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Valentin Eni Nov 15
Sometimes beating hard, sometimes at rest;
my heart knocks softly at the door of my chest.

As if in pain, as if to die,
As if it begs to break outside;

As if it fears the weight of my sorrow,
as if it hopes to see you tomorrow.

My heart knocks softly at the door of my chest;
sometimes beating hard, sometimes at rest.


a. (Literal Translation)

Listen to My Heart

sometimes stronger, sometimes softer;
my heart beats at the door of my chest.

as if it would hurt, as if it would die,
as if it would ask to come outside,

as if it would fear to die with me,
as if it would want to see you tomorrow too.

my heart beats at the door of my chest;
sometimes stronger, sometimes softer.

b. (Original poem in Romanian)

ascultă inima mea

când mai tare, când mai încet;
inima-mi bate la uşa din piept.

de parcă ar doare-o, de parcă-o să moară,
de parcă s-ar cere să iasă-n afară,

de parcă s-ar teme să moară cu mine,
de parcă ar vrea să te vadă şi mâine.

inima-mi bate la uşa din piept;
când mai tare, când mai încet.
The poem explores the interplay between physical sensations and emotional experiences, using the heartbeat as a metaphor for love, longing, and the vulnerability of existence. It conveys an intimate dialogue between the heart and the self, reflecting fear, desire, and hope.

The repetition of the opening and closing lines creates a cyclical structure, mimicking the constancy of the heartbeat and reinforcing the poem’s reflective nature.

The poem reflects the human condition—torn between fear of loss and the longing to love and be loved. The heart becomes a symbol of both physical life and emotional depth, embodying the fragility and resilience of existence.
Abi Winder Aug 31
anger has always been a strand in my DNA.
i inherited this from my father.

it lives buried deep in my chest.
i feel it slightly when i breathe.

a constant throb,
a pit, inside my lungs.

i feel this rage so deeply,
i am used to its presence.

i do not know what it would be like to live without it.
to breathe without it.
neth jones Mar 28
my       teeth       hurt          in       Winter
the   beginning   of   Winter     for   sure
a                      fantastic                     ache
even           when      the      wind      sits

even             the       cleanest       breaths
          draw       hard          on       my       chest
but my heart still draws on the beauty
invites   stillness       to   meet   stillness
from previous winters attendance
Aphorisms rarely confer the comfort they intend
                                    BUT
   “One man’s trash is another man’s treasure

An antique wooden trunk sits languidly beside the road (Alabama State Highway 98 Scenic Route, Main St. Daphne, for those that need to know) atop a concrete culvert cover amidst a color-guard composed of an unused ironing board, and a mildewed duffel-bag (but the nicer kind- made of synthetic blend, with the wheels that don’t really roll, and an extendable handle that’s stuck “in”; not the heavy olive-drab canvas of the pop-culture cliche, found slung across the shoulder of the love-lorn/shell-shocked/long-lost soldier returning home unannounced in a lifetime movie melodrama) discarded haphazardly, and awaiting their diesel-powered trash-truck ferry to the afterlife of moribund things; but serendipitously and surreptitiously it is to be rescued from oblivion by the unexpected happenstance of a passerby passing by distractedly (gone out of his way though he really has no where to go, just somewhere to be, eventually) meandering through town, down alternate roads making his way to a rendezvous with a friend to give them a hand, for a minute, with some chores they’d like to get through before they leave for Atlanta, because he hasn’t seen them recently, and he had nothing better to do.

How many others have passed by the unmapped X, but never saw it for they were so myopic in their missions and goals: rushed and unconscious, on autopilot, en route, to work, or to lunch, to mid-day meetings with clients for paper and gold; How many missed the possibility of adventure passing by, the childish excitement that could unfold, if they had just looked up from their phones and coffees and looked around for signs, untold? How many noticed the slight shimmer of fantasy left sitting by the road, but couldn’t stop because they were in a carpool, they weren’t driving, or just so unimaginative that to believe, for a bit, that a treasure exists outside the storied pages of fairy tales was too much to do, or too much to bear, with a rundown, old soul. Did a child see, with impressionable eyes, the chest of treasure left by a fool, unattended, out in the open (not buried, not even a bit, barely even hidden from view) and instantly wonder, too, just what might be inside? Could it be shimmering, shining jewels, loose and encrusting golden crowns, and goblets, scepters and silver candlesticks, precious oriental silks, or bullion and pirate *****; possibly a magic lamp, or maybe some enchanted tools?! A flying carpet!? Perhaps A Ghost of some grim ghoul. Did they beg a guardian to stop the carriage, but were denied and told, “we have to keep going little one, there’s much to get to that you don’t know. You have to go to school.”
Well, the glimmer caught the eye of one beholder and made them think immediately, “That looks like treasure!”

Indeed!
It did look like treasure: a literal chest, built of heartwood with a carved arch-top, weathered paint, rusted hinges, metal bindings and filigree.

(It was obviously empty of value, scuttled, broken, and relinquished to the refuse heap; However, To one with a limp, and a bad eye, and a deaf ear, brandishing a homeward bound insignia upon his chest and an island luck charm in black ink on his leg, whom you’d easily confuse for a pirate misplaced, you can see how it might seem to warrant an inspection.)

