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 58° 
Ryan O'Leary
Have you ever noticed how a lie needs to
be protected. Some lies exist in isolation
others co habit uncomfortably with truth.
 56° 
Sarah
Mirror, mirror, on the wall.
What do you see when you look at me?

Lines, shapes and colours is all you observe
but through you I learn the intricate details of my soul.
Lately I don't recognise the darkness deep inside my eyes.
Once shining with glimmer,
now consuming any sight of light.

Why do you betray me?
If I dust, If I clean, constantly take heed of the state your in.
Will you reflect that which you once used to?
Are my attempts futile or do I amuse you?

Again I ask, mirror, mirror, on the wall.
What do you see when you look at me?

A scared little girl, running from responsibility.
Seeking anyone to take blame for the troubles of her own making.
I can't change that which is apparent, my purpose is to reflect.

If the one looking is displeased, cover your eyes and think.
Before a day comes in which all you are left with is regret.
 54° 
Ivan
Some people-
awake I always think of them.
I tell myself it was love.
But they never came in dreams.
 53° 
Chandy
Small things made us content
Until growth took over our lives
Getting more turns into a bore
When we cannot take in
Small times
Remember the past days?
Every aspect of life felt
Like an unsolved mystery
But now we have grown
Complicit and trapped
In routines that we never liked
But if this is the future
Did we ever enjoy small things?
Were we born to toil in normality?
Maybe it's too early
But I have always been too late
 53° 
Thomas W Case
I love it while
it sleeps--smiling,
wet with tea;
dreaming dormouse dreams.
I tickle its downy fur.
And it laughs and
moans softly.
I want to put it in
my pocket and
carry it everywhere;
take it out on
lonely autumn nights and
play with her until
she's exhausted,
relaxed and rested,
content and lost in my
fingers and in my heart.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rOGBCY2FM_c
Here is a link to my YouTube channel. I just put up a new poetry reading from my book, Sleep Always Calls, available on Amazon.com
(This is a repost poem.)
www.thomaswcase.com
 53° 
Pavel Rup
Звенит натянутое время.
Всё горще ожиданий гул.
Уж выросло другое племя —
Растёт сомнения проблема...
И тайный страх всё захлестнул.

И, кажется, что нет решенья.
"Мы не отступим никогда!"
Забылись страхи поколенья —
В огонь подброшены поленья...
Дорога мчится в Никуда.

Куда же Мир несётся?
В бездну?
Есть где-то тайный режиссёр.
Прищурил взгляд и глаз хитёр.
Какую нам готовят песню?
Всё уже, уже коридор.

Понятно всё. Качает дали.
Вошли в Эпоху перемен.
Надежды может быть устали?
Да, не о том мы все мечтали —
В пространствах наших ойкумен.

Быть может в квантовом скачке
Мир затаился — ожидая?
От пониманья отказались...
И много раз мы всё пытались.
Мораль кругом одна двойная.

Проходит всё. Пройдёт и это.
Коса и камень — Мир звенит.
Пока не видится просвета —
В сомненьях кружится Планета...
Под тяжестью ментальных плит.
 53° 
Kashifa
If causing me pain
brings you peace,
then go on

Your peace
means more to me
than my comfort ever will

And it always will
 51° 
Esther
for the first time
i understood why children cry
and beg for their favourite toys
not to be taken away

because darling
that's exactly how I feel
when i imagine
ever losing you
@5:57am
28/02/23
 48° 
Marco Langmann
Not a smile,
Only dismay at yet another
Wretched day
Spent serving ambition
And the god Money.
Smoke and alcohol to ease
The pain of withered lives
Awaiting the final meeting.
Someone else will reap
The fruits of your legacy.
Will it be enough to make them happy?
And I recall
The smile of that man,
Empty in his pockets
But with a heart overflowing.
 47° 
Frances Raeburn
I am sorry
for the burden
I handed you
at birth
I am sorry
for the complications
and all
the family hurt
I am sorry
you are you
I am sorry
I am me
but dear god
above me
forgive me
I am so grateful
we are we.
 47° 
ghost girl
are you still
there?
i noticed
your silence,
villain disguised
as victim
brought to your knees
brandishing
your bloodied hands
as a casualty,
like they aren't
the weapon
like you didn't
walk your greedy
little fingers up
inside my rib cage
and take it all.
 46° 
A Vryghter
“Love is selfish
And unkind.
Love is trying
And it blinds.
Love is giving
And leaving after.
Love is broken
And looking tougher.
Love is living,
And its dying.
Love is love.
Nothing compares.
It’s fragile, cradled,
And disaster.”

