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 Jul 17
Kalliope
Sitting at this table,
My sisters in their place,
My brother at the top,
With a baby by his waist.

We’re mostly parents now,
With our kids in tow,
But when I look at your faces,
I see the little kids I used to know.

We all have our own lives,
Of our own creation,
No longer just play pretend
On some summer vacation.

A brand new generation,
Being raised by us,
They’re little and young and free,
And I love them all so much.

Even when I don’t see them,
Or weather cancels our plans,
Being a sister, a mother, an aunt-
The best roles I could ever land.

And we’ll sit here at this table,
Loud, chaotic, and such,
Often I’m sad, honestly mad,
But in this moment, life has given me so much.
We don't play hide n seek anymore, or hideway to sneak smoke ****, but hearing all the children laugh and play- for now, what more could I need?
 Jul 17
CJ Sutherland
I

   D
      A
        N
          G
       L
E
my participles
               To throw people
                       off of the scent of
Mr premise
            whose
              always guilty

                          Proceeding are a

          Cast of cowards
                       Colossal failures
                                        Contrite
       ­                       Abject Apologies
Corporate greed
           will never concede
                                  Defending
             ­                          There is NO need



Inspired songs
American woman
By The Guess Who 1970

You’re the one that I want
By John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John 1978



Written
July 15, 2025
BLT Webster’s word of the day challenge
July 16, 2025 abject
Abject usually describes things that are extremely bad or severe. It can also describe something that feels or shows shame, or someone lacking courage or strength.
 Jul 16
Vazago d Vile
You can hold me —
but only with open hands.

You can call me —
but only with a voice soft enough
to leave my name free in the wind.

Control once broke me.
Chains once fooled me.
But I’ve rebuilt my soul
with scorched truth
and stubborn fire.

So trap me again, if you must —
but only with love.
Only with warmth.
Only with the kind of touch
that frees
while holding tight.

Because I will never kneel
to anything less
than love.
Not all cages have bars. Some are built from guilt, silence, and routines that wear you down. But I broke that shell. If I’m ever caught again, it won’t be by fear or control — it’ll be by love. And only love.
 Jul 16
I
I never thought that I could
Drink morning coffee when hungover.
I have never thought that a compromise
Can taste so good.

I didn’t want to consider different me
I thought I have lost myself with you.
I didn’t know her,
But you did.

I keep doing it to myself.
This pain is better than not having you at all.
I like having you in me,
And I’m the only one who knows it.

Calm and stress at the same time.
I need shivers to enjoy,
But of course you knew that.
You have read me, and suddenly I can’t read anymore.

Conversations in my head,
Disappointed in my own stories.
I pretend that I don’t like to be with you,
But when you’re not around, I don’t have me.

You left me dry,
Because you were dry before you met me.
I wish we had more time to get wet.

When they told me love should be easy,
They didn’t know that it is easy to walk together in the darkness.
I wish we had more time to wait for the morning,
But all we had were nights.

I keep doing it to myself
 Jul 16
badwords
There was a time I wandered through your garden,

starving.

And you—each of you—offered yourselves

as fruit swollen with promise.

I reached for you with cracked hands,

bit in with blind hunger,

and called the bitterness flavor.



You were beautiful.

God, you were beautiful.

But so is nightshade,

so is the blossom that blooms on the mouth of a grave.

Your sweetness was lacquered in arsenic,

your nectar dripped with need.

You tasted of almosts

and if-onlys

and don’t-you-dares

disguised as love.



I swallowed you whole.



Thank you for that.



Truly.

Because I needed the poison.

I needed to tremble.

I needed to wake at 3 a.m.

with my gut twisted into questions,

my lips still red from the lie.



You see,

each of you grew in soil watered by my self-doubt.

You thrived on my silence,

my contortion,

my careful pruning of self

to fit the shape of your hunger.



I tended you like a fool tends a ****,

thinking it would blossom into medicine.

But you were never sustenance.

You were spectacle.

And I—

I was the banquet host,

laying myself out

course after course,

watching you feast

and ask what else I had to offer.



No more.



The garden is closed now.



I’ve uprooted every vine

that once climbed my spine like a lover.

I’ve tilled the rot,

turned the decay into compost,

and from it—

from it—

a single fig tree has risen.

Quiet. Modest.

But true.



She feeds me.

Not with frenzy,

but with fullness.

