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The mirror reflected a stranger, Not the one she’d spent years building, the ones with carefully crafted personas and polished edges, but something raw, unfiltered. Her hair was a mess, a wild bird’s nest defying gravity. Her eyes, usually bright and sparkling, were dull, reflecting a weariness that seeped into her bones.

She’d always wanted to be poetry. Flowing, graceful, every word a carefully chosen gem. But life, it seemed, had other plans. It was a messy, chaotic, unrehearsed performance, filled with stumbles, missteps, and moments of sheer panic.

The poem’s words echoed in her mind: “People are not poetry.” And she realized, with a sudden clarity, that it wasn’t a criticism, but a liberation. She wasn’t meant to be a sonnet, a haiku, a perfectly structured ode. She was a symphony, a whirlwind of emotions, a chaotic explosion of colors. She was a story, unfinished and ever evolving.

The pressure to fit into a neat little box, to conform to the expectations of others, began to crumble. She could be messy, she could stumble and fall. And that was okay. She could be herself.

A wave of relief washed over her. It was okay to be rough around the edges, to be bruised and scarred. It was okay to not have all the answers, to not know where she was going.

She looked at her reflection again, not with disdain, but with a newfound acceptance. She was a work in progress, a story still being written. And that, she realized, was beautiful.

She wasn’t poetry. She was something more. She was human.

And that was enough.

The mirror shows a stranger, scars a map,
Of battles fought, a life upon the scrap.
Chemotherapy’s ghost, a lingering ache,
A constant fear, a soul that can’t escape.
The whispers rise, “You’re lucky, you’re alive,”
But echoes linger, of those who didn’t thrive.
The vacant chairs, the faces lost to time,
A haunting chorus, a constant, grim rhyme.
Survivor’s guilt, a heavy, leaden cloak,
A shadow dancing, a soul that’s lost its spoke.
“Why me?” she cries, “Why did I survive?”
While others perished, beneath a fading sky.
The joy of living, a bittersweet embrace,
A fragile gift, a tear-stained, weary face.
Gratitude mingles with a deep abiding pain,
For those who vanished, in the endless rain.
But strength emerges, from the depths of despair,
A newfound purpose, a love beyond compare.
To cherish moments, to savor every breath,
And honor those lost, in life and in death.
To advocate, to raise a helping hand,
To walk beside those facing the unknown land.
To find solace in the shared, unspoken plight,
And find the courage, to embrace the light.
For even in the shadows, hope can still reside,
A flicker in the darkness, a newfound stride.
To live each day, a precious, fragile art,
A survivor’s journey, a brave, courageous heart.
The Echo in Elizabeth’s Mind
(written by Elizabeth Proett)

You do not need to solve your life in a day,
No need to fix everything tonight, it’s okay.
The mountain looms large, a daunting sight,
But take one step, with all your might.

One step at a time, that’s the key,
Don’t get overwhelmed, set your mind free.
No sweeping motions, no grand design,
Just steady progress, one step at a time.

Change comes slowly, a gentle tide,
As you move forward, with nothing to hide.
Embrace the journey, the twists and the turns,
Let go of perfection, let your spirit burn.

So take that step, don’t delay,
Embrace the present, seize the day.
One step at a time, you’ll reach your goal,
A life in motion, taking control.

Written by Elizabeth Proett

-The sun descends, a fiery kiss, Painting the clouds with hues of bliss. A hush descends, the world grows dim, And in my heart, a longing swims.

For in the twilight’s gentle sway, My soul embarks, come what may. A quest for love, a whispered plea, To find the one destined for me.

Through moonlit paths and starlit skies, My weary heart forever tries. To chase the dream, the fleeting grace, Of finding love in this vast space.

Though shadows lengthen, hope remains, A flicker bright, that love sustains. And in the dark, I softly yearn, For a love that will forever burn.

Perhaps tonight, beneath the moon’s soft gaze, My love will bloom in a wondrous maze. And in that meeting, I will find, The peace and joy my soul designed.

Elizabeth Proett

The dawn ascends, a painter’s hand,

with hues of gold across the land.

The sun, a molten orb, begins to climb,

Painting the world in shades sublime.

The air, a crisp and frosty bite,

Reflects the sun, a dazzling light.

On snow-kissed field, a diamond dust,

Each flake a gem, in morning trust.

The trees, adorned in icy grace,

Stand stark against the golden space.

Their branches gleam, a shimmering sight,

Reflecting back the morning light.

The world awakes, in golden hue,

A breathtaking, wondrous view.

The sun’s embrace, a warm caress,

Inviting all to joy and blessedness.

-Elizabeth Proett