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minisha Apr 27
Rain drops' lullabies carve serenity
and slither through the canopies,
while the world is garbed in melancholia,
souls are drifted by nostalgia.
The droplets ballet on the soil,
as souls wander in turmoil,
drowning down the lane of memories,
chasing a mirage where photographs don't crease.
Lord Aconite Apr 27
Someone once told me;
"Writing is a lonely experience"
It really is
No one sees you toiling away at night
Fighting the demon of anti life
as he tries to make you end it all
No one sees how much thought you put into one word
As you alight your tired mind trying to predict how this will impact your story
No one sees your many hours of work tearing away at research while fighting the demon of madness
No one sees your dreams and aspiration to be the best
And when they do you become a golden rag
Used to clean the fat cats dark mouth
No one sees your endless night trying to organise your ideas into fantastic world and when they do they link it to something unrelated
No one sees how you slowly lose yourself to the unrhythmic assonance associated with the unrelated
No one sees just what you're trying to portray as they have to interpret their own meaning
No one hears the click-clack of the keyboard that slowly hypnotize you into oblivion
And if you finally finish you hate it
minisha Apr 25
Forgotten beneath a pile of clothes,
with the intricate weaves desiring escapism,
I miss the spinner of these threaded relics,
and adore the art of binding them together.

Cobwebs perceive me as their abode,
and dust rocks in my cradle,
as I whisper the tales of kindred dwellers
haunted by my covert scrutiny for years.

I'm a stranger to the delicacy
of the fingers I sheltered,
yet familiar to the cacophony
of secrets they cherished.

When the glistening stars ascend,
I stretch beneath their gentle grasp,
and as the dawn breathes through the panes,
I unravel into forgotten threads.
minisha Apr 25
Begging to graze the weeping clouds,
the ocean is leashed to the facade of horizon.
Clad in blood at twilight, precursing moonlight,
the sky garbs the ocean in its hues.
Yet, the mutual admiration is baneful,
since the osculation is destined to be an illusion.
But beneath the galaxy, when somnolence seals the world,
the ocean desires escapism and reaches for its beloved,
however, betrayed by victory, it devours the mortals,
pondering if it is demanded by requited yet unattainable love.
hi, poets! i recently discovered this corner of internet and decided to finally unleash the poet inside me. i am looking forward to support from everyone, thank you so much.
Vida Apr 25
The devil is beautiful
That's the point
No one wants to be ugly
Beautiful does not equate inherent goodness
Lucifer was god's favorite
so beautiful
so perfect
Vain
He fell
The devil is.
So beautiful.
you can't help but follow him
Track him with your eyes
Fall into his gaze
Actions be ****** because
God is hard
God is divine, a being you can't look at for fear you'll never look back away
God is the type of divinity that strikes feat in nations
The devil is easy
Comfortable
Conventional
Convenient
Do I really want to be beautiful?
I got this feeling where my soul is so weary that it's completely shattered.
It's strange and surreal how I don't get it.
I tried pouring it into the pages, but even the words failed to describe them.
The ink, it spilled all over my heart to fix it,
But even that ink couldn't soothe the sorrow within me.

Is it the world, or is it me, trying to ruin my soul?
I wonder how it feels to be truly understood.
Because I was always the one to understand everything, and it is a cruel curse to perceive things so perfectly.

I just failed so miserably while letting myself drown in the air, feeling suffocated yet breathing.
The wound in my heart was never healed.
It only deepened with each fleeting moment.
It bled so much that it turned the pages red.

I just yearn for someone to see the true me, not the mirror within that echoes the grief of mine.
But in the process of healing my wound, I lost everything my heart always longed for.

My soul, it is trapped in the agony of existing in this world.
It burned in the blaze of illusion and left the ashes behind,
And the wind grew so heavy that even the ashes faded away eventually.
Joss Lennox Apr 14
A million different jobs.
A million different personas.
As an adult, it's hard knowing,
"what you want to be when you grow up."
While considered "normal" in your twenties,
not so much in your thirties and beyond.
In a world that's consistently changing from one day to the next,
why aren't we allowed the same respect?
We, as parents, wear many hats in order to provide,
they label it multitasking, we're doing it to survive.
Trial and error is the only way to truly be happy in life,
otherwise you're just committed to a career you despise.
That doesn't make one irresponsible, just more knowledgeable.
Two things can be true; you can have a stable career,
and still be a writer on the side.
You can follow your dreams,
and still support your family.
I wrote this about a time I was criticized for waiting to be in my 30's, deciding to work on becoming a writer/poet still working another job while being a wife and mother. Though, I feel like most of us have a job and creative outlets. We don't always figure out who we are or what we want to do in our twenties or younger. Some of us don't have the privilege. Best not to judge, when you don't know the circumstance.
Zelda Apr 14
This life was a mistake
A choice I wasn't given
A story I didn't write

Prune the branches
The wounds weep
Sap like sorrow—
Grief without end

Sever the root
To bring relief
But the story withers—
And still, the ache remains

I'm at a crossroads
All I write is wrongs

  A rootless thing,
  Still reaching—
  I never asked for this

I am afraid of death’s kindness,
But life is no friend of mine
April 14, 2025
6 a.m.
The alarm sounds.
Eyes open slowly,
Fighting the pull of sleep.

7:30 a.m.
Coffee in my mug,
I race out the door.
I’m late
Yet somehow,
There’s still time to think of you.

12 p.m.
The phone rings endlessly.
Paperwork piles up,
Fork in my salad,
The first bite pulls my mind to you.

3 p.m.
Meetings drag.
Click-clack of typing,
Emails constantly pinging
Until 5 p.m.
And my hands tingle,
Knowing it’s almost time.

6 p.m.
The pan sizzles.
The air fills with the scent of ground beef.
The door creaks open
My husband greets me.
The TV hums softly.
Bowls of pasta in our laps,
And still, I think of you.

9:30 p.m.
Water boils in the kettle.
A steaming mug finds his hands,
While mine search for you.

I open my laptop,
Eyes aching from the screen,
But I can take a little more—for you.

The mouse hovers over a small document.
Tea steams as the page loads.
I smile.
Hands rest on the keys,
And I begin to weave.
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