A moment of stillness, a pause in time.

A break from the chaos, a chance to unwind.

A rest, a breath, a space to think.

A moment of respite, a chance to link.

Our thoughts and emotions, to breathe deep.

To process and reflect, to ponder and keep.

This moment of silence, this space to feel.

Is precious and vital, a gift to steal.

From the rush of the noise, from the constant hum

In life's busy beat, a moratorium can come

and grant us a moment, a brief interlude

to rest and recharge, to just breathe and brood.

So let us embrace the suspension of power,

and take the time to pause, to rest and flower,

for in the stillness, we find our core,

and from this center, our lives can soar.

Il sole sorge, un nuovo giorno inizia,

il mare calmo culla le onde in pace,

il mio cuore spera e si rinnova,

lasciando andare ogni malinconia.

Le montagne, cime alte e imponenti,

ispirano respiro e meraviglia,

la natura trionfa e ti sorprende,

quando ti perdi tra la sua bellezza.

Le giornate segnano il passo del tempo,

e ogni attimo diventa prezioso,

ricordi e sentimenti si intrecciano,

come una danza che non ha fine.

E poi la vita, che ci sorprende sempre,

ci regala attimi da custodire,

così come esempio di vera bellezza,

che vive in noi e non morirà mai.

Translation:

The Sun rises, a new day begins, the calm cradles the waves in peace, my heart hopes and is renewed, letting go of all melancholy. The mountains, high and imposing peaks, they inspire breath and wonder, nature triumphs and surprises you, when you get lost in its beauty. The days mark the passage of time, and every moment becomes precious, memories and feelings intertwine, like a dance that has no end. Then life, which always surprises us, gives us moments to cherish, as well as an example of true beauty, who lives in us and never dies.

Chaos dances,

In a whirlwind of emotions,

tendrils of fear,

branching out in all directions,

a kaleidoscope of colors,

flickering in the abyss,

lost in the maze,

of twisted thoughts and feelings,

a symphony of confusion,

echoing in the emptiness.

In the morning sun shining bright

Birds take off in effortless flight

Butterflies dance in pure delight

Nature's beauty is quite a sight

Leaves rustle with a soothing might

Crickets hum and sing all night

Stars twinkle soft in the moonlight

Peaceful dreams till dawn's first light

Silent rest till the sky gets bright

Magic nine is a form of poetry where each line has a descending number of syllables, from nine to one.

Amidst the fields and trees of emerald green,

as gentle breezes whisper and caress,

the heart takes flight, unburdened and serene,

and in this moment, life is simply blessed.

The sky above, a canvas of pure blue,

with fluffy clouds that dance so joyfully,

the world around me sparkles bright and new,

as if touched by some magic alchemy.

In this idyllic place, my soul finds peace,

a refuge from the cares of everyday,

where worries and concerns begin to cease,

and all that’s left is calm and gentle sway.

Oh how I long to linger in this scene,

where nature’s beauty reigns eternal queen.

I cannot escape this wretched obsession

with those painted faces and endless depression

their tears run deep, their laughter hollow

a sight that once brought joy, now fills me with sorrow.

The circus lights and the thrill of the show

are but a facade for the pain below

behind the smiles and the whimsical dress

lies a heartache and a constant distress.

I’ve studied their faces, I’ve memorized their lines

my mind consumed by their tragic designs

the sadness in their eyes pierces my own

a shared pain that I cannot disown.

I search for their stories, their broken past

a quest that has left me alone and aghast

their pain is a burden I cannot bear

yet I cannot help but continue to stare.

The sound of their laughter echoes in my mind

a memory of a time when joy I could find

but now all that remains is a sorrowful sound

a desperate cry for happiness never found.

Oh, sad clowns, how you’ve gripped my heart

a weight that cannot be torn apart

my obsession with you has brought me to my knees

a never-ending cycle of misery and disease.

So, I’ll continue to watch from afar

an unrequited love for your sorrowful scars

I’ll ache with you, I’ll cry with you, for all my days

my obsession with sad clowns, a melancholic maze.

In the meadow, flowers sway and dance

And birds chirp in perfect harmony

A gentle breeze gives the leaves a chance

To rustle and whisper tales of serenity

The sun shines bright, a warm romance

A sight that fills the heart with charity

In this place of peace and tranquility

All worries and fears disappear with simplicity.

