Skip to main content Skip to bottom nav
azurePond
4 1,751 M Hopeful Heart
The name is Pond, Azure Pond. I make lame jokes. Calm on the surface, but with some ripples underneath. Watch out for the occasional duck!
PathStep 4 Compassion hearts394 Forum posts138 Forum upvotes271 Current upvotes271 Age GroupAdult Last activeNovember, 2024 Member sinceOctober 3, 2024
Bio













Recent forum posts
Mirror on the Wall
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 3 days ago
...See more “It’s just a mirror”, you tell me, Nothing but glass and light. But when I stood there, I saw my hand move— A second too late. “You’re imagining things,” you say. But I know I wasn’t. The reflection didn’t follow, It waited— And now, I’m not so sure Who’s looking at who. “Stop staring at it,” you say. But I can’t. It’s not just glass— There’s something inside, Trapped. I think it’s watching me. “You’re overthinking,” you say. But I know what I saw. It’s not me in there anymore, It’s something waiting to step out.
Not an Elegy
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 Tuesday
...See more Trigger warning - death and funerals “She was always smiling,” Someone murmurs, Eyes glossy as they clutch A bouquet that’s already wilting. I’ve only seen her smile In her wedding photos, Or when she was speaking to a patient, Kindness scripted in her tone. Whispers spread like ripples: “She was so kind,” “so graceful,” Like a river flowing smooth, No stone to stir the current. But I remember something else— The late nights, When she sat on the couch, Fingers trembling, Gripping a glass she never finished, Staring at the wall as if it owed her answers. “She was there for everyone,” Someone says, voice quivering, As if trying to convince themselves. I remember her absence, When I needed her most, The hollow nod she gave, Eyes already elsewhere. They praise her kindness, But forget the little things— The rolled eyes when asked for help, The tight nod, A silent “yes” she didn’t mean. “She gave her all,” Someone says, and I almost laugh. Who really gives their all? Maybe she did, That is why she had nothing left for us. I remember how she’d disappear Into her office, Slamming drawers, Pretending to be busy So she didn’t have to face What she was running from. “She was an angel,” Someone whispers, And I wonder, Which angels muffled pillows Over faces? Which version of her do they remember— The one who could barely see other’s pain, Or the one who’d burn to ash If she stepped into a church? And now I look for smoke rising. “She had a heart of gold,” Someone chokes out, Eyes darting around the room As though the truth is hiding Beneath the chairs, Between the flowers. Though I agree. I remember her solid and cold, How she could stand next to you And still make you feel Like a stranger. We didn’t deserve it. But, here we gather to mourn The saint she never was, To sing her praises Like a melody we never knew how to hum. If she were alive,  She would’ve sung it better than the choir, Played the piano too, Critiqued on the decor, And ordered me to look more distraught. But none of that matters now. So here’s to the quiet saint, The one who never asked for anything, Except to be seen as perfect, And she pulled it off Until the very end. Good for her! Bring the award for this philanthropist Or reserve six feet for her In the Elysian fields. Rest in peace-- We say goodbye To the woman We wanted her to be. I hope the afterlife brings you ease.
Taught to Think, Therefore
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 November 14th
...See more After our first argument, You showed up the next day with two books— One on how to argue, The other on logical fallacies— Saying, “If you’re going to argue with me, At least do it right.” I was seven then– Fighting about having an ice cream And it wasn’t the first time You’d corrected me— My words, my actions, Always under your watchful eye. However, thank you for that. You expanded my reading list— Rousseau, Mill, Sartre— Even Seneca and Kautilya About paradoxes and criteria We dove into The Art of War and The Prince, As though I was destined to rule a state Or command the military, But really it helped me, In ways you might not see. You taught me to think, And in thinking, I became. Now you say I’ve become hard to win against, That I’m always finding points of contention In your passing observations. And perhaps that’s the heart of it— You taught me the value of doubt, That certainty is fragile, That every argument is a mirror, Reflecting not just the world, But the self. Except, you’ve forgotten What you taught me— That the point of an argument Isn’t to conquer, But to move forward. It is a journey. So when I challenge you, It’s not to defeat you, It's not to gloat But to keep us both On this path we paved Only through this, Can we both be saved.