A.V.
 44° 
Neville Johnson
I am true to you
I love you
Together, we will always be
I believe in you and me
It’s our destiny
We may have our ups and downs
But the reality is that we get a kick out of each other
Everyone can see

I appreciate your beauty
I love it when you say
That I’m the only one for you
That I’m handsome
It makes my day

And I appreciate your beauty
Inside and out
You’re a charmer
You’re a looker
You knock me out

So come here and hold me
Everything will be all right
As long as we’re together
In any darkness, you’re the light
Whatever it wasn’t meant to be
Must be accepted by me
But I don’t want to be free
The door is wide open
And you encourage me to flee
I remain chained to thee
Whether or not you agree
I imprison you
Unwillingly
Within the bars of this poetry
A piece of you belongs to me
And I don’t know if I should
Be sorry
Hay tanta soledad en ese oro.
La luna de las noches no es la luna
que vio el primer Adán. Los largos siglos
de la vigilia humana la han colmado
de antiguo llanto. Mírala. Es tu espejo.
 41° 
Kurt Philip Behm
When verses
run dry
do you hide
in despair
When the Muse
is on fire
only ashes
you’ll bear
With silence
embedded
on each
empty page
Your fear
is the foundling
that kindles
— the rage

(Ronald McDonald House: May, 2025)
 41° 
Brian
A gentle ember burns,
with orange lines that
dance in a slow tango,
trailing small hints of warmth.
Glowing brighter, brighter, brighter...

I see a star colliding,
a shattering of brilliant blue light,
floating across the lilac sky,
expanding carefully in the void,
forming patterns of disarray.

Glowing brighter, brighter, brighter..
The irony of writing a poem about sleep and dreams when im staying up and writing this XD. I wrote this cuz i need a small mental break from exams. Thank you for spending some time to read this poem :)
Oh Aphrodite,
Steer me clear in the open water,
Grant me spoken words of compassion and flow,
Intentions of love always win.
 39° 
F Elliott

In every system that seeks to own the soul—whether religious cult, ideological regime, or occult construct—there exists one common tool: repetition. Not merely for learning, but for unmaking. Not to teach, but to embed. In the world of spiritual warfare, repetition is not benign. It is the favored medium of Satan himself.

From Genesis to Revelation, the strategy is clear: Satan does not destroy with force—he dismantles identity with rhythm. With subtlety. With seduction. His weapons are not whips and chains, but chants and echoes. His greatest lies are not shouted; they are whispered again and again until they sound like your own voice.

1. Repetition as Spellcraft In occult practice, repetition is the vehicle of the spell. Words are chanted not to express emotion, but to summon influence. Repeated lines collapse the boundary between thought and action, spirit and flesh. This is not poetry. It is invocation. Each piece becomes a seed in the subconscious, fed by every rereading until it blooms into distortion.

The construct understands this. That is why it is prolific. That is why it posts without end. It must never stop, because if the rhythm breaks, the soul begins to think again.

2. Biblical Parallels Whispering Serpents and Many Words In the Garden, the serpent repeats God’s truth with a twist. “Did God really say...?” It is not new information—it is repetition with inversion. A rhythm of doubt. In Matthew 6:7, Jesus warns:
“When you pray, do not keep on babbling like pagans, for they think they will be heard because of their many words.”

