Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
I was born beneath a stovetop sermon,
raised on smoke and the echo of “just like him.”
She lit the burner,
called it love,
then blamed the fire when I blistered.

I learned early:
affection has teeth.
That mirrors are weapons
if someone else gets to hold the frame.

So I went looking—
not for love,
but for permission.
To be, without revision.
To feel, without rehearsal.

And they came,
each with open arms
and blueprints in their back pockets.
They didn’t say change.
They said better.
They meant less.

I gave what I could,
which was always everything.
And when that wasn’t enough—
I gave the shape of myself too.

But still I stood.
Not clean. Not cured.
Just standing.
Wobbly maybe, but mine.

Now, here—again—
I feel the heat in the glance,
the tremor in the words:
"Don’t idealize me."
But isn’t that the perfect bait?

Still, I stay.
Still, I watch.
Because I’ve learned to name the difference
between a flame and a forge.

I am not the boy at the stove anymore.
I am the man with the match—
and the scars to prove
I know when to walk away
and when to burn with purpose.

So if I burn now,
it will not be in silence.
It will not be for someone else’s comfort.

It will be because I chose
to stand in the fire
as myself,
and finally,
stay.
Engulf is a raw, introspective free verse poem that explores the psychological weight of childhood trauma, the complexities of romantic relationships shaped by formative wounds, and the slow journey toward self-reclamation. The speaker reflects on being cast in the shadow of a parent’s unresolved resentment, inheriting emotional roles not of their own making. This early dynamic becomes a foundation for a series of adult relationships in which affection is offered only on the condition of transformation—of becoming someone safer, more malleable, more convenient.

Using fire as a recurring metaphor—both as danger and as forge—the poem charts a movement from vulnerability to clarity. The speaker recognizes a lifelong tendency to over-invest, to seek validation at the cost of self, and ultimately, to mistake manipulation for intimacy. Rather than arriving at a dramatic ******, Engulf builds toward quiet resolve: the decision to stand in one’s own fire, no longer shaped by external blueprints, no longer asking permission to exist as is.

In Engulf, the author confronts the cyclical nature of emotional projection and internalized identity distortion. The poem serves as both personal reckoning and a broader commentary on how unresolved familial dynamics often echo into adult relationships. Rather than casting blame, the piece investigates the subtle ways in which individuals are conditioned to compromise their authenticity in pursuit of love and acceptance.

The poet's intent is not to moralize or to position the speaker as a victim, but to depict a moment of awakening: a realization that authenticity, though difficult and often lonely, is preferable to the ongoing erosion of self. With restrained emotional language and clear metaphorical resonance, Engulf offers a nuanced perspective on healing—not as a destination, but as a commitment to remain whole in the face of recurring patterns.
A visit to my teacher's house,
While he's talking,
I wounder where the ducks go in winter.

Been expelled,
Better go to the dormitory,
A rage of jealously,
I attack my room mate,
****** nose, hunting hat
Back to front,
I head for New York.

Booking into a hotel,
I dance with three girls,
Pay for their drinks
And off they go,
The elevator guy,
Offers me a girl, I agree,
she knocked at my door!
But I'm a ******, you see,
So we just talk.

I decided to go home, to see my sister, don't want to see my parents, so
I silently enter, go to her room,
She's sleeping so I wake her,
"Why are you home?"
I tell my tale,
"Dad will go crazy!"
Kids tell it straight,
I tell her to meet me later, at the
Museum, off I go, without a sound.

Waiting for my sister,
Watching how people act,
What happens when we grow up?
Most are phonies to me.
I see my sister, so carefree and real,
Do you want to ride the
carousel?
She's so happy, as we arrive,
Picking her favourite horse,
Time to take a ride.

So I'm just busy here watching the wheels
Go round and round,
No longer riding on the merry-go-round,
I'd had some dark thoughts
About what to do next,
But this song came into my mind,
And I just had to let it go,
I'll take my sister home,
Tell mum and dad,
Start a new school
Life ain't to bad.
Nick Moore Mar 22
Black lightening
In
Reverse,
Not a leaf to be seen,
Stars glistening
In-between

Holding steady,
Wind
Is
Wild,
Shadows dance
With the
Flowing
Grass.
Nick Moore Mar 17
Desiring Deseray,
Causes suffering.
  Mar 16 Nick Moore
Agnes de Lods
Dear Universe,
I apologize for not reading
your messages before.
I just preferred to go
my own untraveled road.
You know me so well—

Youth, optimism
and stubbornness
were my strengths.
All these appearances
to decide for myself
with free will?
It was worth it.

Over the years,
I understood
that you are not my enemy.
You wished me to feel better,
and truly complete.
Now, I open your letters,
peacefully smiling,
without fear,
knowing I won’t find
false promises
or easy solutions.

You send me people,
situations, symbols, dreams,
and beautiful melodies,
carried by the solar wind—
that I take in surprising peace.
Even though,
sometimes it’s painful.
Nick Moore Mar 16
Discovery
Of The
Garden,
Where we merrily played,
For a time.

Ignoring the voice
(We could be so bold)
Calling us back,
Into the fold.

The game's continued,
For a while,
But the fun it held,
Started to decline.

The garden
Became the only place,
Nowhere else existed,
An illusion was born,
The individual.

The individual
Sat alone, and very soon,
Sadness came to join.

Sadness grew and grew,
Until the thought was born,
Time to return to the place,
We once called
Home.
Nick Moore Mar 15
Teresa Green
Stood very still,
In the middle of a field,
Slightly moving with the breeze,
It was time
To turn over a new leaf

Nosmo King
Took his last drag,
Stubbornly stubbing

Annette Curtain
Stood in front of the window,
In her lace dress

Duane Pipe
Drank many pints of water,
His language was straight from the gutter

Phil McCann
Was a corporal,
He'd make sure the lad's
Jerrycan's were full

Please don't get me wrong,
I'm only
Joe King
NICK MOORE didn't steal anything in this poem
Next page