Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
They say…  
it wasn’t messy  
until the cat.  

The cat just wanted to play,  
but somewhere along the way,  
she ran into a human like us.  

Together, they began  
to play with the red string.  

They say…
before the human,  
there was no method to the string—  
just thrown about,  
knotted inexplicably.  

But then man came  
and saved the day.  
The string and cat said, “Hooray!”  

They say…
man showed up  
with rules:  
“The string isn’t a toy,  
it’s a tool.  
Throwing it about  
would be cruel.  
People could trip,  
and one day,  
the string could rip.”  

They say…
they all agreed  
to move the string  
to a different corridor,  
behind a big door.  

“Any questions?”  
A little hand rose up.  
She was lost in the crowd,  
a girl I hadn’t noticed before.  

Her question sent ice to my core:  
“Then why is there red string  
all over the floor?”  

I snapped,
“There is no red string  
on the floor!”  
If they hear her question
Will it be safe for us anymore
The air grows heavier
Much too heavy to breathe
The sounds of heavy footsteps
Now growing louder than a horn
I’ve never heard knocks like this before
Why does it sound like a war
on the other side of the door?
All for a little girl?
Is that what all of this is for?

But then I looked down  
and barely began to see—  
the red string  
had tangled me.  
And by scolding the girl
Instead of letting it be
Have I sentenced her to a fate
just like me?

Too stunned,  
to speak,  
too stuck,  
to move—  

Her soft knowing eyes met mine
With the truth that mine were too calloused to realize
What They say…
might be too good  
to be true.


They say…
they lived happily ever after
They say…. “They will never all question us anyway.”
They say…
They say the world is orderly, that the rules keep us safe. But what happens when we start to see the tangled threads beneath it all? A Fable Tangled in Red String is a poetic exploration of control, obedience, and the quiet power of questioning what we’re told. Through the lens of a simple game—man, cat, and string—this piece unravels the illusions of order, revealing how easily we become ensnared in the stories ‘they’ tell us. But once we see the string, can we ever unsee it?
My body is broken
But doesn't really matter
How badly beat up I get
My soul still wants
To pick a fight

I guess us fighters
Are just made like that
We never really know
When and how to quit
We're too **** tough
For our own good

We just want that fire
So we keep pushing
On and forward
Forward and on
A repost of a piece that I wrote last september, while trying to shake myself off a depressive episode... couldn't be more appropriate: I'm fighting really hard right now.
I want to tell you
I really ******* miss you
But we rarely speak
Beyond
the veils.
From
veil to
veil.
Energy
progresses.
Moving
through.
Flowing
one from
the other.
Realm
to realm.
Energy
ripples
knotting
up.
Spinning
in place.
Taking
form.
Function,
realization.
Sentience
emerges.
Civ­ilization
derived.
From
veil to
veil energy
flows.
Dissipates.
Passing
through,
on.
Next
veil,
realm
a­waits.
New
canvas.
New
painting.
New stories
to tell.
Energy
never
dies.
Simply
reforms!
Ink bleeds softly on thin paper,
your words, like strokes of painted light,
arrive, a week delayed, a world away.
I trace the curve of your imagined hand,
the ghost of pigment, the scent of distant rain,
a landscape formed from sentences, and sighs.
My desk, a cluttered altar, holds your art,
a still life of our unspoken dreams,
within a Garden of Whispers, softly spun.

The brush you wield, a whispered secret,
creates worlds I can only touch in thought.
Your canvas blooms with colors I have missed,
a vibrant echo of your absent smile.
Each letter, a portrait of your soul,
revealed in glimpses, shadows, and soft hues.
We build a Garden of Whispers, line by line,
a sanctuary where our spirits meet,
a place where distance cannot truly steal.

The moon, a silent witness to our words,
hangs heavy in the night, a silver coin.
I write by candlelight, the shadows dance,
a phantom audience to my devotion.
My pen, a clumsy instrument of love,
attempts to capture what your art conveys.
I yearn for touch, for shared and simple breath,
within this Garden of Whispers, we reside,
a moment where the ink and paint collide.

The year revolves, a slow and aching dance,
of paper ships that sail across the miles.
I wait for spring, for your returning hand,
to paint the landscape of a living day.
My heart, a canvas stretched and waiting still,
for your arrival, for your vibrant touch.
The letters fade, the ink begins to pale,
yet in this Garden of Whispers, love remains,
a masterpiece, etched in the soul’s long hall.
I combined this into a "****-Narrative" style, with a 9-8-9-8 structure, and striving to use no rhymes....
The subject of this was the year-long correspondence with my GF.  Reflecting on what it is I love about her.  Though written as if we were still using pen and paper, I meant to express the power of words and art to bridge the gap that distance has created. It reflects on longing, love, and the intimacy shared through correspondence and creative expression.
Music brings this chilling feeling.
I talk alone to my white ceiling.
Their invasion feels like silent stealing.
I crack and break as my walls keep peeling.
Is this sensation truly healing?
Gogyohka
Next page