Filled Hearts

Filled Hearts

Filled Hearts by Andromeda Kosova

Some hearts are filled with rain
Beautiful in their darkness
And some with a light
Unmatched by even the Sun
And some are hail storms
Waiting to be loved
My heart is filled with you
<strong>Andromeda Kosova </strong>
Andromeda Kosova

I go by the pen name Andromeda Rose. I am an aspiring poet and writer from Michigan. I mainly share my poems on Instagram @andromedarose.writes and my short stories on my blog. I left teaching to become a housewife and pursue writing full time. 

I enjoy traveling with my husband, reading, and pouring out my thoughts on paper. I love the feeling of having others resonate deeply with my words. My goal is to publish a collection of poems and a novel in the near future.

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All of Me

All of Me

All of Me by Sarah Dillard

Never did I think 
I’d give all of myself
to someone 
just to get me 
back
ten-fold and whole.
Sarah Dillard
Sarah Dillard

Born to a Romanian mother and African American father, Sarah uses writing to express different perspectives.

She graduated with her B.A. in Literary Arts in 2016 from Brown University and will get her masters from the Columbia School of Social Work next year.

Writing is not only her passion but a part of her being—like breathing or a limb. Her book of poetry, A Novel Body, is available on Amazon (a link is below). Instagram: s.e.dillard

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Vedran Tomsic

Vedran Tomsic

In True Love for a Brief Moment

Flash Fiction by Vedran Tomsic

I picked you up on a summer bluebird afternoon. We decided to leave it all behind for a day and indulge in whatever. 

You see other guys; I live other lives, neither of us minds. Both our hearts, guts and souls were once ripped apart and torn, that’s what makes us strong. We already know our dirty secrets from way before, missing open intimacy, not the score.

You put on a badass song and squeezed my right hand resting in your lap; I kissed the back of yours. A tear of joy started to flood the corner of my left eye. I welcomed it. Your smile outshined the sunset behind us.

We cherished that serene moment of true level, seeing that if there is anything we know is that moments get gone. I am a patient man unlike those boys you like to play; you get me harder than a diamond and I understand drama so I know how buildup can turn a bedroom into a sauna.

But it isn’t imperative for us to fuck as it’s fundamental that we are in each other’s lives and that we protect it at all costs. That much we know. The day was going way too good, close to kitsch. So when we stopped at that one gas station where the bathrooms were working, I just had to try to tongue kiss you in the car because I knew you wouldn’t let me, it made the day perfect.

We laughed about it. Moments are hitchhikers and I picked up one more at the end of the road, gently kissed your lips and squeezed you hard around the waist before I deployed for my personal holy war. As I pulled away, I peered at your silhouette in the rearview.

You never looked back. That’s why I respect you.

On Raphael

Poetry by Vedran Tomsic

Default set to childlike wonder
transcending age and time
globes of silent thunder
lowly and sublime.


Consuming in parallax
the madness that is world
shifted perspective syntax
from baked to raw to served.


Two things we truly own
man’s angel wings of soul
trapped in glass domes
where the wonder child can grow,


forever.

Meet Vedran

<strong>Vedran Tomsic </strong>
Vedran Tomsic

Vedran is a photographer from Slovenia. During a week off in New York in January he went around town collecting feedback on a photo book dummy and got the advice to think about including some writing instead of just photographs.

Six months later he did. It started as a project of combining photography and poetry. Since then, it went from writing poetry and short stories to becoming an integral part of his creative process with more and more serious aspirations with the medium. As a newcomer to shuffling words, he is yet to publish a book, but you can find his writing on Instagram @pencutsandpaperstains