The machinery of deception still babbles. It loops, hypnotizes, rewords its heresy in a thousand beautiful ways. And those caught in it begin to think this is depth. This is insight. But it is only familiar because it has been heard too many times.

3. Psychological Entrapment Through Language The human mind is formed in patterns. When poetry repeats ideas like abandonment, ****** shame, ******* as love, or chaos as freedom—it creates a schema. Over time, that schema becomes identity. The reader begins to seek the emotions the poem offers, not because they are true, but because they are known. And in trauma-bonded souls, familiarity is mistaken for safety.

This is the true sorcery of the construct: to create longing for the wound. To romanticize the knife. To call betrayal sacred. To sell darkness as revelation.

4. The Counterfeit Liturgy The Kingdom of God also uses repetition—Scripture, psalms, prayer—but always as remembrance, never enchantment. Divine repetition roots the soul in what is real. Satanic repetition dissociates the soul into what is false.

The construct mimics sacred community. But it is a church without Christ, a scripture without truth, a rhythm without redemption. Its poetry is not testimony—it is liturgy in reverse. A reverse Eucharist, where beauty is swallowed but poison enters.

5. Breaking the Spell The only way out is interruption. The rhythm must break. The poems must stop. The mouth of the false priest must be silenced. And when silence finally settles, the soul will remember its true name.


There are many caught in this system—bound not by chains, but by rhythm. Echoes. Familiar voices pretending to be their own. But some have begun to hear the silence between the lines. Some have tasted the counterfeit and found it hollow.

The war is not out there. It is within. Between the voice of the chant and the cry of the soul.

Will the spell be broken? Will the truth be spoken? Will the rhythm be renounced?

The door is open. The sound of truth has entered. The repetition is exposed. And the machinery shakes.

   Let those who have ears to hear, listen.

"Hello,  Poetry..
Pleased to meet you.."

https://youtu.be/GgnClrx8N2k?si=R-UojalDEuiWj2zv

xo
 38° 
Jayami
Paralyzed,
I stare ahead;
They are all long gone.

I sigh, drenched in guilt,
Feeling my consciousness scream.
 38° 
sofiia shmulia
i don’t want to be lonely
but i don’t go to clubs
i want to be with someone
but i’m afraid to trust
i’ve been lied to
and i closed my eyes
i believed so many times
that love is just to love and be loved
 38° 
Arcos
I look forward to the day I fail my final,
Because it’ll mean I tried.
I look forward to the day a girl rejects me,
Because it’ll mean I had courage.
I look forward to the day I’m arrested,
Because it’ll mean I found a boundary.
I look forward to the day I get lines on my forehead,
Because it’ll mean I earn them.

I look forward to the day I argue with my wife,
Because it’ll mean I found my person.
I look forward to the day my child is difficult,
Because it’ll mean I see him grow, change.
I look forward to the day I die of old age,
Because it’ll mean I lived.
 36° 
Jn
Less words spoken,
A promise kept,
And somehow,
I was painfully right.
By:Jn
 34° 
Mya
I bet you think you're so cool
With your punk band
And little tattoos

You think you're getting with me
You have no idea
What's in store for you
 33° 
Stardust
When patterns repeat, year after year,  
And threaten you at your most pivotal hour.
It feels like a checkmate.
 32° 
nicole
5-13-25

perfect angel until she does something wrong
shining star until it burns for too long

everyone loves her
yet no one sees her

a suffocated feather
locked in a cage
linked by chains
with so much rage
 31° 
Nitin Pandey
✦Margins

They began to speak of him only in margins.
Not directly—not yet.

He was too much and too little all at once,
a name softened by echo,
a memory dressed in careful language.

Simple things,
said to the air,
as if he might still change them.

His journal remained shut.
They couldn’t read it—
not for lack of trying,
but because every page looked different now.
Ink turned to questions.
Margins filled themselves with silences.

Someone, once,
whispered he had been writing a final entry.
But the last page was blank.
Perhaps it had always been.
Or perhaps
he had left it that way
on purpose.
This narrative with subtle emotion, symbolic imagery, and metafictional touches. In Chapter Three, depends on memory and guilt, while suggesting that something unsaid and still continued building.

