Don't Cry It's Only Reblogs

This is where I share the work of my friends

[dinosaurwithablog]

It's 10:35pm and it's so beautiful outside!! I love this time of night in the spring and summer because the sky is a gorgeous color, and you can see the stars!!💙💙💙 it'll start getting light again at 3-3:30am!! It's such a beautiful time of year!!! ✨️💙💙😁💙💙✨️

@profrobertnotchristian this is what I was talking about in my comment, earlier... isn't it lovely?💙✨️💙✨️💙✨️💙✨️💙

[huong1952]

Choko vine in the garden

Autumn vegetable for stir fry

[huong1952]

huong1952: Sunset

In the purple sunset

The ferry no longer waits

Is my life too heavy for you or

Am I too late?

[definegodliness]

Small

Their eyes penetrate.

More and more, and I know it's suspicion.

I have been shrugging a lot. Too many questions to which I have no answers. I can only agree. Funny thing is, for their, as I am told, horrid encounters with some of the most vigilant wood elves and ferocious wolves, of which I had none, what irks them the most is that I haven't been absolutely devoured by mosquitos.

We all took the same journey.

All slept in Donn's marches, taking the old druids' route. However those poor blotched bastards, visibly restraining their would-be scratching fingers, did far more slapping than sleeping. There were no words, and the outpouring of frustration and hands waving was quite humorous, but maybe I shouldn't have said I slept like a baby.

They actually demanded I show that I bleed!

As if I am some vampire, or walking corpse. What nonsense. I had the brilliant idea to cut my tongue. Just a little nick. And, of course, I bled. But tongues heal quickly and at least I didn't have to answer anymore dumb questions for a moment. I would just point at my tongue, mumble gibberish, and shrug.

I don't know why the frogs were silent. I don't know why the rain didn't get past the trees' canopies apparently just for me. I don't know why I found some kind of squirrel stash of assorted nuts in that gap at the root of an oak tree. Nor why it had herbs and mushrooms that together made a hearty meal.

Come to think of mushrooms, an owl swooped by and flipped the pot with my own shroomy stew recipe.

Did I pick a wrong ingredient?

I went to sleep hungry but I woke up with a handful of berries I didn't eat (or pick), and when I let them nourish me I thought this is exactly the kind of magic that happens when you take an old druids' route. But then I made it to base camp.

And everyone was just complaining.

I couldn't.

I had quite enjoyed the journey. But now I'm just lying awake wondering why I got a special treatment.

Awake, because every once in a while some dumbass comes to check whether I will splatter into myriad bats flying into the night or something. I'm thinking of the mosquitos; the humans are exhausting and I wish I could slap them. I want to go back to the trees. I spotted an old one I'll climb tomorrow. I'll hide there after the circle meet. Just gotta keep this exact rage aflame, so it can keep me from becoming too jolly drunk to climb where I need to be.

I wake up.

The circle speaks of war.

I don't really care they destroyed the Irminsûl. Dead trees never spoke to me no matter how high their trunks reach or once reached. Old trees do, but, clearest through their greenest leaves. Still, apparently this loss of dead wood is a big deal. Maybe it is. The sky didn't change though, and all I ever did was look up at the clearance. I imagine the fire would have been blinding for a while. But now we can see again.

So what's the point?

I wonder why I am here. People speak like ghosts. Phantom speech echoing bygone years. Can't they see the wind bristling the leaves? I only see that upsweep. I want to be there.

Not this sword and this shield. All of a sudden I know why I am here: southpaw by choice; therein the flesh-turned irony of bruising and bashing a man to a pulp with the boss of a shield. They consider me a force. I could be, but all I can think of is this one time a gargantuan boar charged at me, and I just climbed up into a tree. That's how easy it can be.

A great evil rises in me. When I look at them chowing down on animals snared dishonorably in gluttony. A feast, they call it. I call it the disease. No fawn should end up spit roasted when the belly's already full with rabbit meat. An entire leg of goat falls into the fiery ashes below and they laugh because there is, still, plenty. This, their fight for preservation. I am murderous. And for a second I think I can take them all. Not just the humans around this bonfire. Every human.

This is the rage I wanted to keep.

I am drunk now, that's for sure. Dumb enough to speak my heart, but not dumbed enough to actually do so. I know I want to punish and kill; to snare those cretins into a one-on-one, or two, or three on me. I have the rage exactly where I want it to be. And that's why I become phantasmagoria, fleeing. Unseen. Up into that tree. A shadow flickering to that dismal bonfire's flames.

I am far away from here.