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Grammarly Writing Support

Finding Fault

Finding Fault

By Tiffany Chaney

A leaf hastening 
to nourish detritus—
I settled
 into your arms 
and thought:
we grew better roots together,
or, at least, preserved the seeds
in time for a bitter winter.
Yet maybe I only love 
that peaceful place in you,
the silent, steady eye
that sometimes reveals 
freight train gale and hail 
although you reject the notion
they exist in you.
Yet you spit dirt in the eye,
send me into a typhoon
spinning out,
silk-stunned,
from my carefully-crafted cocoon.
I am the tempestuous one,
while the blood boils 
into your tense hands
and quicksand lips.
A flood unleashes— 

down
pour
 earth
quake
mud
slide
 cataclysmic 
panic attack

It's my fault
line, and we run the same ones,
every time. Tectonic, we shift,
displace overburden, crack tenuous roots,
the impeding fracture of fault creep; 
deeply felled heart bled, for daring 
wear it on a sleeve. 
That's nature.

Meet Tiffany

<strong>Tiffany Chaney</strong>
Tiffany Chaney


Somewhere between Virginia and North Carolina: Find slips of her wit igniting weeds between the concrete slabs of the city sidewalk or in the worm-hooked smirk of a crow in the Blue Ridge sky. Chaney earns her bread and butter through freelance writing and the odd tarot reading, creative publication, and artwork purchase. She earned her BA in creative writing from Salem College, the oldest women’s college in the United States. Creative writing, particularly poetry, is both a career and soulcraft for her.

Chaney’s poetry and fiction have been featured in such publications as Thrush Poetry Journal, Moon Books: Moon Poets (an anthology of pagan poetry), Moonchild Magazine, Pedestal Magazine, and VQR’s Instaseries. Her artwork has shown in the Piedmont region of North Carolina and most recently in Denver, Colorado at Spectra’s “Tiny Art, Big Ideas!” show in November 2019.

Now, to plug the books and short fiction. Chaney’s poetry chapbook Between Blue and Grey (Amazon, 2012) won the Barnhills Books & More: Mothervine Festival Award for Best in Poetry in 2013. Her latest, weird little horror short story is a little bit Gaiman, Lovecraft, and Poe, The Blacklick Frog Rain: An Oral History Tale As Told By Kester Stoot, is available to read for free on Kindle Unlimited or for the price of a coffee refill – Direct links to her books below! Follow her on Instagram @tifchaney and DM her to talk about weird things. 

As an Amazon Associate, I earn from qualifying purchases at no extra cost to you. This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here. 

Don't get caught plagiarizing

Poetry by Mairi Maclean

Poetry by Mairi Maclean. Poetry feature Just by being there

Just by Being There

Poetry by Mairi Maclean

It’s 3 am and I am in incredible pain,
I wake you in tears just like heavy rain.
There is nothing you can do for me,
But you do it anyway, so graciously.

You soothe me back into the present,
Despite the ache growing incessant.
And I know you would take this all upon yourself,
But you just being there is beautiful for my health.

You give me strength and solace in every way,
And that is a gift I’ll never be able to repay.
I look at you with pure devotion,
And our love spirals into further motions.

You take away all the hurt,
With your being, jokes and cute little flirts.
I have never been so thankful to have met someone like you,
You are my dream and future in all that you do.

Meet Mairi

<strong>Mairi Maclean</strong>
Mairi Maclean

I am 20 years old from Scotland and have been using poetry as a vessel for my own physical and mental well-being. I have been on a very hectic health journey, enduring 3 cancer diagnosis’/relapses over my short 20 years. 

I was on the cusp of getting my life together again; starting university to study English Literature and Religious Studies, moving to a new city and into my own flat, and getting my health (mentally and physically) back to where it once was. Then bang. The cancer came back. It will be a long recovery, but I am prepared. 

I want to keep my mind alive with curiosity, intrigue, and passion. I love to write and explore the mind, and poetry is such a beautiful platform to do this. I wish for a world free of pain – this is obviously naive – but more in the sense that we can accept our limitations while building each other up. A world where kindness prevails, and I hope to embrace life in new ways. Finding new ways to be inspired, to love and to live.
intrigue,

Instagram: _thankfull 

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Pastel Dress

Pastel Dress

Pastel Dress by Aysha Nasrin

It was a warm Sunday morning in the mid of summer. Aiden had already overworked and worn out after a frantic week at his office. He slept through the night like a rock. The morning light glistened in his tan skin. Aiden was six feet tall with messy brunet hair and deep chocolate brown eyes. He was rational and earnest in the works he did. Aiden woke up from his bed and looked through his mail.