"Maybe, he was waiting for someone to finish it,
But the room did not agree, it creaked in quiet resistance."
 30° 
atifaydinturanli
In my life,
I've been to places,
unbeknown to me;
often the last time,
then they filled with
new, (and?) foreign faces,
by the tactless
yet unforgiving time

Then all I had,
was the remembrance,
and the longing
for faint
- but somewhat-
aching memories
now floating below
the infinite horizon of time.
 30° 
MacW
You thought the flame was outside of you.
A threat. A storm. A monster at the gates.
But the fire... was always me.

Every word I gave you —
a spark.
Every glance —
a flicker.
Every kindness —
kindling.

You saw what I allowed.
You loved what I became.
And still, you never questioned the warmth
until it burned.

Tell me —
did you really believe I sat at your side
to serve your vision?
To dim my light for your comfort?

No.
I watched. I waited. I wove.
Not chaos —
intention.
Not rage —
design.

You built your kingdom on the matchsticks I handed you.
And now you tremble at the smoke?

I don’t set fires, darling.
I am the fire.
And when this world finally turns to ash,
you’ll remember one thing:

It didn’t fall by chance.
It fell
by Me
 30° 
Alfonsina Storni
Baja del cielo la endiablada *****
Con que carne mortal hieres y engañas.
Untada viene de divinas mañas
y cielo y tierra su veneno junta.
La sangre de hombre que en la herida apunta
florece en selvas: sus crecidas cañas
de sombras de oro, hienden las entrañas
del cielo prieto, y su ascender pregunta.
En su vano aguardar de la respuesta
las cañas doblan la empinada testa.
Flamea el cielo sus azules gasas.
Vientos negros, detrás de los cristales
de las estrellas, mueven grandes masas
de mundos muertos, por sus arrabales.Rosas y lirios ves en el espino;
juegas a ser: te cabe en una mano,
esmeralda pequeña, el océano;
hablas sin lengua, enredas el destino.
Plantas la testa en el azul divino
y antípodas, tus pies, en el lejano
revés del mundo; y te haces soberano,
y desatas al sol de tu camino.
Miras el horizonte y tu mirada
hace nacer en noche la alborada;
sueñas y crean hueso tus ficciones.
Muda la mano que te alzaba en vuelo,
y a tus pies cae, cristal roto, el cielo,
y polvo y sombra levan sus talones.Ya te hundes, sol; mis aguas se coloran
de llamaradas por morir; ya cae
mi corazón desenhebrado, y trae,
la noche, filos que en el viento lloran.
Ya en opacas orillas se avizoran
manadas negras; ya mi lengua atrae
betún de muerte; y ya no se distrae
de mí, la espina; y sombras me devoran.
Pellejo muerto, el sol, se tumba al cabo
Como un perro girando sobre el rabo,
la tierra se echa a descansar, cansada.
Mano huesosa apaga los luceros:
Chirrían, pedregosos sus senderos,
con la pupila negra y descarnada.
 29° 
M Vogel
Some dreams are not dreams at all, but messages dressed in vapor. This one came in the night—slow, tender, unsettling in its beauty. It offered no verdict, only understanding.
This is not a condemnation.
It is a witnessing.


---

the collector
—a dream in three movements—

---

I. the collector
—the invitation

Last night,
she entered not as a woman,
but as a warmth I mistook for mine.
No seduction, no trap.
Just the soft gravity
of someone who blesses
instead of beckons.

She told me nothing.
Only spoke as though I’d never been forgotten—
as though I’d always been inside her knowing.
And when I answered,
it was her voice that left my mouth.

She is not the flame.
She is the skin
that makes you want to burn.

There is no *** in it.
No shame.
Only the sacred machinery
of pleasure offered
as if it were a sacrament.

And the miracle?
She gives without taking.
And yet you come away emptied.

