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goldie quartz Sep 2024
sometimes i wonder if i‘m just another someone
stepping into another someone’s footprints
a placeholder for a someone you can‘t let go
even though the years have passed
and the people have too

i compare myself to a someone who is worthy
of poetry,
of words so beautiful and soft,
i can‘t fathom you thinking them about another someone,
me

it is not about that, i want to deny
speaking the lie so softly to myself
because i keep wondering if you think about me
the way you think about her
if i‘m worthy of colorful words and shiny metaphors
or if i‘m just another someone
who‘s stepping into another someone’s footprints
if worlds we spun and lives we lived aren‘t enough
compared to the someone who got away

i keep wondering if you think about me
the way you think about her
if i‘ll forever just be someone who isn‘t her,
who‘s just enough,
just isn‘t her

a placeholder

i wonder if one day
a someone will return to you
and i wonder if that day
my passing will leave footprints too
H AE MZ Sep 2024
I drive myself insane, a spiral of doubt and fear,
Second-guessing every move, every word I hear.
Self-sabotage, my constant companion by my side,
Holding me back, shrinking my spirit, an unending ride.

Weary of voices whispering I'm not enough,
Relentless comparisons that leave me feeling rough.
Yearning to be someone else, escape this hollow shell,
Ensnared in a cycle, a never-ending spell.

I long to break free, to matter, to be seen,
Not an afterthought, nor a choice between.
A priority, the first pick, a sure bet,
Cherished and wanted, not left to forget.

From mad, I crave to matter, stand tall and proud,
Silencing critics, shouting my worth out loud.
I have worth, I have value, I am unique,
Deserving of love, to be someone's peak.

No longer will I settle, a mere backup plan,
Refusing to be an option, a grain of sand.
Rising above self-doubt, shattering chains in my mind,
Mattering to myself, my true worth I'll find.

So here's to moving forward, a fresh beginning,
Where I matter to me, my light brightly shining.
No more self-sabotage, no depths of self-esteem lows,
Embracing myself fully, watching my confidence grow.
Capturing the frustration of battling inner demons and the overwhelming weight of comparison and self-sabotage. This poem is about the search for validation, both from within and from others, and the desire to break free from the cycle that feels impossible to escape.
Zywa Sep 2024
Of course I love him,

but still I am not happy --


Can it be true love?
Play "The Servants and the Snow" (1970, Iris Murdoch), Act One

Collection "Unspoken"
Daniel Tucker Aug 2024
wake me
               shake me
out of this febrile trance
furtively pilfering my
heart's ancient treasure
once guarded
by comforting spirits
of warm hopes and
beliefs held beyond reason

never questioned
by the minds tribunal
the jurors seated
in the cranial court
knowing eyes silenced
by misguided faith's rhetoric

never minding
the persuasive muzzle
often ignoring serpent's
retractable tongue
always turning from
the dark corridors
light banished
by modern-day pharisees

cloaked in mantles of treason
patronizingly diluting
what can only remain pure
painted with pious platitudes

away
         far away
i must sail from this folly
an orphan of mystical doubt
the frost and cold tempest I feel

cautious sensibilities
a tenuous guide
through these gray
realms I traverse
                      
trembling hands
grasp transient hopes
striving to shape
deeper meaning

disciplining lazy
traditional beliefs
that hang on like
phosphorescent
spiders in the dusty
lofty
rafters of memory

deceptive iconic silhouettes
faded       de-spiritualized
superimposed on a
human-made landscape
a beautiful picture
gold frame and all!

absence of religious
pop-culture faith
eclipses peace
i shudder at the prospect
of this purge
preparing for burial
what must die
the end of an age
burned in effigy

a raging wilderness
I now pass through
I stumble by many
a familiar and
unfamiliar fane
longing to be clothed
with a mantle of peace
                    
a vulnerable yet
strong spirit I guard
let not trivialised faith be
my misleading guide

and if it is all meaningless
alas! it may be
still I must forge
ahead to the sea
ever mindful that rivers
return to where
they have been
separated at birth

i often hear roaring waves
crashing and gentler waves
lapping on shore
but a body of water
is not always the Sea.
© 2024 Daniel I. Tucker

A poem from the living of my life.
Bekah Halle Oct 2024
Doubt, fear, and insecurity subside into apathy,
And the ink dries with those dark lies.
Jeremy Betts Jul 2024
Seeds of doubt churn with streams of hurt
Leaving it's mark from brain to heart like ruts in plowed dirt
It all collects and pools, a bottomless oddity here
Who's the capture, who's the prisoner? That's never been clear
Up to the moment life boils over the razors edge
Ribbons of crimson spill quickly, careening off the ledge
You had to have known it's all hollow, must I follow?
Must I always question while you threaten the finality of every tomorrow?

©2024
Jeremy Betts Jul 2024
Seeds of doubt churn in streams of hurt
Blazing trails from brain to heart
It all collects and pools deep
Turning me prisoner
Before life spills over the razors edge
Ribbons of red spill over, off the ledge
Must I follow?
Must I alway question the reality of every tomorrow?
Who wants to trade me for this sorrow?
Who has a reset button I can barrow?
No one?
Thought so
I'll just go

©2024
I S A A C May 2024
without a doubt
i should be walking out
all the images we painted
are embers on the ground
without a doubt
we can bow out
the best performances around
ephemeral frowns
Sorcier d'argent May 2024
I.
There are no pillars of fire to—
gather around; the clouds, they
deluge the prayers to and fro.
The deafened rumblings racing

the pouring torrents, as they
try to reach out, to answer,
and frown like morose protests,
like restless tantrums; and I—

I can only gasp for air.

Like salvations and unmet counsels.


II.
Remembrance follows ever-dearly;
shuffles carelessly amongst hasty—
coronations of dusted amber,
of dubious prints on the sand,

and it comes along, lavishly.
Esperance creeps tauntingly:
I wonder if it’s within me,
to reach out and sear the weave—

with conjoined hands, praying for air.

Like revising sextants and astrolabes.


III.
Dread is a candle in the dark,
nestled tightly into the fingers
and burrowed deeply into—
hands; they choose to hold on.

Blessed are the hands that harrow
and lean to the curtains of twilight,
to the lenses of hindsight:
merely debtors, to the fealty of morrow.

I can no longer grasp for air.

Like rainbows after a downpour, like chrysalides striking an impasse.

.
Holding it in.
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