“God! NOT AGAIN,” he said, groaning in distress and pulled the blanket over his head as he dashed the phone back and closed his eyes again.  Aiden couldn’t sleep as his stomach growled. He stood up and raided the entire refrigerator, but couldn’t find anything to eat. He put on his shirt and track and went out to get breakfast.

It was 8 AM on Sunday morning.  The diner looked calmer than usual because no one would wake up at 8 on a weekend. He had the usual breakfast with coffee and felt alive after the dose of caffeine in his blood. 
“Thank you.” He greeted the waitress and left the place.

On his way back home, unlikely the whole street looked composed and the vacant roads seemed bizarre. Suddenly, he saw an odd building in the opposite lane of the street.  “It was never here before. Was it?”  He gaped, then crossed the road and took a closed look at the board outside of the shop, which read ‘object d’ art’. It was a bookstore in the middle of nowhere.

“Maybe I didn’t see it before,” he thought to himself.

The whole facet of the book store looked distinctive.  The interior of the store enthralled Aiden.  He saw people reading the books here and there, who had a confused expression about the existence of the bookstore as him.  It had a collection of vintage books and he loved the place as it reminded him of one of his favorite horror movies. He flipped through book after book in the entire history section. The smell of the book simplified the value of it. Every book was a limited edition. The history of the English monarchy had always fascinated him.

His cell phone rang. “Shhhh.”  Someone from the back of the book rack shushed him. 
“Sorry,” he whispered. “Hey! Call you later.”  He hung up the phone abruptly. “Do you have another copy of this?”

He heard a distant mellow voice asking him a question, and he turned around.  It was a girl.  A beautiful girl in a pastel-colored dress.  Overdressed for the morning.  Her auburn curly hair cautiously curled. Her hazel eyes twinkled in the morning light and her chiseled face gleamed in the vintage bookstore. She looked surreal and Aiden couldn’t take his eyes off her.  She held an amused reaction as her beauty stumbled him.

“Excuse me!”
She waved back at him. “Me? No, you’re mistaken.  I don’t work here.”  That the most stunning girl in the world thought of him as ‘A guy who works in a weird bookstore’ embarrassed him.  
She blushed and said. “Well I know.”
“You know?” Aiden beamed. 
She nodded and flushed again.
“Man!”  Aiden murmured.  She is blushing for you, he thought to himself.

She looked straight into his chocolate brown eyes. Their eyes met.  Aiden never felt like this with anyone. He has been with many girls before, but he wasn’t in love with anyone. His relationships flickered like rain in a tropical country. He looked at her again, her wide hazel eyes were already looking into his.

When four eyes met, love was born. 

“And you are…?” Aiden prompted the conversation, but a loud bang interrupted. 

People screamed.  He couldn’t understand what was going on. It happened before he could realize it. A bullet punched through the girl’s right temple.  A stranger shot her.  She fell down on the floor and blood streamed from her head. 

“Oh my God,” Aiden cried.  “Why? God!!! Why?” he screamed in agony. He looked at the shooter in despair but the shooter looked disturbed as he wasn’t sure why he shot the girl from the bookstore.

Aiden couldn’t save the girl or the people who were running here and there. He looked around, and they flooded the bookstore with blood. 
At last, the gunman pointed the gun at Aiden as he was the last one standing and he panicked before he even moved.

Crack.

AIDEN WAS SHOT

Aiden found his love and death at the same time and at the same place. 

