It’s gone

It’s gone by Dawn Illsley

Can life be so cruel to take it away?

Away from the place it was meant to stay.

Deep in my heart,

It was there all along.

Now it’s gone, now it’s gone.

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I’m Awake

I’m Awake by Dawn Illsley

I’m awake.

Thinking of happy places.

Avoiding the dark ones.

The places I get lost in.

Some things I’ll never understand,

Including myself.

My reason for being.

Why hanging on is torture.

What torture?

Why Hang on?

When letting go is so much more,

When letting go is not giving in.

Giving in to what?

Maybe it’s destiny

Maybe it’s not.

Maybe it’s just right.

Anne Frank poetry

Death March

By Dawn Illsley

We marched like dead souls,

Through hallways, not stopping.

Not daring.

Like the end was our fate.

I feel the shame,

The disgrace.

We quietly weeped,

As we shuffled upstairs,

It’s still, silence I heard,

On that ghostly trek.

My life faded away,

I was stuck there in that place,

Reality dissolved,

Time took a break.

Those little rooms,

Housing ghosts.

The walls paper thin like a dolls house.

Why is it,

Words pour out,

When tears are flowing.

I saw a pile of shoes

They didn’t need anymore.

Telling a story

Of loss,

Of life never led.

A pile of shoes,

In someone’s porch,

makes me think,

Of that day in May.

The deafening silence.

That I witnessed.

The life that was erased.

(Visiting the Anne Frank Museum)

Fallen leaves poetry

Fallen Leaves

I wish I could collect fallen leaves,

Like I did when I was five,

They were beautiful to me,

I collected one of every shape and Colour,

Just to be fair.

I wanted to save them, give them a home that was warm, and dry.

I thought they would stay alive forever,

If I cared enough.

But like everything,

Their beauty faded,

Dried up, cracked, turned to dust.

I didn’t understand like I do now.

Trying to keep something alive that is dead is futile.

Now their beauty reminds me of the fragility of life.

Dawn Illsley

Good morning poetry

Good morning

By Dawn Illsley

Roaring wind lulls me to another place.

Quiet breathing in the margins of my mind.

Pressing thoughts, bossy and demanding,

yank me from my reprieve to reality.

There’s a call for spring outside the window.

An urgent call from a little bird whose hungry.

Then out comes the sun, like a little answered prayer.

The light creeps across the room,

Warming the spot on the floor,

Soon to be occupied

By a little furry beast,

Desperate for warmth.

On the windowsill,

The pink blooms are dried up,

Not the end,

But it seems hopeful for more.

Hostage

Held hostage

my thoughts are not my own.

Like a pantomime I go through space.

Controlled from afar.

The ties of a puppeteer constrict my breathing,

muffle my emotion.

I’m struggling against their force,

feeling the surge of power.

That power feeds my seeds of anger,

small growths that are blossoming

into a force that i’m fearful to use.

Cutting those ties means freedom,

a freedom I’ve been ignoring,

holding fast to the past.

Not wanting to go forward alone.

Those ties holding me are made of string, not steel.

They never gave me support, just a false sense of security.

They were never truly holding me, though I felt them.

Like a lie, I need to reveal them for what they are.

False hope, a manipulation of the truth into a fairytale,

only they can believe.

I will not be held hostage anymore.

I’m free.

Dawn