Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ro g 7d
sand castles and searching for seashells
scraping knuckles against stones,
swinging on creaky chipped bars
my twin covered in matching calluses,
my childhood my youth
we will meet again.

sand dunes and metal hunting,
my friend's fingers interlocked with mine
submerged under the grains.
course and sharp and dry
searching for pirate treasure,
my childhood my youth
we will meet again.

splitting candy and rolling down hills,
feeding mud pies baked with mulberries,
grass stains and bees buzzing
oh neon lensed life,
my childhood my youth
we will meet again.

but when?

lyinging at night, isolation's blanket covers me
when i stop and remember
my childhood my youth.

the scent of the memories fade from my nose.
the touch and sensation leave my fingertips.
the sound of their voice get lost in my ears.
their names elude my tongue.
their faces become a blur.

oh but sweet youth,
don’t fret, don’t cry
just know,
despite the hourglass’s sand clouding my brain
my heart shan’t forget—
the joy, the sorrow, the disgust, the pain, and the love i felt
over these years.

i’ll never forget you, i promise.

my childhood my youth,
we will meet once again,
that’s my promise.

whether it be now
or at death’s sandbox.
Sep 25 · 224
bubble
ro g Sep 25
i wish to be a bubble
light and shiny
floating and soaring through the sky.


i wish to rest upon the clouds
oh for i could finally rest myself
lay there
and be transparent
let light shine through me
absorb me
engulf every cranny of my being
air pick me up
and drop my body
let it drop from thousands of feet
and shatter upon impact.


i want to be weightless
let go of myself and let myself be taken
by everyone everything every breath
swayed and pushed
flying to nowhere
somewhere
anywhere.


but to be a bubble
is as feasible as any other dream
for when i wake up
the clouds will fall
rain on me
and the bubble pops.


the brick didn’t shatter
so i tape the pieces that strayed away
and i’m back to walking
down the same road
to anywhere,

somewhere,



nowhere.
Sep 25 · 264
north star
ro g Sep 25
the north star
leads as the king of the night,
a vision of light and hope for all,
shining brightest, fated for greatness,
guiding lost souls through harrowed nights.

however isolation follows, shrouding him in sin.
he carries the darkness and burden of the night,
even in a constellation, will alway be on edge,
as his crown lies in thorns.

despite his glory, he is alone.
Inspired by the "Are you 'Soldier, Poet, King'" trend
Sep 25 · 2.0k
bejeweled
ro g Sep 25
i miss the necklaces you gifted me,
the amethysts you made with your lips
that adorned my neck
and turned our shared whispers in bed
into a bold claim, "MINE."
Sep 25 · 72
i was crazy once
ro g Sep 25
i beg and pray you
put a label to my crazy
for if my nature has no reason
explain what's wrong with me
Aug 27 · 80
Honey
ro g Aug 27
My honey isn’t a sticky cure-for-colds;
She isn't viscous, warm, glistening amber;
My multicolor baby burns---
A thin spicy liquid who coats my throat
And spreads fuel through my body
Until her hellish heat bonds with my blood.
A preview into my afterlife,
For if I can accept this addictive pain,
I will die with ease.
Aug 27 · 226
Burning
ro g Aug 27
You see a mask,
Assume it false.
I fake being sad,
I fake the tears staining my cheeks.
In a world being consumed by flames,
My wide mouth devoid of words
Dares to steal attention
From the more pressing matters
Because I believe I matter more.

The plastic hides a face,
A face that "is faking being sad,"
A face that "just wants attention."

Now, now, aren’t you confused,
Because you gave that face everything it needs
And everything it could ever want.
Maybe money can buy love,
but it also buys plastic.

Now this---
Is no mask.
It's my skin.
Shiny, fake, and hard.
It’s not covered in plastic;
It has become plastic.
Inspired by the Cover Art of Burning by Ocean Vuong
May 1 · 47
Rotten Vegetables
ro g May 1
We begin a simple bud,
Blooming into raw fruit
Eventually reaching our peak as
Ripe, smooth, shiny, perfect for sale.
Fresh vegetables.

What happens after
If we aren't sold?
We stay seated on a shelf,
No longer on the pedestal
But put in our own section of the aisle.
Brandishing the yellow sale tag,
Sentenced to a life of scorn.
Bearing the shame
Until the day we are rotten enough
To be finally put out of misery
And be disposed,
Replaced with another batch
Of fresh vegetables
To scrutinize, reduce, and smush.

— The End —