Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Tori Schall Oct 8
In my life there are three things:
A feeling of emptiness,
a hollow laugh and blank face,
Hiding behind a mask

I wonder day by day
nothing changing
the world around me is unimportant.
In my life there are three things:

My own emotions elude me
they go about their days
hiding in the back of my brain
a feeling of emptiness

Upon my face there sits
a person I don't know
Because of all I ever am is
a hollow laugh and blank face

Day by day, night by night
nobody ever bothers to look
but I never bother to tell, I'm
hiding behind a mask
This is my first attempt at a cascade poem
E li za Oct 7
Wish the words aren’t written yet
The definition of my reputation is regrets
Should I only blame the dark ink inside me
When will they pluck their pens stabbed in my body

-to be continued
Jon Thenes Sep 24
I have a fever dream

Blank skin
Blank skin, only a single layer thin
damply wrinkles and pocked puckers ;
I’m a delicate blister waterbed mattress
No rest when I set my head

The pain is a receiver in this dream

I feel I’ve a full body wound
The surface skim is a single reading of pain
Any contact pulls the pain to that site
A sudden breeze alone
would do the trick

The dream expresses vulnerability

One nick
One puncture on the opaque membrane
And my innards would flood out
I slip perilously on the tile floor
My printless feet wipe from under me and /

Woken up
burning fever
but go back to sleep
In urgency I must..

Form porousness
Found layers
Cultivate hairs
Bead natural oils
Reclaim my fingerprints
And get a grip
All this before I fully awake
I don’t want to suffer this state in the real world
Janine Jacobs Sep 22
I lost so many pieces of myself through loving others. Now that I need some for myself, I have nothing left to give. Poetry is my solace and I try to write what I feel. A blank page stares back at me and I could not have described it any better. I crumble the page, holding onto it tightly. Sincerely hoping someone can translate all the empty spaces.
Grace Haak Sep 2
Type type type
Delete delete delete
Why all of a sudden is writing now a feat?
“Just write what comes to mind!”
But my mind’s wiped clean
Like the blank white page on my laptop screen
Nothing flows, nothing spills
Tauntingly the cursor blinks
I’m certain I’ve forgotten how to think
Nothing circulates, nothing pours
Hauntingly my fingers tap
I’m certain I’m about ready for a nap
Nothing runs, nothing spews
Dauntingly I press some keys
I’m certain I’ll never be at ease
I type type type
I’m finally overcoming my feat!
But I read it back, one word at a time
And now we’re back to
Delete delete delete.
me @ my college essay...
And when I am ill
Nothing works
No one heals

Nor do I

Let me craft
The pain
For you

To heal
Genre:  Dark Abstract
Theme: No One
Antares Aug 26
milk hair, milk clothes
a world painted in thick hues of the very same cream
the whirr of a printing press on blank paper
The flutters of fragile wings are perhaps all but enough to bring a child to hasty tears.

A mirror bought to
of echoing frailty,
a chord at its highest piercing note.

The crescendo before dusk.

pair of hands encased in its own
Who                                                          ­  
polite and light on the tongue,
                                                         ­                   a vain blind
                                                                ­           no less
Barred fingers in cells of clickety clackety letters and fonts of paintbrushes or the odd twitch.
It prays.
                                         Soundless noise.
                                                          ­      not a pin-drop
                                                                ­       not the screeches of bosses

And when the paper is stacked high on coffee refrains and static routine.
It screams.
The mirror.                                      

Cell             blown to bits
Custody               broken

Mirror tattered
refunded at a bitter price.    

Blank as snow and crisp as winter.
Gone like snow the very next morning.
But ever so physically there.
I have no clue
Jason Drury Aug 2
Drawing pictures,
is graphite make-believe.
You can bring life,
or darkness.
Are you god?
Do you have control?
Scribbles, judgments,
of squares, circles
and unhappy faces.
Crumble up,
the paper tightly.
Throw away, let go.

Maybe its time,
To start over.
Em MacKenzie Jul 26
Shredded gold and silver flakes
it’s all been sold, from land to lakes.
I’m running up quite a bill
stationed up on my window ceil,
bargaining with Bungalow Bill
asking for a discounted thrill.
Vacant roads and silent trees
these heavy loads buckling my knees.
I couldn’t walk one more pace,
not known to finish a race,
I’ll forfeit before taking last place
then blame my undone shoe lace.

Within a half awake state,
I scribbled explanations too late,
they weren’t worthy or close to justified.
I’m just a chaser to bait,
too far behind at this rate,
but I’m sworn to the end so I abide.

A Prism view or black and white,
soft morning dew, or a starry night.
Which one should I prefer,
if they both blend and blur,
I sought the opinion from her
but accepted the first to occur.

I’m under the tree, the one from our seed,
taught me to see but not to read,
so I decipher each calligraphic,
with details too specific,
undesired outcome so prolific
my mind allows me to trick it.

There was more life in the tears
that stood back waiting for years,
only to greet their moment on the floor.
Falling down while nobody steers,
halting the joints and the gears,
and I will cover the space under the door.

We will equally share this burden,
lights off and close the curtain,
I’ll hide my breaths within the thunder.
Hastily halt then proceed to hearten,
and though I’m still very uncertain,
I’ll let doubt pull and drag me under.
Ashley Jul 7
writer's block has never been worse
i cannot find a single ******* word
to explain how much i love you

and i write poems
Next page