Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Matt 2d
War
There was once a time
when men were championed for being sent off to war
celebrated
for having gone to battle

Should they have survived,
they would come home to their people,
drinking wine and parading about their accomplishments
while everyone gathered to listen to their tales

Yet, today, men are actively discouraged from sharing their battles

and I know,
a breakup,
or a depressive episode,
or even just a bad day
are not on the level of grandeur as a bloodied fight to the death

but even the small victories were once reason for banners to be hung
and the small losses; a reason for mourning

so, please, share your battles, whether they were a win or a loss,
because you never know
which fight will be the one to consume you
Share your battles. This poem, although written primarily as a reminder of the negative stigma men receive in society, when they are too open about their struggles, can apply to all; men, women, and/or anything and everything you identify as. At the end of the day, we are humans, and it's our job to look out for each other. So reach out, when you're in pain, or you're hurt, or even when you want to share a small victory. Tell someone.
Matt 2d
Instagram.
open.
close.
Text Messages.
open.
close.
Discord.
open.
close.
Back to Insta.

Forget why.

"So come on let's go
let's go below zero and hide from the sun
I'll love you forever, where we'll have some fun,
Yes, let'***** the North Pole and live happily,"

huh.
North Pole kinda screws up the tempo a bit

Wait did I answer James?!?!?
or was that yesterday?
nope. five minutes ago.
Do i answer again???
would that look weird?
Nevermind, i'll figure that out later
Oooooh new message from James
LMAOOO what is he even talking about

I should write a poem.
nooo I should sleep
I should write a poem about not sleeping
then sleep while thinking of my next poem
nooo i should prep for my meeting tomorrow
agenda bullet points
bullet point
point and laugh
that'd make for a good wheel of fortune clue
no.
focus.
where's the doc?!?!
Google Drive tab number 7
WHY IS IT OPEN TWICEEEEE

"Please, don't cry no tears now, it's Christmas, baby
My snowman and meeeeeeee"

I  just thought about it,

"where we'll have some fun"
what if "fun" though??
is writing this fun?
am i having fun?
am i sad?
am i happy?
anxious?
all of it?
none of it?

of right. Insta
someone typing
someone stopped
me, wondering if I said too much
me, saying more

meetingmeetingmeetinggggg
should i print this?
make it into a pdf?

and also "it's christmas baby"
.... it's July
right?

i think i need to sleep
I haven't been diagnosed with ADHD nor do I think I have it, but this poem was about how full my head always feels, and specifically, this was actually a true story based on my brain trying to function last night.
Matt 4d
There’s no reason I should feel like this.

That’s the worst part.
My life isn’t falling apart.
It’s fine.
It’s good.
My girlfriend tells me she loves me and I believe her.
My friends invite me out and I say yes.
Sometimes, I even laugh.
And then, in the middle of the night or a Wednesday afternoon,
my body decides it’s time to collapse in on itself.

No warning.
Just a quiet shutting down,
like the lights in a store
right before closing.

I’ll be walking through a parking lot
and suddenly my chest forgets how to keep rhythm.
My heart races like it's being chased
but there’s nothing behind me—
just a car, a tree, a sky that doesn’t care.

Try explaining that to someone.
Try saying,
“No, I’m not sad.
I’m just... not here at the moment.”
Or,
“Yes, I love you.
I just also kind of want to disappear right now.”

Some nights, I lie in bed like it’s a battlefield.
It’s 1:03 a.m.
The ceiling fan spins like it’s counting down to something.
I try to breathe like the apps taught me.
In through the nose.
Hold.
Out through the mouth.
Hold.
But panic doesn’t care about wellness trends.
It grabs my ribs like a thief looking for something valuable
and finds only noise.

The worst part is the stillness after.
When my body finally unclenches
and I’m left staring into the blank of 1:58 a.m.
fully aware I’ll be useless tomorrow.
But more afraid of the idea
that this is just... how it is.

I’m not suicidal.
Not in the way people imagine.
I don’t want to die.
I just want to stop existing
for like a day.
Maybe three.
Just enough to sleep without dreaming,
to pause the timeline,
to not have to explain why I haven’t texted back
or why I skipped another thing I should’ve shown up for.