I was two when that mother fucker Richard my foster dad came into my room, even now in my forties I still have scents of him and all the ones after him that linger around like years of old garbage filled with maggots. I would just lay there with my eyes shut tightly closed, I never knew what each new bedroom or shower visit would bring, but, the sick fat hairy heavy breathing grown ass man did things to me that I know now as an adult were wrong, inappropriate, and I just wanted to disappear. My private parts would bleed, I'd scream in pain, scream for help, for anyone listening, because I knew Barbara was in the next room, she just ignored it all, even having three daughters herself that he was doing the same things to. He was all sweaty, it was like a fierce lion feeding on his prey, drooling for young meat. He'd whisper "I love you", "don't tell anyone this is how Daddy's love their little girls", he wasn't even my fucking real dad, a piece of paper titled him "Foster Dad." Funny they say you don't remember anything when you're two or three years old, but when you're innocence is being traumatically fucked out of you when you're a helpless little girl, by those who are supposed to care for you, you remember that shit, you remember it for the rest of your existing life. It wasn't just Richard, it was boyfriends my mom would bring home, step dad's, my real dad, and a few more. Life was never easy for me after that. I was too traumatized. I'd go to school, I was eight by now, these strange feelings would come over me, and I'd start masturbating in class, yes, in front of of the whole class! As an adult and years of therapy, years of punishment and no one believing me, until my grandmother Joanne caught me and my doll having sexual relations, and took me to the doctor, is when I was finally listened to, when the doctor told her I was no longer a virgin at 8 years old. I found out that the 8-year-old me was feeling "horny" from all the severe sexual abuse. I hated my teachers, my classmates, my mom, I hated everyone, I hated myself for making me feel so ashamed, so guilty for what these men did to me. I guess it was better to blame the little girl than to talk about it and have shame on the family. By my twenties I found drugs. I loved them! I didn't feel like a walking molested, raped, dirty human being, I just felt numb and strong. I could go make a hit list and blow all those fuckers away now. But, in reality the only thing I was, was a used up body. It was no longer a temple just a fucking playground for boys to play on. After awhile the slide gets old. The sex, the drugs, the lies you tell yourself they get old too. Your psyche becomes sickly, left alone to rot and die. I didn't want to be one of those maggots in the that old garbage, I lost everything, I was homeless, no food, ninety pounds, and losing my mind. I ended up in a psychiatric hospital for two weeks. I found spiritual guidance but most of all, I found Chantelle, myself again. People can only take from you what you allow them to take, obviously as a child we don't know this. But, as adults we can use our pain to change life's, to change the world, to change ourselves. I hated those men for so many years, I've lost many friends and family because of my lack of not letting go. No one in this story is a winner. I will forever have to keep working hard on the things I want in life. I just am not a victim to them or to myself anymore. The only person that can hurt me is me. And, I don't even give myself permission to do that.

Writing hard things is a complex and delicate process that requires a high degree of ethical consideration, empathy, and sensitivity towards the subject, audience, and stakeholders. Hard things refer to topics that are often uncomfortable, controversial, or sensitive, such as racism, sexual assault, mental illness, and others.

The ethics of writing hard things revolve around four main principles: respect, accuracy, honesty, and empathy. These principles deal with the following ethics:

1) Respect: Writing hard things should respect the dignity and humanity of the subject, audience, and stakeholders. Respect requires that writers use language and images that do not offend, dehumanize, or exploit people in society. They should also consider the cultural, historical, and social contexts that shape the subject matter.

2) Accuracy: Writing hard things should be accurate and factually correct, using credible sources and evidence to support any claims or arguments. Accuracy means that writers should avoid sensationalizing, exaggerating, or misrepresenting the subject matter to gain attention or generate controversy.

3) Honesty: Writing hard things should be truthful and transparent about the author's intentions, biases, and motivations. Honesty means that writers should disclose conflicts of interest, ethical dilemmas, or other factors that may affect their work's integrity or objectivity.

4) Empathy: Writing hard things should show empathy towards the subject, audience, and stakeholders, understanding their perspectives, emotions, and experiences. Empathy requires that writers listen, engage, and value diverse voices and perspectives, avoiding any form of discrimination, stereotypes, or prejudice.

In conclusion, the ethics of writing hard things require writers to approach sensitive topics with respect, accuracy, honesty, and empathy while considering the impact on different stakeholders. Writing hard things should be done with a sense of responsibility and care, striving to create honest, transparent, and inclusive conversations that contribute to social justice and human flourishing.