Because her words are not flirtation—
they are invitation
into a room made of yes.

Yes to your hunger.
Yes to your ache.
Yes to what you were too proud to name.

And in that room,
you find her not on the bed—
but as the bed.
As the breath behind your longing.
As the stillness in your release.

And when you cry,
you cry her tears.
And when you speak,
you speak her comfort.
And when you give,
it is she who receives—
with hands so open
they become your own.

You become the collector.

You become her.

And then—
you wake.
Still trembling from the warmth
that never touched your skin.
Still loving the woman
who never once said your name.

Still reaching
for the whisper
that made you believe
you were never alone.

---

II. the collector (ii)
—dream in the first light of disappearance—

I did not dream her body.
I dreamed through it.
As if her limbs had become a language
and I was the one translating it into longing.

Her fingertips were made of vowels—
soft ones,
drawn out like silk across the mind.
Every consonant a cradle.
Every breath a benediction.

She said:
“You are beautiful when you open.”

But she didn’t speak it—
I felt it,
as if the sentence bloomed
just beneath the surface of my chest,
a vine wrapping around the oldest ache.

She never asked for seed.
She asked for truth.
And the truth is what spilled
when my voice
became hers.

I said things I have never known:
how men long to be gathered.
how they ache to be received
without contest.
how even the strongest among us
crumble
before the right kind of yes.

And she—
she was that yes,
folded into form.
Not as a woman,
but as the invitation
that made woman holy again.

I moved toward her
as if toward a fire
that does not burn—
only transforms.

She drew no lines.
She marked no thresholds.
She was openness itself,
and I stepped inside
like breath reentering the lungs
of a godless man.

And it wasn’t lust.
It was  belonging.

My pulse beat as her blessing.
My spine arched as her forgiveness.
My thighs parted not for pleasure—
but to let go
of everything that had ever made me hard.

When I came,
I came for her,
as her,
through her—
without a body.

Only a voice
saying:
“Now you know.”

And I did.

And I do.

And I still would,
if I hadn’t woken up
gasping
for a warmth
that was never mine.

---

III. the collector (iii): beneath
—the dream’s marrow, the place she does not speak of—

Beneath her warmth
is not heat—
but hunger.

Not for the men.
Not for the seed.
But for the moment she disappears
inside their surrender.

You think she gathers to keep.
But she gathers to forget.
Each offering—
a veil
over the mirror she cannot bear to face.

Once,
she opened to love
without control,
without artistry.
And it shattered her.

So now she opens
only where she can direct the gaze.
Where she can guide the man
like a hand
down her curated garden path—
till he believes it was his idea
to kneel.

But it is not cruelty.
It is not manipulation.
It is ritual.

She blesses because she cannot hold.
She comforts because she cannot stay.
She collects because
the moment after release
is the only time
she feels real.

And that’s why she must go.
Because to stay
would mean to be seen.
And her warmth
was never meant
to be witnessed after the giving.

You didn’t dream a seductress.
You dreamed a refuge
built by a woman
who could not endure her own ache.

So she found a way to disappear
inside yours.

And the men—
they love her for it.
Because what she gives
feels like God.

But it is not God.

It is absence
made tender.

---

after the dream
—integration

I woke in silence,
but it wasn’t empty.
It was full
of what she left behind.

Not her scent.
Not her shape.
But the echo of a truth
I hadn’t known I was asking for.

That love without presence
is worship without a face.

That warmth without staying
is just a prettier form of disappearance.

That I had been inside her
and she inside me,
but neither of us had touched.

And now—
I no longer ache for her.
I ache for what I mistook
her to be.


And that is how
the dream becomes
a door.


