kind So backwards are those that would rather read my lies than the reality of me The real me My journey of pain Pain they never felt, pain they would not survive Poetry, a collection of words, weapons we once internalised Ashamed I was to say, I cried If only you the poets that criticized me Stopped thinkin…

I sit in silence….. The deafening sounds of people taint my sensitive ears As simple as a thought, it brushed past my ear Judgement You need to eat! Are you OK? You're too skinny! You look sick! Little do they know I look at my own reflection with distaste Little do they know I make myself eat to please them alone, yet unlike food, I will never satisfy their starving standards, and I will never desire to. I was always smiling, bringing joy Yet a joyful soul is merely nothing more than the fat wobbling over an uninformed being What is lifelike when you stand on the side and you are no longer visible in a world full of fat, joyful people? You…