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The first time you saw me,
your eyes lingered—
not just a glance,
but something softer, deeper.
For a moment,
I let myself believe
that maybe you felt it too.

I move through the world,
but when you're near,
it feels like I'm walking on glass,
like one wrong step
could shatter the silence between us.

I wonder if you notice
the way my breath stills,
the way my hands hesitate,
how I steal moments
just to look at you.

You don’t know,
and maybe you never will.
Because some love stays in the quiet,
burning softly,
never spoken,
never heard.

We were never meant to be,
but in another life,
maybe—just maybe—
your eyes would have lingered
a little longer.
Sixteen years, and still,
your absence lingers like a shadow,
soft, but never gone.
The world moves forward,
but some parts of me stay behind,
frozen in the last memory of you.

I have grown—
older, wiser, stronger—
but some days, I still feel like a child,
reaching for a hand that isn’t there,
searching for a voice
that only lives in echoes.

I wonder what you would say,
if you’d be proud,
if you'd recognize the person I've become.
I carry you in the smallest things—
a laugh, a habit,
a way of saying certain words.

Grief does not fade,
it only changes shape.
And after all this time,
I have learned to live with the missing,
to find you in the quiet,
to love you, even in absence.
I wrote this poem in memory of my late mother
I just wonder what my life would be if she was alive.
I wonder how it feels to call someone mama
In another life,
maybe your hand would reach for mine,
fingers brushing, lingering,
not just in passing, but in promise.

Maybe the way you first looked at me—
like I was something worth knowing,
worth holding—
would have been more than just a moment.

Maybe the silence between us
wouldn’t stretch so far,
wouldn’t be filled with words
I’m too afraid to say.

In another life,
maybe your heart would have known
what mine whispers
every time you walk away.

But this is not that life.
And so, I will love you in the quiet,
hope for you in the unseen,
and wait for the day
when maybe—just maybe—
time will get it right.
The room is quiet,
but the silence is louder.
Shadows stretch along the walls,
cold and still.

I sit alone,
hearing nothing
but the soft echo
of my own heart.
No voices.
No warmth.
Just me…
and the quiet.
I mistook the weight of absence for clarity,
as if the silence meant something resolved.
But I find no finality in distance,
only echoes that shift when I turn away.

Certainty was never more than a flicker,
a brief pause in an unsteady hand.
Even now, I trace the outlines of the past
as if repetition could make it solid.

But the shape keeps changing,
just like it always does.
I did not ask to stand in light,
nor walk the stage, nor speak my lines.
Yet here I am—through fault, through fight,
through twenty years of measured time.

The script is looped, the plot is stale,
the exits marked in hollow lead.
To fight is folly, frail, and fraught,
to fold is merely left unsaid.

No gods to beg, no fate to barter,
no judge to weigh what I have spent.
I claim this act, its ink, its end,
I take the bow, the stage is bent.

And still—the show will stagger on,
past hollow men and empty breath.
But I was here, and let it stand,
this ending was my own to set.
Oxygen, two 'me's'
We expire
Oxygen in threes
Ozone acquired

Ménage à trois
Three the same
Cards to draw
A hand, a game

One former
Introduce carbon
A home? or,
Latter two undone?

Life & death
2:1
Gasp for breath
Toxic, run

Detectors
Cry out loud!
Defectors;
Poison we laud

Breathe deep
Or sweet release
Eternal sleep
If you please

When your atoms bond
Bonds is a poem that explores the fluid and often precarious nature of polyamorous relationships through the lens of chemistry. Using molecular structures as an extended metaphor, the poem illustrates how individuals (atoms) form bonds that can be either life-sustaining or toxic. It begins with the stability of a dyadic relationship (O₂) before shifting into the volatility of a triadic bond (O₃), highlighting the unpredictable nature of introducing a third partner.

The introduction of carbon further destabilizes the relationship, raising the question of whether new elements strengthen or destroy existing connections. As the poem progresses, it introduces carbon monoxide (CO), a silent and lethal gas, as a symbol of the ease with which one can succumb to emotional suffocation or self-destruction. The final stanzas present a choice—whether to embrace the complexities of the bonds or to surrender to an escape that is both literal and metaphorical.

The poet employs scientific language to dissect the emotional intricacies of polyamory, using chemical bonding as a framework to discuss intimacy, instability, and dissolution. By framing each individual as an atom, the poem presents relationships as inherently reactive—some bonds are strong, some transient, and others quietly corrosive. The progression from O₂ to O₃ mirrors the transition from monogamy to polyamory, highlighting both the excitement and fragility of expanding relational dynamics.