I lie supine on the biggest tallest branch with my hands in my neck and my legs crossed and my mind wandering off to those far off stars seemingly tickled by the wind-rattled greenest leaves. And as the full moon rises, it suddenly seems so much brighter. Double vision confuses me. No, it is a star. Some kind of light globule closing in on me, fluttering tintinnabularly. I have trouble focusing.

But I hear:

Would you YOU(!) like to be be… so

SO!

small? small as me small

small? would you you like like to to come come (with)

me?

--- 12-6-2026, M.A. Tempels ©

[samirafee]

#HAPPY💖FROG🐸FRIDAY💧

💗☔️PEONIES LOVE☔️💗

@samirafee

[samirafee]

#HAPPY💖FROG🐸FRIDAY💧

💗☔️PEONIES LOVE☔️💗

@samirafee

[bluesandbarebones]

To you alone

these words, sent with breath held as an archer releasing the arrow, intentional bittersweet as they leave minimal deliverance, frank no toad-in-throat moment let's be coarse, boorish let's be uniformly unrefined silence has its purposes not here, not flying this arc I am marking every place I'd like to land; I'm looking at your palms like it's a hold-up you've got a target there and I never fail to hit

[samirafee]

#BÄRLI😸BLUE is BEAUTIFUL🔹🧢🔹

@samirafee

[sherrylephotography]

My Frog Friday digital art using artrage

[chucklingpecan]

Taking a road trip on a highway bursting forth from a tattered map

All wheel drive Power everything Four doors New tires & a backseat full of problems

[ends-2-beginnings]

June 8, 2026 at 6:12 am. #myphoto

. . evanescent colors . .good morning

[samirafee]

#CENTAUREA MONTANA *Purple Heart* - MOUNTAIN CORNFLOWER - BERGFLOCKENBLUME🤍💗

@samirafee

[ends-2-beginnings]

this morning- 6:20 am. (no-color edit) cropped.

the sky was lit up after many grey days

[shamanfox]

She screams at wavering time

like a lost sheep in the desert,

thin ribs trembling beneath a brutal sun,

eyes full of mirages

that vanish when touched.

Not because she is lost.

No—

she knows exactly where she is.

That is the horror of it.

She screams because she is stuck,

nailed to the slow machinery of living,

caught between one heartbeat

and the next unfinished thing.

The wind drags itself across her skin

like dry hands through cemetery grass.

Even the sky looks thirsty.

And I want to help her.

I want to split the heavens open,

reach inside her chest,

untangle every black wire humming there.

I want to hold out my hand

and say:

Here.

You survived it.

You can come home now.

But life is not merciful that way.

It does not pause for the bleeding creature

curled beneath the pine needles.

It does not soften simply because we ache.

It just keeps moving

dust over highways,

shadows across fields,

mouthful after mouthful of ordinary time

until eventually

we run out of distractions,

run out of sweetness,

run out of little comforting things

to place against the wound.

Still, somewhere beneath her screaming,

something animal refuses to die.

A stubborn pulse.

A cracked-wing prayer

dragging itself toward dawn.

[shamanfox]

What do you write about

when you don’t know what to write about?

That’s the question, isn’t it

the terrible little animal

scratching at the back door of the mind

at three in the morning.

You sit there

staring at a blinking cursor

like it personally betrayed you.

The room hums.

The refrigerator breathes in the dark.

Your coffee goes cold beside a stack of unfinished selves.

And suddenly

every thought feels counterfeit.

Write about love?

Already done.

Write about grief?

The graveyards are overcrowded with metaphors.

Write about God?

Everyone keeps putting words

into the mouth of silence.

So what then?

You write about not knowing.

About the strange panic

of standing knee-deep in your own interior wilderness

holding an empty lantern.

You write about dust floating through late afternoon light

like tiny wandering planets.

About the neighbor’s dog barking at nothing.

About how loneliness can sit beside you so quietly

you mistake it for furniture.

You write about the ache of wanting to say something true

before your body gives out.

You write about staring into the mirror too long

and watching your face become

someone else’s memory.

You write about pine needles,

old grocery stores,

motel vacancy signs flickering in forgotten towns,

about shadows stretched across fields

like God spilled ink and walked away.

You write because silence

eventually becomes unbearable.

Because the heart is a hoarder.

Because memory leaks.

Because some part of you still believes

a sentence might save your life.

And if nothing comes

if the page remains

blank as snowfall

then write that too.

Write the emptiness.

Write the waiting.

Write the sound of your own mind

trying to strike a match in the dark.

[dinosaurwithablog]

Petey loves her biggie wolf... she spends a lot of time hanging out with it and we spend a great deal of time playing with it. It's her biggest stuffed toy and she loves that about it!! ❤️❤️🐕❤️❤️✨️

[nobeerreviews]

There is certainly a red for everyone.

-- Christian Dior