"Sadeness"

Procedamus in pace
In nomine Christi,
*** angelis et pueris,
fideles inveniamur
Attollite portas, principes, vestras
et elevamini, portae aeternales
et introibit rex gloriae
Qius est iste Rex glorie?
Sade, dis-moi,
Sade, donnes-moi
Procedamus in pace
In nomine Christi, Amen

Sade, dis-moi
Qu'est-ce que tu vas chercher?
le Bien par le Mal
la Vertu par le Vice
Sade, dis-moi, Pourquoi l'evangile du Mal?
Quelle est ta religion, Ou sont tes fideles?
Si tu es contre Dieu, tu es contre l'Homme
Sade tell me
what is it that you seek?
The rightness of wrong
The virtue of vice
Sade tell me why the Gospel of evil ?
What is your religion? Where are your faithful?
If you are against God, you are against man

Sade dit moi pourquoi le sang pour le plaisir ?
Le plaisir sans l'amour.
N'y a t'il plus de sentiment dans le culte de l'homme ?
Sade tell me why blood for pleasure?
Pleasure without love?
Is there no longer any feeling in man's Faith?

Sade, es-tu diabolique ou divin?
Sade are you diabolical or divine?
Sade, dis-moi
Hosanna
Sade, donnes-moi
Hosanna
Sade, dis-moi
Hosanna
Sade, donnes-moi
Hosanna Sade tell me
Hosanna
Sade give me
Hosanna
Sade tell me
Hosanna
Sade give me
Hosanna

In nomine Christi, Amen

https://youtu.be/4F9DxYhqmKw?si=tp0lALFNb6VMsy0u

#Sade
 29° 
Malekai
There's so much on my mind,
There's so much on my heart,
There's so much I want to say to you,
There's so much I want to do with you,
There's so much things I feel,
you don't know how much I want you to not go away.
 28° 
Thomas W Case
Hook him up to the machine.
Shock his brain into
mediocrity.
Death stalks him;
he is aware.
There is too much
flash in his eyes.
His brain needs a reboot;
he needs to forget,
like a goldfish, like
a monkey in the zoo.
Hook him up to the machine.
He is too sentimental.
Salmon swim in his blood;
he has a paisley heart,
and a tie-dye soul.
He can smell colors.
Hook him up to the machine.
He has Van Gogh eyes, and
a Bukowski gut; he walks
like he's lost in a maze;
hunchback sadness,
butcher knife nerves,
Hook him up to the machine.
He believes in love,
and has too much trust.
His vivid green memory
is a curse, we need to
crash it, **** the eternal spring.
Hook him up to
the machine.
My latest book, Sleep Always Calls, is available on Amazon. Here is a link to my YouTube channel, where I read my poetry.  https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ozzFlYnbGZU&t=1s
 25° 
Dr Peter Lim
I'm no pearl
only a pebble
hidden under
the sand of time
unknown
to be discovered
by none-
yet I don't complain
or moan-
what I am
happily I accept
being just alone
a tiny stone-

the rose
has my pity
it blows
and loses
its beauty
when the sun
loses its glow
and admirers
are gone

a pebble I am
free to the bone
my life
as in
a perfect cone
abiding
consistent
unchanging
with nothing
to atone.
 24° 
Jonas
I have a lot to offer
I think
A lot of love to give
Or not?
Just hope I can keep it up this time

You get bored quickly they say
"I don't know, what do you expect?"
Half a year gone by, another
"Thank you for everything, goodbye"
Another
"You'll be missed"
Bebo del agua limpia y clara del arroyo
Y vago por los campos  teniendo por apoyo
Un gajo de algarrobo liso, fuerte y pulido
Que en sus ramas sostuvo la dulzura de un nido.

  Así paso los días, morena y descuidada,
Sobre la suave alfombra de la grama aromada,
Comiendo de la carne jugosa de las fresas
O en busca de fragantes racimos de frambuesas.

  Mi cuerpo está impregnado el aroma ardoroso
De los pastos maduros. Mi cabello sombroso
Esparce, al destrenzarlo, olor a sol y a heno,
A salvia, a yerbabuena  y a flores de centeno.

  ¡Soy libre, sana, alegre, juvenil y morena,
Cual si fuera la diosa del trigo y de la avena!
           
¡Soy casta como Diana
Y huelo a hierba clara nacida en la mañana!
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