The Son of Life and Death
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 14 hours ago
...See more He is the son of Life and Death— His mother, with her sunlit breath, Whispers, "Heal, bring warmth to the lost." His father says, voice deep as the night, "Stand firm and fight, no matter the cost." Life moulds him with gentle hands, Spinning art and joy from grace. Death shapes him through sacrifice, A worthy heir to a noble line, Together, they forge him, A heart bearing the weight of his parentage. Among the humans, he walks— A rain to sprout seedlings green, In fields sown with dreams, unseen. While his comrades keep him company With talks about their ambitions and beliefs. One dreamed of baking bread by the shore, The scent of flour and salt rising with the tide. Another longed to run through green fields, Feet light as a river’s song. The girl beside him, always gazing upwards, Swore to climb the tallest mountain Just to feel the sky in her bones. Then the monsters came, Tearing through their hopes, Poisoning dreams with fear and dread. The comrades fought, side by side, But one by one, they fell dead. He fought on, bruised and broken, Until the last monster was slain. He stood alone, purpose hollow, His actions seemed meaningless Like drawing lines in an endless tide, He thought of letting go... His eyes close, as though to fade away, But then Death’s voice came, cold as iron: "Fight on, though nothing remains." Life’s whisper, soft as dawn: "Remember them. Carry their spirit." And so, with every beat, he begins. At dawn, he runs through fields, Each stride a promise. In a quiet kitchen, he bakes— Hands dusted with flour, Each loaf a small revival. He climbs hills in her honour, Though the wind strikes Sharp as a knife. In the town, he leaves simple acts of kindness— A loaf of bread by a stranger’s door, A warm coat where frost bites. For he is Hope, The son of Life and Death, A flame that reshapes The world fractured by his parents. In his steps, in his hands, The fallen live on— In each loaf, in each breath, A dream rekindled, a future reborn.
I guess you can call her Cleopatra
Arts & Crafts / by azurePond
Last post
 November 10th
...See more
Expert Advice, Unsolicited
Poetry / by azurePond
Last post
 November 8th
...See more Too many ants are telling bees How to make honey with more ease. "Forget the dance, just line up straight, The nectar’s there, don’t hesitate!" Elephants, with trunks held high, Tell clouds, “Retire from the sky! We could make rain with just a spray— Your puffy ways are so yesterday!" And frogs, with notes of wisdom grand, Lecture raindrops on how to land. "Lifting your feet is far too loud— Fall in patterns, smooth and proud." The lions gather 'round the trees, Explaining how to grow the leaves. “The sun’s no match for a mind like mine— We’ll force the branches to align.” Too many ants, too many trunks, Too many frogs in rain-soaked funks, Too many lions with too much pride, Each one certain the others must abide By their wisdom, new and greater— As if they know any better. I wrote this for a friend to cheer her up, but thought I’d share it here too. It’s not about actual experts—just the self-proclaimed ones who give unsolicited advice in that oh-so-condescending tone, like they know better than everyone else. Just a little reminder that maybe the world doesn’t need another expert!
A Tree
Arts & Crafts / by azurePond
Last post
 November 8th
...See more A lone tree stands on the hill, Its branches full of ghosts, yet so still. Against the winds and skies of gray, It holds its ground, come what may.
Search more from @azurePond
Considering Therapy?
Talk to an expert therapist
Badges & Awards
23 total badges
Hand Shake Linked Chief Chat Strong Start Reconnect First Post Reaching out Helping out Appreciated Voice Contributor Community Collaborator First Compassion Helpful heart Kindness personified Loving Soul Anxiety 7 Day Streak 14 Day Streak 30 Day Streak Teammate Forum Friend Meaghan's Heart
Report an issue