Words are my alcohol
I am the drunk fool

On a bastardly night with no restraint

I must write, until my hands are satisfied

And if it kills me, so be it

At least my words will live forever

As pure, holy ink on a page

It starts with
a sound in
your head

an ie or
an aa
a pf or
whatever

in your boat
into morning.

So here
you are now,
your sounds

pull on words
like the clothes
that still hang
on your chair.

Once you
shape them
around you
they move
into meaning

of fresh hopes
and wishes
for a new day
ahead.

Eelco van der Waals
September 2025

Soft whispers bloom like morning light,  
Unadorned truths, pure hearts ignite.  
Each syllable falls, steady, bare,  
A tender gift, a breath of care.  

In quiet tones, wisdom takes root,  
With honesty, no need for suit.  
The soul speaks best in moments small,  
Love's echo rising, heard by all.

O CAPTAIN! MY CAPTAIN!!
By Vedanta Anagha

What I heard was complete silence.
I recently saw a man with no words—
A quiet admirer of this world.
Phone in his left hand,
Pressed gently to his ear,
Standing as if talking to the sky,
Standing as if hearing the heart.

I stood behind him, lost in myself.
My call was full of words,
The air offered soft, gentle love.
I didn’t hear the voice,
I didn’t hear the whispers.

I try to join him in the peaceful crowd.
I try to understand—to hear what silence is about.
He is quiet. He is honest.
My words cut through the edges of recovery.
He gives all of himself to the voice he hears.

What I learned today was just a mistake—
One I make every day.
His calm gaze pierces the world.
His zipped lips speak every truth.
To me, He is now a teacher.
And I call him–

Good Evening, Sir!

If “I love you”
Was a burden,
Would you still
Eagerly return it?

If “I hate you”
Was a warning
Would you still
Say it so easily?

“I mean it, really I do.”
Then why is it filled
With insincerity?

A joke,
            A bluff,
                         It always is.

But do you

Weigh
           The meaning
                                  Of the words you spit?

You say I'm childish
For freely professing
All the words that are
Etched on my heart

As if I had any
Other choice but to
Be buried by them

If we were made to write down our thoughts
and to draw out our pains
I'd have nothing to write
nothing to say
I'd stare at the paper, as you asked me why
I'd say sorry for something I couldn't explain
not to you, and not to them
these things are to be said and forgotten
a way to keep together, a way not to lose it
And if I could move again, i'd move my hand
to lift up the pencil, my body feeling like sand
Height continued to increased as they forced me to mark
down my problems, happiness, and skills
but what emerged became scribbles
to turn the paper black
the thing that I swore to you
I promise wasn't there, it was just the sense I lacked
If I were to explain how to say the words
I would choke on myself, to turn into ash
that's all that would remain

words on paper.
it's simple.

but for some,
for me especially,
it's more
than words on paper.

it's feelings,
storytelling,
a way to express
your opinions

it's everything to me

so yeah,
it is words on paper
but it's more than that too.