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Nik 1d
Lost.
Every child is born lost,
Every child is born alone.

We enter this world crying,
Small hands reaching for warmth,
A warmth we cannot create alone.

Stumbling, falling,
Too weak to stand on our own,
Helpless, dependent.

Molded by voices not our own,
Taught what to say, how to be,
Following paths laid before us,
Doing as we are told.

But as we grow, we begin to change.
We learn to rise without trembling,
To speak with voices that are now our own,

To walk where our hearts desire,
No longer imitating,
No longer afraid.

Courageous, independent,
Becoming our own saviors,
Because we no longer need another to be—
Found.
Zywa 1d
Behind the walls there's

a party, and the river --


still remains frozen.
Book "Het geheim van de schrijver" ("The writer's secret", 2000, Renate Dorrestein), part 'Faith', chapter 'About Doing your own thing'

Collection "Old sore"
Samuel 4d
Bejeweled, the peacock in her feathery glory,
Enchants each passerby to tell her story.
Her way with words, allures them all,
She gleams with pride; she stands tall.

A woodpecker, wears its crimson crown,
Its artistry turns down a frown.
Builds his home, upon a log,
Persists through rain or fog.

Peacock teaches the woodpecker its wicked game,
Gives the woodpecker a taste of fame.
Woodpecker works day and night,
Threatens the peacock, gives her a fright.

The woodpecker, praised for his newfound grace,
Notices the peacock, disdain on her face.
He asks her softly  , the cause of her dismay,
Her voice cold and dead, begins to say.

“Your craft is weak, yet you think it’s great?
You still have time, it’s not to late.
If I see it again, it'll drive me mad,
Oh, honey! Its the truth, aren’t they all bad?”

Woodpecker stunned, as she keeps saying more,
Feels his crown fall on the floor.
With care for his pride,
He ponders and delves into a stride.

He says-
“Insecurity buried deep—that’s fine.
But why must you extinguish your friends’ shine.”
Speaking less but saying more,
He flies off to a better shore.
This poem is actually about me. I started writing because of my cousin, but over time, she started criticizing my work so much that it made me feel uncomfortable. Eventually, she just straight-up insulted me, which really got to me. It made me feel awful, so for my own peace of mind, I decided to stop talking to her.
why’d hurt come from birth,
why’s it bound to the barrel of north.
dashing in and out of the blue—
where was your heart then,
what is it to you.

speedways, speedways—
all I ever chased,
but I never met that one pace.
A man without a purpose,
perceives himself as a failure,
even in the gaze of those who don't see him.

His thoughts spiral, envisioning the
hope of light at the end of the tunnel,
only as a receding spark, like a distant star,
as he plunges deeper into a hole.

These are his thoughts when he’s alone –
this is NOT a poem!
I walk where echoes fail to stay,
Where voices fade, then slip away.
A shadow lingers, yet none can see,
A silent weight that follows me.

I share my thoughts with empty air,
A crowded room, yet none aware.
No hands to hold, no eyes that meet,
Yet I still hear my own heartbeat.

I dance with ghosts of yesterday,
Their fleeting touch then drifts astray.
A missing piece, a hollow chest—
Can you name my silent guest?















.......Loneliness
San 5d
With a compass of sheer curiosity, I roam,  
An oxymoron guiding me to unknown realms,  
Chasing the edge of a world that’s never shown,  
Looking for paradise at every place,
Only to find in the void, a blank space.

Each question a spark, a thread to unwind,  
But this thread, it tangles, no answers to find,  
In the labyrinth of thought, I'm lost, confined,  
Curiosity's compass, leading a confused mind.

In the edge of a cliff, I stand up straight.
I see a mirror, staring back at me is my own fate.
Reflecting not my face, but just my shadow,  
The more I chase the light, the more I grow hollow.

In a labyrinth of thoughts, where every twist and bend,  
Feels both familiar and foreign, a journey with no end.
In the tangled vines of confusion, making things worse,
Engulfed in this darkness, being one with the curse.

They see me as mysterious, a figure shrouded in mist,  
But I wander the same paths, where exits don’t exist.  
Chasing a ghost, an echo of who I thought I'd be,  
Yet finding only illusions, hopes that deceive me.

I search for something lost, that perhaps was never there,  
A fleeting dream, a whisper, dissolving in the air.  
Endlessly I walk, seeking what I cannot see,  
A labyrinth of my making, where I’m never found to be.
1: when i was 4 i was a model. my mom starved me for a lot of that time. i quit when i was 5.

2: when i want to cut myself, i make myself read three books.

3: im hyperlexic. ive been reading since i was 3 1/2.

4: i have osdd 1-B but us "I/Me/Myself" for things so people dont get weird about it.

5: i love music

6: my family has 5 generations of teen pregnancy by ****.

7: my bio grandma was shot at 15 after having my mom.

8: ive been stabbed 3 times.

9: my dad fed me **** gummies on accident one time.

10: im using a kindle to write this. yes a kindle. black and white. meant only for books.
fun facts i guess
healed scars litter my trashed body. my skin a mural, a testament, to my battles. i used to do it to punish. now i do it to feel something, anything.

oh to continue to cut
deeper and deeper
until i am no longer human.
but bones.

humans are no more than their secrets.
cutting into them reveals how disgusting or beautiful they truly are

i am a horrible person
numbing myself again
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