Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Search to fill the void
Mindless streams from tiny screens
So empty it hurts
@LadyRavenhill 2019
Haiku #115
Many questions have been raised on my nature
The most of them by myself, but also by the people;
The funny thing in the huge number the questions assume:
They can be answered by one word: Vacuum.


From those questions, some may please me
Like "What art are those that may lead thee?"
Or "What limit has been reached by your knowledge?";
They are rare but I like when I'm asked on my storage.


While there are questions I barely like
Like "Why are you a person whom we barely like?"
Or "Why are you so different and not alike?";
Let's answer them by a single strike:


My nature is like the nature's nature:
There's no place where's no creature;
So, what I'm fighting is what the nature's fighting,
Where is darkness there must be lighting:


Vacuum, I'm all fulfilled with emptiness,
If there's ten planets I need a twentieth,
I wish to fulfill my eager to be fulfilled
Even if by the pressure of that knowledge I'll be killed.
29.04.2019
I keep on lying that I'm fine.
I keep on holding strong without.
I try to keep my eyes so dry.
To hold my feels inside me.
I keep on look in other side.
And looks like not notice that.
I keep on trying hurt my heart.
And fighting with myself about you.
But all this fake and farce.
Because I feel just emptiness without you.
fray narte Oct 4
and i wish i was sad enough or hurt enough or broken enough to actually feel something, and not just emptiness after emptiness after emptiness.
Laokos Sep 28
what we become in
    rejection to the templates
        we succumb to
a positive negation of what
we once believed to be our
being
cast aside even the idea
of a revelatory rebirth
silence and space do not
    describe it
emptiness, void - they too fail
the more i write about it,
the less i say about it
fray narte Sep 23
I know I have been okay for a while now, but it feels odd — not knowing how to handle being okay. I have been held captive by the emptiness — the kind that consumes you from the inside out. I have been that girl, trapped in a skin, and my wrists have become the walls she scratches whenever she tries to escape.

I have fallen apart with sunsets to déjà vus I have long forgotten, and my brain — it has become Eris incarnate and my body — her armless prey, walking willingly into her trap. I have been Ophelia, tiptoeing on a willow tree and drowning in a lake of deep, black butterflies. So being okay and all this — it doesn't feel right at all, and maybe it's possible to despair for sadness. Maybe it's possible to morph with the darkness I thought I wanted to escape. Maybe it's possible to ache for self-destruction with an intensity I've never known before.. I no longer know what's wrong with my brain, but maybe it's possible to feel so lost, so broken, so messed up for so long — that being whole feels like a mistake.
untitled Sep 16
You told me that I could aspire to and be anything,
Yet my heart aches for more than intellectual stimulus
and I aspire for a love I cannot achieve.

Are there some things we are meant to never attain?
I seek a fulfilling love, and finally when I have grasped in,
when the pads of my fingers have finally sunk in,
it is ripped from my possession.

Why do people leave me when I devote all my time and energy
into those that I love and cherish.
Maybe the root of my demise is that I love too deeply,
that it is all too much for one to bear the responsibility of.

Every time someone leaves,
I lose hope in the prospect of love.

While a reader may think I am speaking of a romantic love,
it is not exclusively that type of love-- I seek the love of friends.

I have none.
fray narte Sep 13
So you tell yourself,

don't write about your sadness;
bottle it in
like the forgotten pills
in a medicine kit.
Bury yourself
underneath a bunch of blankets
and hope that the land mines inside you
stay hidden,
just as your scars stay hidden
beneath those bands.

Instead,

write the prettiest, emptiest,
make-believe poems —
nothing about the eclipse
constantly obscuring the sun.
Nothing about the random break downs
that no longer wait
for midnights and 3 ams.
Nothing about the aimless walks
and the piles of books
you can't read
because reading is exhausting
and everything is exhausting.

You tell yourself,

don't write about it, otherwise,
you'll be forced to trade places
with all kinds of sadness
you've secretly been hosting
all this time,
and they'll cut their way out
through the fresh stitches on your chest.
And you'll have to bleed
all over again,
and not just on your wrists,
but on your eyes
and on your legs
and your thighs,
down,
down,
dripping to these words.

So again, you tell yourself,
don't write about your sadness, darling —
don't write about it.

But then,
how do you stop writing about sadness
when you never run out of it
to write about?
I wrote your name
In the condensation
that we created when
We made love in my car.
It's faded now,
But I can still see the
Faint outline

It fills me with dread,
to think of washing it off
As if it will somehow
falsify us
fray narte Sep 11
Some days, the emptiness isn't even obvious. You're brushing your teeth or putting on your favorite denim jacket or adjusting your wristwatch and it's there, lurking and you don't mind at all. It almost feels normal. Right, even.

But there are days and nights — mostly nights, when it feels colossal, you can't ignore it. There are times when it stares back, it's impossible to pretend it's not there. There are times when it feels out of place and you just sort of wanna dig for what's dead inside, or claw through your ribcages, or crack your chest open — anything, just to get it out of you.
Next page