Plus: It’s uncommon to find a treasure chest
in the trash, in this century. Perhaps hope got the best of me; but also I knew its fate was not to be buried under heaps of plastic and rot.

I’ve a friend whose proclivity one could describe as a collector of things, useful and abandoned... but not a “hoarder” like on the television - Unless you count Ariel as such- with all her jetsam, Knick-knacks, thing-a-ma-bobbers, and dreams.

We are “of a kind,” prone to picking up after others, collecting aesthetic driftwood- anthropomorphized or just architecturally interesting, finding faces in fallen leaves, pointing to leaves that look like bugs, picking up bugs dried up like leaves and or sticks and stones and broken bones of small creatures long left rotting, beautifully decaying detritus of modernity - deemed useless; but still WE believe a greater purpose lies within, undefined by its usefulness, to be determined by it’s form Rather than function, appropriated and repaired  or dismantled and “re-crafted” into art, by simplification. Driven by a simple inspiration; To make beautiful decoration.

I pull aside, let traffic pass, circle back, reorient and reclaim this bounty of the proverbial “spring-clean.” Its condition is one of slight disrepair: needs hinges re-attached; but otherwise in fine shape. I collect this treasured trash and return to my path, on course to its new home with my friend to whom I was already bound; But now I come bearing gifts.

His smile was worth the drive and the dumpster-diving and the the whole day.

A gift given is a love lived-in, and a smile
shared with a friend Is love and life for me.
Journal entry
11:50pm 3•6•24
Rough draft

This is terrible, pretentious, drivel. But it’s a post-pastoral (a “post-oral” as it were), and it’s honest…
Consilius Feb 25
Eva
It's been three years since you left.
What were you like as a child?
Whom did you fall in love at first,
and what memories this old chest hides?

Your mom saying she gets by,
no matter how much you hate her... why?
Why is she so upset with you,
and why would she write she hoped to die?

Did everything she could, why wasn't that enough?
Wished better life for you... the times were rough.
Hoped your father's death would change you for the better?
Would have no idea if not for this latter.

It was almost half a century ago... in 1977

What were you back then? Twenty one?
On these black & white photos it seems you had fun.

Haha what is this, a love note from a guy on a bus?
He basically rejected himself, didn't even have to ask.

I see a young ******* these pages,
I side of you I never knew,
If not for this diary, I would never had a clue.
What poetry you loved, what dreams you had,
what you were like...

"I would die for love,
but I was born for life"
calypso Oct 2022
every bit, every tiny bit
i can feel the elephant foot through
my chest, there is
little to no breath, can i stop?
god, if there is anything for me
please don’t make it wait longer
tell my future i won’t be coming
earth is not my place, not anywhere i’ve been
this is too much
half my day i want to scream on the top of my lungs
for help, for solitude, for no one
why am i not heard yet?

maybe i should tell someone
that my room is a mess like my head
and i can’t keep it still, slowly filling my hands
with anything i can find, i wont rest
i cant rest
i can’t let me go
i have to become my future
i promised i won’t go
i promised things i can’t keep
just let me go, my lungs have
and the blood swells my chest
my eyes aren’t smiling
im sorry im not joyful like i used to be
so joyful, it killed me.


its not you, i promise
Evie G Jul 2022
Pull up your shirt,
Put them away.
Though it’s the same shirt some girl wore yesterday,
It’s different cause her frame is dainty and chaste,
It’s just your biology causes disgrace.

Leered at by Men,
Jeered at by girls,
Disdained by Authority , making them hurl
Told to be thankful by those less endowed
While men get their wanksfull from staring in crowds .
Cause showing a shoulder
that means I deserved it,
Cause showing my body means I don’t deserve ****.


Pull up your shirt,
Put them away.
There’s nothing to do, nothing to say.
You’ll never look pretty but Hey it’s okay!
You’ll look **** or manly or just plain perverse
I’m tryna explain all my feelings in verse,

So why can’t I just say it?

Stop staring at my *****,
thanks.
Some people need to hear this one.
Teodora Pavel Jun 2022
There is an arrow, locked away
somewhere, silenced
My heart has felt it, its caress
True consolation of one's life
That arrow, buzzing vibrato
after so many windows of my soul,
will break your chest, will
strike you dead with no notice.
I S A A C Apr 2022
I need a wishbone or a loophole
sick of you and this old soup bowl
I thought this plague would fade away
I thought your chest was my favourite place
tarot cards led me astray, I guess
I try to never compress, I try to focus on my dress
a ring that makes me smile or a vibrant hue
anything to forget about you
how about when you made butterflies erupt in my stomach
how about when you made me think I knew what love is
floating on the shipwreck waiting to be brought to shore
these moments allowed me to process and plan
for my next project, my next attack
you thought you could beat me down
think again
neth jones Mar 2022
the lumy screen
x-ray mission
counting ribs
    but courting what's in-between
trying to salvage disease
    from the pardonable cage
use corrective attractors
drag them on the screen
    and mould a mange of the dark spots
humble in an alcove
zoom in on the spot
take out your little skin leafed
pocket book
clean the cough from your throat
    and sprout  'the working words of God'
a congregation of cancer cells
    put in their place
medicine
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