Not with hunger,

but with presence.

Her fruit doesn’t burn.

It lingers.



So to each bitter harvest:

Thank you.

Thank you for sickening me.

For seducing me.

For starving me so thoroughly

that when love finally arrived,

I could taste it—

and know it was real.



You were never the feast.

You were the lesson.



And I am no longer hungry.



— Formerly Yours,

Now Fed
 Jul 16
huda almosafer
True love ain’t easy, it’s hard, it’s stone-cold tough,
It’s stubborn like the mountains, like edges sharp and rough.
Yet soft and still like quiet clay, it holds you in its hand,
One day it makes you stronger, the next you barely stand.

One day it makes you laugh so loud, the next it makes you cry,
It breaks you down and builds you up, it lifts your spirit high.
But in the end, even the hardest stones will sink and melt away,
Their strength and pride will fade to dust, in soft and quiet clay.

And still, love stays, it stays through pain, through storms you walk on through,
Because it changes how you see the world, it paints your sky more true.
This is love, the real kind, raw, the kind that makes you see,
That even when it hurts so much, it’s where your soul feels free.
 Jul 15
somedumbbitch
Bristles, glide delicately...
over cold refuse.

Random bits,
of detritus:
and your broom devours them,
indiscriminate
a placidly lurking monster,
with an unchoosy palette.  

It's almost a mindless,
shuffling dance,
with failure, for a willing partner,
while regret, lingers sulkily,
in a dark corner of the room,
and watches the two of you
locked,
in a very forced
minuet.

The world feels like it's over,
and every brush stroke, feels
like its own humdrum ending.

Then,
all at once,
when you least expect it, to


your agitated trash ,
lifts its papery little wings,
takes flight,
and flutters gently away,
in a storm of linen,
beige, and white.

The faintest flicker of hope,
rises, from the discard pile:

a wildcard moth
seeking its own, besotted flare,
of quavering torchlight.
This literally came about, because I was sweeping the floor, thinking about this old drawing of a woman who accidentally sweeps away part of her own shadow, and, while daydreaming, my "trash" kept escaping the broom bristles. What I assumed was persistent, papery garbage were really just very aggravated moths.
 Jul 14
abyss
My sweet love,
the mirror of my soul,
the calling of my heart.

The day we meet is so sweet
in my tormented mind.
How can I feel so much love
for someone I haven't met?
But I know, in my tired heart,
that you're somewhere out there —
maybe, just maybe,
wondering if I exist.

My sweet love,
the thought of you,
of us,
makes my suffering, broken heart
quiet down for the night,
like a baby coddled by their mother.

My mind runs soft reels
of your breath mingling with mine
as we lay to rest,
your keys left near my books,
the way your voice might sound
when you're half-asleep and safe.
That kind of life —
the quiet, ordinary kind —
lulls my storm to sleep.

The mirror of my soul,
are you searching for me
in the faces of new people?

The calling of my heart:
can you sleep a little lighter,
knowing I'm waiting for your arms?

I hope this poem reaches you —
a whisper in your sleep,
so you’ll know I’m already yours.
Written for the one I haven’t met yet, but already miss.
May these words find you gently,
like a whisper in your sleep.
 Jul 14
The Wilted Witch
I watch them fly
With grace, so free.
Unburdened by
Prosperity.

No time for entertainment.
Hearts not weighed and balanced against gold bars.
No defendants, and no claimants.
Living in each moment only where they are.

Light enough to lift off.
Strong enough to stand.
Each day is faced,
With strength and grace.
No expectation. Nothing planned.

I watch them perch
With purpose, unknown.
Each one a force
Itself, alone.

No need for supervision.
Making no objects, hoarding no wealth.
Living off of flight and vision.
Living for the flock, and for the self.

Only motivation, sunrise.
Only purpose is to live.
Perhaps thoughtless,
Perhaps unknowing,
Still, it’s wisdom that they give.
 Jul 13
badwords
Want to land a hit?
Write seventeen claps of ****
Done. Post. You can quit.
Math is make believe and imaginary
 Jul 13
Traveler
It’s not that difficult to hide the patterns of evil within the chaos. Their confusion is intentional, the algorithms support their disinformation.
The mouthpieces of darkness echo the narratives of negativity to the masses. Then they feed on your anger!
Theirs is no us and them, there is only you in control of your existence.
Traveler Tim

— The End —