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Adnan Shabbir May 24
A mere click of a button and you’re jumping for joy

A long way we have travelled from pure chaste intentions but how outdated we still are

Faded memories are what we once called the best of days

Now the faster the earth orbits, the feeble our minds are now becoming

What do we do?
Cadmus May 23
🍽️

If I enjoy their attention today,
I remind myself of this:

They’ll call a nice dish “a ***** plate”
once they’ve eaten their fill.

Praise turns to pity,
desire to disdain.

The hands that reached for me
will recoil,
as if they never begged
to taste.

So I wear their craving like perfume
fleeting,
never mine to keep.

They were never here for me…
just the feast.
This piece strips away illusion to expose the cruelty of conditional attention. It’s a brutal commentary on how people often glorify what they consume, only to discard it with contempt once their desire is satisfied. A warning to recognize the difference between admiration and appetite.
Cadmus May 26
🎭

I’m the fire that craves,
and the frost that forgets.

Love me well,
and I’ll burn eternal.

Cross me once,
and I’ll silence the sun.

Your move.
This piece expresses emotional duality… the ability to feel deeply while remaining capable of complete detachment. It’s not a contradiction, but a warning: intensity flows both ways.
The uniVerse May 11
what a noble endeavour
to always appear measured
to never loose you cool
I've been through it all
the turbulent sea
the loss and apathy
yet I still remain
not quite the same
not quite insane
but getting there
wherever that may be
across the same sea
I was never a strong swimmer
not what you'd call a winner
but who needs medals
or other precious metals
they will only weigh you down
how heavy is the crown
I abdicate my throne
would rather be alone
you may not think of me as clever
but noble is my endeavour
Originally written Oct 4th 2022
Cadmus May 11
The loss of one

splits the heart in two.

And through that crack,

the others slip too.
This poem reflects how the deepest heartbreak doesn’t always come in waves, sometimes it begins with one great fracture, and everything else quietly unravels from there. It’s about how grief can dull our senses, making future losses feel distant or invisible.
lifelover Mar 2018
i lie facedown on the train tracks.
the gravel presses symbols into my skin,
but none of them translate.

home is a concept with too many rooms.
i sharpened my alibi
on my mother’s brittle bones
until it fit into a quieter mouth.
she didn't flinch.

the sun unthreads me one fiber at a time.
nothing resists.
blink
blink
blink
each time, the world returns
slightly rearranged—
trees on the ceiling,
windows in my stomach.

i found a way out,
but it only leads back here.
the platform loops
in the shape of an open jaw.
i circled it three times,
then laid down between its metal teeth—
the world doesn’t bite anymore.
it just holds me.

small, warm,
still breathing.
regret nests in the hinge of my jaw.
i keep it clenched, and
it doesn’t protest.
it flicks the lights off
when the rail begins to sing.
it knows the schedule better than i do.

the daylight plucks at my ribs like harp strings.
each note sounds like a name i was never meant to hold.
i buried the moon weeks ago.
she made it difficult to leave.
if you’re still listening—
the train is already halfway through me.

today,
i let the mouth stay open.
maybe the scream will crawl back in.
maybe it never left.
it's taken me one grueling year to be able to write again. logging back into HP and seeing everyone's beautiful writing again has made me so happy. i really did miss you guys <3
Nehal Mar 25
When the earth celebrates
        a solar year,
The cost of life whispers
        in my ear.
It rose up, the easy act
        won't backup.
The easiness of faceless
        is being asked,
"What is it the result?" I ask.
It's easy for people to leave.
It's easy to be devalued.
It's easy for mind to linger past.
It's easy to reminisce moments,
Cherished memories— yet to be
         closed as a chapter.
It's paradoxical—they face the same.
"What is it the result?" I ask.
It's paradoxical—they feel the same.
Syafie R Mar 14
The plate sits before me, brimming with light,
Yet I cannot partake in this feast of life.
The hunger is not born of flesh,
But a deep, gnawing void that swallows the soul.

It’s not that I lack—
But I recoil from the feast,
For each bite is a confrontation,
A war within my own skin,
An agonizing surrender to the unknown.

The world, a banquet of joy and color,
Serves me courses of hope and grace,
But I cannot consume what is offered.
Each morsel of love, each chance for joy,
I push away,
As if to touch it would fracture me further,
Unravel what little control I still feign to hold.

I starve not for food,
But for the courage to feast on life,
To swallow what is real,
Without fear that it will choke me,
Without fear that it will swallow me whole.

In the quiet spaces of my mind,
I am a ghost,
Floating above this world I once craved.
I am too numb to reach,
Too paralyzed to feel the warmth of the sun,
And so I exist—
Not living, not dying,
But simply suspended in this vast, unyielding void,
Where every dream is a phantom,
Every hope a cruel illusion,
And I am forever starving,
Yet unable to taste the life I’ve lost.
Maryann I Mar 11
sometimes,  
    i       un-know  
        the shape  
         of self—  
               dissolve before  
                       remembering.


   i sit  
     in the ache  
     of heat,


and nothing
else.


       minutes  
                   dissolve  
   into  
          maybe hours  
or never.


drip,
  drip,
    drip,
      drip.


          (i­ can’t tell  
     if it’s dripping  
           or if i’m unraveling  
                 in rhythm.)


             thoughts            blur,  
      slide,­  
              melt—  
                        into tile grout.


i breathe —
maybe i don’t.
maybe the air is too soft to hold.


    maybe i’ve been  
                      gone  
                          thi­s whole time:


     what was i  
              thinking?

  (was i thinking?)

            just heat,         and water,  
and the pressure of something  
                    heavier  
                       ­ than skin—  
    but not quite grief,


                      not quite anything.

    and still i sit.

       and still,  
                       the faucet sings,  
             and still,  
                    no one knows  
      how quiet  
                       i’ve become.

I’ve been experimenting… I don’t know if I like this.
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