There's this cafe I used to go to– I lived just down the road. With mismatched, gray and salmon tiles. For years, it felt like home. I left the suburb a while ago, thinking that it was best. The fence that borders our little home, surrounded by my ex. The yellow door that kept us safe, windows of painted glass. I walked through shattered glass.

so many years, I hid away. uresponsible and free I farmed out the essential beneath a dome for 3. Nah— a dome of four., Me, I, her— and she Four worlds, one mind Parallel In time collective …are we.

Free form: craft in relocation free verse and what I enjoy writing. Became dominant in the 20th century because poets want to move away from traditional style. traditional forms – (Shakespeare) – visible structure iambic pantameter, da-DUM da-Dum da-Dum syllable count predictable lines that often rhyme(ha funny) free verse isn't anything goes, It still has a rhythm created through emotions, breath, or thought. Emotional honesty over ornament. Psychological realism voice-over form used well : has an internal rhyme(and somtimes internal ryhme) uses line breaks purposefully, leans into Minimalism uses white space as a part of meaning. Used poorly, it can sound like chopped-up sentences with no internal music and random line breaks. In traditionalists or forming writing circles The style can be looked upon as a lack of training, a lack of depth, reliant on clichés. But free verse removes external constraint– which means you must create internal discipline yourself. so thus – free verse isn't the absence of craft, It's just relocated.

The porch Boundaries are higher, Words are shorter.. Listening is deeper. I don’t want to; can be a thing. (Smile) Sort the Rainbows Familiar… Watching the circle Quite… Hannah’s our friend Yes, I think Hannah’s right. (Smile)

I have put this on another group. https://vocal.media/authors/kiana-carda Which I write under a pseudonym. Ragtime - performative piece's Isn't it funny? [inhale] that the place I now love the most… I never brought you to? [inhale] [in one breath] There’s no you on the seat, no smile across the bar– No tapping. No trace. [inhale] ...No essence of you. The lights hum low, as the saxophone sighs- [wistful] and for the first time in months. [inhale] I don’t feel watched by a memory. [exhale] It's just strangers– red wine and me Listening to the sound of someone else’s heartbreak.