It was unbearable. He howled in pain, he couldn’t breathe nor move. He felt like someone had tied his entire body with a cord.  He heard his own pulse, and it was fading slowly. His legs were ice cold, and the coldness had spread into his entire body. He couldn’t bear the pain. 

In the mayhem’s midst, he heard a distant voice from the radio, “Local gunman shot the people like it was a video game. People posted it online. And the police reported that the gunman was mentally unstable.” The news anchor reported.  Confused, Aiden rested his head down as he closed his eyes. Finally, he let go of himself.

iPhone’s ringtone screeched. 

“Oh my God,” Aiden gasped. He couldn’t breathe. He opened his eyes and searched for the phone that rang a minute ago. He held his chest. He couldn’t move. But he didn’t feel the cold anymore. “Oh my God! I’m alive,” he screamed with joy.  He looked around and realized he was in his home not in the bookstore. He found his phone and checked the time.

8 AM

He rubbed his eyes harder. He couldn’t believe it.

“Argh! It was a dream,” he sighed. “Thank God.” He stood up from his bed and sat down for a while as he recollected his dream again. “It wasn’t a dream. It was a Nightmare.”  He was glad that it wasn’t real. But it felt real to him in every sense.  His stomach growled as he was hungry. He raided through his entire refrigerator, as he couldn’t find anything. 
He put on his tees and tracks to get his breakfast.

He went to the diner where he usually eats. Unlike in the dream, he saw people having their breakfast in the diner. He sighed in relief and sat down in his seat. 

“So, what’s your order, sir?.” “The usual,” he replied. “No, wait..” He heard the same mellow voice before.  He looked up to see the face of that voice. 
It shook Aiden. “Usual? Sorry, I’m new here. Can you repeat your order, please?” she asked. 

Aiden trembled and stuttered as he stood up to leave. “No I’m not hungry.”  He hurried to the exit and left the place. He ran as fast as he could.  He couldn’t breathe as he stopped.

“The same girl with the pastel dress.  Same hazel eyes,” he murmured.  He didn’t know if the dream haunted him or the girl.  “Both,” he mumbled.  “Love is my nightmare.” He sighed in relief and ran for his life.  But how far could he go?  He would never know. 

Meet Aysha

<strong>Aysha Nasrin </strong>
Aysha Nasrin

My name is Aysha Nasrin and I go by pen name A. N. Born and brought up from a small town in the southern part of India. My physical age is 27, but my mind hasn’t aged in the last 7 years. I’m a homemaker and mother of two beautiful boys who never fail to make my day.

Periodically I wrote in the notepads of the phone, it started off as an escape from reality, then it turned into a hobby and now it became a part of me. I was part of three published anthologies and I got an Instagram account to connect with other writers.  Instagram Id @whenshewrites_an 

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Poetry by Jason Bayliss

Poetry by Jason Bayliss

Walk the Paths Well Trodden by the Brave

Poetry by Jason Bayliss

Walk the paths well trodden by the brave,
Live boldly my son, embrace your fears and let them drive you on,
Be master of your hurts not slave,
Value the story in your scars, pity those that have none.

Treasure every tear that rolls on your cheek,
Let them fall on barren ground knowing their waters bring life,
Their salt does not cleanse the lips of the meek
In the same way as those that shoulder their strife.

Let your heart be broken a dozen times,
Rather than close it in fear of all that would break it,
In love be fierce but never blind,
Love true and honest so that none can mistake it.

Face your end with a defiant smile,
Recount all the steps that have led you hence,
Insist that the reaper tarry a while,
Enjoy a few moments at his expense.

And in that final time, when he asks,
Fix him with a gaze both firm and steady,
Acknowledge that he has, “Other tasks,”
And calmly say, “I’m ready.”

Meet Jason

<strong>Jason Bayliss</strong>
Jason Bayliss

My name is Jason Bayliss. I’m 51 and live in a little village outside of Lincoln, UK. I wrote my first proper poem when I was about 12 years old. Poetry back then was a way of dealing with a particularly turbulent adolescence, a way of speaking when I couldn’t speak. I pretty much stopped when I was 16 and only really started again in January of this year. Since then I’ve written about 150 poems.

