Writing Prompt

this little necklace a pink and blue star dangling on a chain symbolizing those 2 kids back then who were children of the sun the sun from which i came from aswell oh, how those stars made me happy but when that sun exploded so did they

this little necklace at a time showed me joy now shows me sorrow

-our solar system was once together

————————————- idk i was feeling broken family vibes 🤷

Love is love. Peace. Manners, please and thank you. Elbows, elbows. Be imperfectly you. Please don’t chew like a cow, no one needs to hear that.

No more war, no pain. Happiness.

Care free. Bah bah black sheep, do you have any wool?

Maybe, just maybe they were on to something.

Or were they?

They call it boom, because that’s when the boom 🤯 started. The war, the war.

Every odd number or even number had to serve their country..

world war 2.

The fight. The fight for what was right?

They served. They died, but did they really?

May 4th 1951.

This little sharp thing was once a knife That traded more hands than some would admit For it was not a gift, but an obligation For those deemed fit.

The first was plucked like any living thing is Before their time, and delivered to the mud For those who only saw the bottom line, Like gods with their great floods.

The blade sank into the bitter earth Where it dulled and diminished Waiting for another To see its story finished.

Searchers in the dark pulled it up, Iron root and all Under moonlight they read the words Written as a homeward call.

The relic was borne on waves and wind Beyond high cliffs and low towns To the weeping woman at her door, Another victim of the crown.

Grief tidied the heirloom away, Secreted amongst her dusted memory Shielded from light and touch, A nameless accessory.

Walls built up around it and the shadow grew Longer than the years it had been carried, And darker than the hearts it had touched Until two young lovers married.

The house shifted and changed shape, Then the walls came down and it was found By one who saw it for what it was, Something to which they were bound.

A simple thing after all A letter opener by all means Except for an inscription Of which this could be seen

'To be held, to be kept to defend, to protect'.

Peace, Handing down.

Rage, Held on to.

Serenity, Handed down.

Anger, In my chest.

Silence, Sent to our children.

Light, Held in our hearts.

…

🖤

I hate the hands that hold me.

They have no regard for what I am. In their hands, I am not the symbol I used to be.

Nobility handled me once. They treasured me. Between their hands, I brought comfort. Behind the polished glass, I shone with warm pride. The pride of the palace. A beacon of safety. I symbolised a brutal battle won. And the re-crowning of a man we loved and respected.

Sometimes, those who walked past shed a tear. Those who had the honour of touching my precious stones stared in thoughtful wonder. Grateful sorrow. For I symbolised the lives lost for their sakes.

I felt the best when I sat, regal, upon his head. Physically, I weighed him down, but I couldn’t help feeling the atmosphere was as light as the uplifting of joy. The people who watched were awestruck. It was, and always will be, a beautiful moment for me.

But it took one day and it was all to be torn away.

The pride stripped from every inch of the kingdom. And everything flipped to a horror story.

I still remember when fire flooded the hall. I watched what I could. Its flame tore through the heart of our palace. And under smoldering remains, grubby hands came to claim their prize. Gruesome, bloodstained faces with eyes that gleamed when they eyed my casing, no longer so safe. I wonder if, in their hot, clammy, life-wrenching hands, they felt me shudder.

Now,

They pass me down through generations of murderous rulers

and they don’t bother to clean the blood.

They call me a sign of their victory.

I have no say.

But all I feel when I feel their greedy hands on my polished metal, is the harrowing dread of defeat.

Mom’s tiara Made of diamonds Safely kept Never to try on

Passed to daughters Worn at weddings Worn by no others Proper headings

Beautiful heirloom Covered and sought Brides to her groom Legacy fraught

The Heirloom Brooch

In a dusty, wooden jewelry box,
Amidst the scent of age and loss,
Lies a brooch, with silver gleam,
A whisper of an ancient dream.

With a sapphire set in ornate gold,
It tells a tale that's often told
By grandmothers with softened eyes
Of love, of life, of long goodbyes.

It first adorned a maiden fair
In a village lost in time's long stare,
A wedding gift from her true love,
Blessed by stars that shined above.

Through trials and joys, it shone so bright
On nights of sorrow, days of light,
And when her daughter took her place,
The brooch remained, a sign of grace.

A keepsake worn on birthdays, too,
Through wars, through peace, when flowers grew
And children played in meadows green,
The brooch would witness all unseen.

It weathered storms of hurt and pain,
Saw tearful nights and danced in rain,
Yet polished clean with each new dawn,
A symbol that life must move on.

When passed to hands that trembled frail,
It whispered softly of the trail
Of ancestors who lived before,
Their laughter gone, their stories lore.

A granddaughter, with eyes of blue,
Received the brooch, and somehow knew
That in her palm she held the past,
A fragile link that still held fast.

She felt the weight of love and loss,
Of battles fought, of lines once crossed,
And as she pinned it to her dress,
She felt her heart swell with the press

Of history deep within her soul,
A story that made her feel whole,
Of mothers, daughters, dreams that soared,
Each life a bead on time’s long cord.

And so it glimmered, ever bright,
In the soft glow of the candlelight,
A silver thread through history's loom—
The cherished brooch, the prized heirloom.

Passed down through generations wide,
A silent witness, a faithful guide,
It carries tales in every fold,
Of lives entwined, of love retold.

For as long as hands can hold it near,
And voices speak with love sincere,
The brooch will shine, a treasured spark,
A light that glows against the dark.

And so it rests in that old box,
Safe within its wooden locks,
Waiting for the day it’s worn
By one more heart, to life reborn.

Flaming hair Pounding hooves Legs flayed Eyes white rolling Always winning

The main event. The starred stallion. Ridden, cheered and triumphant as gleeful children holler. All smiles.

…

Falling mane Chipped nails A knocked knee Flaky cornea Always dusty

The biggest problem. That bloody horse. Hidden, derided and side-eyed as adults wonder when It’s time.

My grandfather ate in the eve. A timepiece rest above his sleeve. Worked many a day for it paid. Measuring time, where the sun laid. Great craftsmanship, he’d invested. Tardiness, he truly bested. Upon his death, father cried. From his wrist, forever had lied.

My dad sat and watched the TV. The timepiece hit 8, he could see. Sent to bed, I yearned to stay up. Denied, something strong in his cup. I secretly played in the dark. The phone consumed me like a shark. When dad died, his watch in the will. The watch broke, forever still.

Nothing betrays the deep sadness I try to mask more than my affiliation to sad songs

As if listening to other people’s heartaches and mistakes would help right my wrongs.

Not even the sound of silence can compensate for the fact that everybody hurts

Every one in my family that is, for generations we’ve carried this heirloom thats cursed

Nothing compares to you when the drugs don’t work, at least you’re yourself once more

Doing your all to give your children something that you have never experienced before

This mad world couldn’t fix you, somehow your soul, it remained, personified perseverance

Yesterday has gone, it took someone like you to vanquish this chronic inheritance