The use of carbon monoxide (CO) is particularly poignant, serving as both a literal reference to an accessible means of release and a metaphor for the slow, unnoticed suffocation that can occur within a deteriorating or imbalanced relationship. The poet subtly critiques the way people sometimes romanticize toxicity (“Poison we laud”) while also acknowledging the weight of personal agency in choosing whether to remain in or exit a connection. The closing line, “When your atoms bond,” leaves the reader with an open-ended reflection on the nature of relationships—do they create, destroy, or simply change form?

By intertwining chemistry with human emotion, the poem presents an unflinching yet poetic look at the risks, rewards, and potential consequences of forming and breaking bonds.
Welcome, dear artist, step into the light—
Paint on your pleasure, make your grin tight.
The crowd here is eager, the clapping is loud,
But only for those who have clapped for the crowd.

Powder your cheeks with engagement and grace,
Lace up your lips in reciprocal praise.
A bow for a bow, a sigh for a sigh,
Wink at the watchers or wither and die.

Here in the House where the hollow hands meet,
The loveliest dancers must stay on their feet.
A round of applause is a token to spend,
But spend it too slowly, and you’ll find it ends.

The jesters all juggle, the poets all moan,
The painters trade colors but none of their own.
Each stroke, each verse, each desperate tune,
Not meant to be felt—just meant to be hewn.

For love is a fiction, and merit a game,
A trick of the trade, a conjuring name.
So curtsy, dear artist, and play your part—
For silence here is the end of art.
That five-seven-five is a scam,
Just nature plus seasonal spam.
A frog in a bog—
Wow! A leaf! And some fog!
It’s a tweet with a syllable jam.

Now limericks think they’re so sly,
With their jigs and their wink of the eye.
But their punchlines grow stale,
Like a bar yuck from Yale—
It’s the dad joke of poetry. Why?

Oh Shakespeare, forgive what’s been done—
Fourteen lines on a love that won’t run.
With their iambic moans,
And romanticized groans—
They're just Tinder swipes dressed as the sun.

Repetition’s the name of its game,
But by stanza three, it’s all shame.
You repeat and repeat,
Till your brain hits delete—
Was it clever, or just all the same?

Acrostics spell TRY HARD down the side,
A format no critic can abide.
Each line bends and breaks,
Just for symmetry’s sake—
And the message gets lost in the ride.

Free verse gets a pass, but just barely—
Too often it screams “Look, I’m arty!”
With no rhythm or aim,
Just vibes and a name—
Like a drunk giving TED Talks at parties.

---

There once was a muse unconfined,
Who laughed at each rule tightly lined.
When pure thought took flight,
It outshone every rite—
For raw truth outclasses form every time.
I name the sky
but not the ceiling
The walls comply
without revealing

A maze of flesh
worn to coping
False gods enmesh
the soul in hoping

I woke too late
to heed the charm
This woven state—
a false alarm

I held the lie
like a child holds breath
Afraid to cry,
afraid of death

A child no more
but not yet formed
A half-closed door
by silence warmed

I mimic grace
with borrowed limbs
A haunted face
beneath the hymns

Not quite awake
yet never dreaming
The seams all ache
from constant seeming

And if I scream—
does it resound?
Or just a dream
that makes no sound?

Beneath the breath
a stillness waits
A second death
with no clean gates

The body hums
its loaded prayer
But all becomes
a vacant stare

Syntax frays
beneath the thought
What god obeys
the self I’m not?

I claw through names
but none will stay
Each shape reclaims
then rots away

The self, a gloss
on leaking form
A dream of loss
pretending norm

No center holds—
it never did
Just nested folds
of what I hid

No I. No you.
No real disguise.
Just tunnels through
abandoned skies

The witness breathes
without a lung
No scripts, no sheaths
No native tongue

It does not choose
or seek reply
It does not lose
It does not die

Not bound by pain
yet made of pain
Not lost, not sane—
not mind, not brain

It watched me be
then watched me break
It was not me—
but stayed awake

A hollow hush
beneath all sound
A pulse, a crush
not outer-bound

Throughout it all
I exist
A novel fall
Lines betwixt

Animals, a sea adrift
Feeding on the cheapest rift
A pattern to be missed
when rhymes end in a weak fit
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