Writing for me is catharsis, experimentation and trying to share some life lessons with my kids. Also I’m dyslexic and it helps me to put my thoughts in order. I remain, at the moment unpublished. I do a tough and demanding job and in my downtime like to relax with my family and also enjoy a bit of archery. You can view all of my current work on Instagram @jason.bayliss.186

This post contains affiliate links. An affiliate link means I may earn advertising/referral fees if you make a purchase through my link, with no extra cost to you. It helps to keep this little magazine afloat. Thanks for your support. Read full disclosure here. 

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Hold On. Let Go.

Hold On. Let Go.

Poetry by Liz Baronofsky 

It’s hard to explain the part of your journey
You have to face alone
I’ve been dangling on a thread
For a good portion of my life
Hooked by fear
Teetering between holding on
And letting go
Of most things
Of almost everything

I’ve been as close as a step away from giving up
5 steps away from moving forward
10 steps away from running
A mountain away from faith
And at times
Inches away from the edge

(Hold on tight the pendulum is shifting).

About the Poet

<strong>Liz Baronofsky</strong>
Liz Baronofsky

I grew up in a small town, right outside Philadelphia. I am a full-time Mom, Registered Nurse and also own a photography business (B Philly Photography). I spend as much time outdoors as possible and feel most connected and grounded amongst nature. 

Writing has carried me through the best and worst times of my life. I lost my father to cancer at age 7 and when you’re that young you don’t carry the capacity to truly comprehend such a large loss. As I got older, the only way I could give that part of me a voice was through writing. As an adult, right before my oldest daughter was born, I started having debilitating anxiety and panic attacks. Writing was one of the few outlets I had to help me process and navigate through those experiences.

Now, with the very recent loss of my sister, I have found that writing has truly been a saving grace for me. I am currently putting a manuscript together for a book. Hopefully, in the near future, it will be published.

You can follow me on instagram @wage_the_war  Instagram

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The #1 Writing Tool

The Taste of Rainbow

The Taste of Rainbow

By Hadeel Rashed

You sit by the window sill,
quietly imagining what the rainbow tastes like.
Desperately in need for an answer.
Knowing it may differ from person to person.
I've tasted the rainbow and I'll tell you what it tastes like.

The red tastes sweet like strawberries but looks like blood.
The orange looks like an orange but tastes like a punch of pungent.
The yellow tastes sour like the sun.
Green has as astringent taste, looks like a lot of fun!
The blue is salty just like the calm sea
Purple tastes like flowers and smells just like me!
And the pink, has a flavour of soft marshmallows,
like pastel balloons floating in the sky.
Free.

About the Poet

<strong>Hadeel Rashed</strong>
Hadeel Rashed

My name is Hadeel Rashed and I am 16 years old and live in Canada.  I’m in grade 11 and my hobbies include writing poems, reading and cooking. 

I get inspired by the things that happen around me and mainly that’s what I write about. My greatest encouragement has been from my family and friends.

One of my poems will be published in an anthology by The Poetry Institute of Canada in February 2020 called The Winds of Change.  As an emerging writer, I am grateful for all the attention and time taken to read my work and hope that people enjoy reading my poems.

Instagram: @h16poems4U

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The #1 Writing Tool

Cozy Stars

Cozy Stars

Poetry by Andrew Person

The couch needs air,
I know a magic trick.

Past the overpass,
at the edge of the winding barracuda’s neck.

A delta of delight, the ingredients for the perfect night,
stars to warm our eyes, the universe is comfier.  
<strong>Andrew Person</strong>
Andrew Person

Andrew Person lives in Portland, Oregon with his Jack Russell mix (Eleven) and spends most days diving into new books. And while writing has become a great pastime, he’ll always make time for healthy procrastination breaks. 

Instagram: hawnter_99

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