Motivation?
It’s not that I don’t want to do things.
It’s that I can’t.
Not metaphorically—literally.
Some days I sit at the edge of my bed
for an hour
trying to convince my legs
that standing isn’t a threat.
Trying to convince my brain
that brushing my teeth isn’t Everest.

People say,
“You just have to push through.”
As if I haven’t been pushing
every single ******* day
against a door that swings shut
every time I blink.

And yet—
Here I am.
Breathing.
Shaking.
Still here.

Not heroic.
Not inspirational.
Just... here.
And maybe that’s not a triumph,
but it’s what I must cling on to
as my only saving grace.
It's so difficult to describe how it feels
Matt Jul 14
I pour myself into your maybe
but you sip only silence
your heart, a door ajar,
lets in whispers, but not me.

I plant daisies in your absence
roots tangled in my ribs,
but you say,
“not yet”

still I glow —
a lighthouse for a ship
This was actually my very first ever poem. I wrote this poem on December 2nd, 2024, and posted it to my instagram story. Ever since then, my love for poetry has continued to grow, and I'm so so so glad I decided to pursue this hobby.
Matt Jul 14
Does a cactus understand it’s prickly?
Does a pencil know it’s writing lines?

Does a sock realize it’s being worn,
Does a teapot know it’s boiling over?

Does a cloud understand it’s floating by?
Does a brush realize it’s painting strokes?

Does a coin feel its journey in someone’s pocket,
Does a door know it’s opening or closing?

Does a match know it’s sparking flame?
Does a pebble realize it’s part of the path?

Does a river know it’s always moving,
or does it simply follow the current,
without thought,
just being?

Maybe it’s the not knowing
that makes us move,
that makes us be,
each moment unfolding
without question.

or maybe its 3:16 a.m. and I’m just going crazy
Matt Jul 14
Love is a river, a sliver of light,
Curling and swirling in the silk of night.
It slips like whispers through canyon walls,
Echoing soft where the moonlight falls.

A clock with no hands, it bends and it breaks,
Ticking in rhythms that the heart remakes.
It’s a thread in the loom, weaving shadows and fire,
A stitch in the storm of untamed desire.

It’s the taste of rain on a tongue of stone,
The scent of a garden where wild things have grown.
A flame that shivers but never dies,
A flicker that burns beneath winter skies.

It’s the ache of the shore as the waves retreat,
A dance unfinished, yet bittersweet.
The hum of a chord that hangs in the air,
A note unresolved, yet painfully rare.

It’s a trap, it’s a freedom, a tangle in the tide,
A ghost on the shoulder, a force you can’t guide.
Both prisoner and prince in its velvet cage,
An eternal story on a fleeting page.

So sail it, inhale it, let it bury your fears,
Let it carve your soul through laughter and tears.
For love is a river, unruly and deep,
A current that carries what you vow to keep.
This was the first part of my 3 part series of poems I wrote very early into starting poetry. They were more surrealist, and less straightforward, poems that contained a lot of rhyme which was heavily influenced by my love for rap music.

This is part 1 of the "love is...." series.
Matt Jul 14
There was a time I knew sadness,
There was a time I knew pain.
There was a time I knew sorrow,
There was a time I knew shame.

And then I saw her;
Not like a dream, not like a hope,
But real, alive,
A spark in a world that had forgotten how to burn.

She didn’t speak the same language as my grief,
Her words were light,
But they landed heavy,
Like rain on a parched land.

She smiled, and for the first time in years,
I didn’t feel broken.
I didn’t feel like a collection of wounds
Held together by fragile skin.

She held my hand once,
And the touch was like a promise,
A promise that maybe the weight I carried
Wasn't mine to bear alone.

She took my sadness,
Took my pain,
Took my sorrow,
Took my shame,
And replaced them with warmth
I didn’t think I could feel.

But then one day,
I looked into her eyes.

And in that moment,
I saw it—
All the things she had taken from me,
All the things she had quietly held,
Lived there, in the depths of her gaze.

And for a single moment...

There was a time I saw sadness,
There was a time I saw pain.
There was a time I saw sorrow,
There was a time I saw shame.
Next page