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Indra L Jul 15
I’ve internalised invisibility,
Learned to distrust my own adequacy.

Sometime after shedding acquired skin,
I started to scream;
Craving to feel seen eventually gets boring.

Designing for someone else - I still felt;
Then I fell.

Into a shroud of contradiction,
I refused to flatten expectations -
All the while muting conformation.
My dream of living free is cut short

The sun is brilliantly shining through my window

I wipe the drowsy from my eyes and move out of my bed

I slowly walk to my window, letting out a soft yawn

I reluctantly open my curtains and my body feels warm

The sun radiates itself against me through my window

The world is truly beautiful when it wants to be

Taking in the morning sunrise, I smile to myself

My curtains have been closed for so long

I haven't been awake this early in a long time

It's sad to think that I've been missing the sunrise for so long

Something so beautiful, yet just for a moment

I continue to stare at the sun, even as my eyes strain

Sometimes, even just a single light can remove the darkness

I feel a tear falling from my face

As it all sinks in again

I close my curtains

I forget about the sun

Time to go back to sleep.
Greetings. I'm not that good at poetry. Do not flame me too much. I just write based on emotions.
m3dus4 Jul 18
~ hologram

you hologramed
into my bedroom last night,
not the version they see,
but the one I met
in the quiet
between performances.

the no-performance you.
the one who didn’t need
an audience
to be real.

my brain short-circuited
at the sight.
grief glitching into desire.
fury looping into longing.
because I’ve been angry.
at the gods,
at myself,
but mostly
at you.
at the cowardice.
yours.
my own.

not just the cowardice
to surrender,
but to escape.

you called it clean.
you called it kind.
but your silence bled so loud
I tasted the iron
on my own tongue.

you said,
we both know what this is.
we do.
not in the beginning.
but somewhere along
the slow descent,
when we crossed a line
we pretended not to see.

you never named it.
neither did I.
not in my writing,
not in whispers,
not even in the bathwater
where my thoughts go to drown.

because naming it
would mean letting it live.
and if it lives,
what am I supposed to do
with some thing
that can’t?

but not naming it
doesn’t make it vanish.
it just carves itself
into my ribs
without consent.

and still,
I hate myself.
for feeling it.
for feeding it.
and I hate you
so much more
for knowing
and choosing
not to.

and if you ever want to
shatter what’s left,
just say
you’ll always wonder.
because I do.
and I wander
with it.
Chris Pea Jul 13
Breathe deep, fill your lungs
expanding the chest to extend life
slowly release with lips tightly pursed
til the emptyness seems to make you gasp

eyes defocus as if emptyed of life
waiting for the next ******* in of air
when it comes they focus again
taking in the view over the vallys below

Legs give a tremour, muscles exhausted
knees requesting a seat to relieve the weight
hamstrings are tight, threatening to snap
tendons strained at the ankles, stretched just to far

and all you can think as you stand there
looking back from the direction that you came
and shaking your head unbelieving the pain
is why did I attempt to ride up this ****** hill
Artis Jun 2
Running out of pages,
these words—
they turn into
a jumble of thoughts
no one can understand.
A work of art,
running out of ink,
that never came to be.

Roots—
they never blossomed,
they withered away,
drying up
under a pile of soil.

I'm ripping out pages
in anger,
clinging
to words
I might not even believe in.
One by one,
just to leave them
crumbled,
dust,
turning—
into sand.

The wind picks it up,
flipping to the next page,
that’s already starting to crumble.
My pen
starts to write
on its own.
💗
sofia Jun 1
You never raised your voice,
but you never listened, either.
I learned to smile
while shrinking quieter.

I gave and gave
until I bent,
and still you asked
where all the warmth went.

It’s not rage—
not fire, not storm.
Just the slow erosion
of keeping form.

Tiny cuts,
dismissed as small.
You said, “Don’t take it personal.”
I took it all.

Now I nod and pour your tea,
but something’s hollow in my chest.
You never broke me loudly—
you wore me out
like all the rest.
My portrayal of emotional erosion in a quiet, imbalanced relationship—one where neglect, dismissal, and subtle invalidation cause deep damage over time.
I carry a hum that was never even mine—
It's nested behind my own teeth just pacin’.
It twitches within the folds of my thoughts.
And slips into rooms that I have no place in.

The face in the faucet, it watches back,
Not accusing, not kind. But still in my sight.
Waiting to see if I'll either blink first,
Or just admit I’ve been sleeping upright.

There’s a dark ritual in my own pretending.
Though the stillness isn’t staged at all.
I’m not rehearsing the way that I'll answer.
These questions, I just hope that they never call.

The lightbulb that hums, sick of carelessness—
And sick of flickering knowing I never mind..
Even my own shadow has memorized,
The way I don’t breathe, act, or move right.

I fold my hands up in the wrong directions.
I acknowledge nonexistent people with words.
There’s comfort inside this cold dissonance,
Like that perfect chord that's too broken to be heard.

Time doesn’t pass me; it floats or reruns.
Moments just drip right back to no form.
I stir up the air just to prove I exist,
Forget why I did it, then stir up some more.

The consequences? I can't say they crush me.
It’s different than that—it’s odd, and so patient.
It’s like taking the breath that never finishes,
But insists trying again, now knowing it's forsaken.

People like to ask me how I look so tired.
I wish I could answer with a diagram,
Of how feeling nothing can cost everything.
Or how much it weighs to not know who I am.

I don’t want forgiveness, and I don't need saving.
I Don't even truly value status or wealth.
But I’d value not having to constantly carry,
This overgrown stagnant absence of myself.
Cadmus May 22
I am tired from tomorrow…
Its not even here yet.

Tired from yesterday…
Its not even here anymore.

I am tired.

🌂
This poem captures the weight of chronic emotional fatigue - the kind that doesn’t wait for events to unfold but clings to both memory and anticipation. It’s a quiet admission that sometimes, simply existing across time is exhausting.
It’s a beautiful day,
A Saturday.
One of those effervescent Spring afternoons  that buzzes with sunny activity,
a neighborhoodly kind of
picture perfect blue sky kind of
everything’s gonna be okay kind of day.

I stare at it from the corner of the couch,
through the window at the lawns across the street from the corner of the couch
and look down at myself.
*****, covered in soil from head to toe.
So bright, too bright out there
through eyes that have been languishing overlong in the deep brown black of the underground,
behind masks and walls,
closed for fear of opening.

They dazzle now and squint,
watering at the light,
not watering,
crying, crying,
etching riverbeds upon my ***** face.
How long was I down there?
Dreaming awake and automatic,
watching her water the houseplants and
comfort the friends
and rock the child
while I shoveled earth over my living form
to protect this vulnerable animal,
to bury bury bury it.

The noise doesn’t reach me
there in my cocoon.
It threatens now to crack my fragile sanity; though madness I would greet as an old companion.
I reject the invitation beckoning me from somewhere deep inside,
push push push it down,
and wave to my neighbor through the window
as he mows his grass.

It’s a beautiful day,
A Saturday,
and my senses pulse with indignation against it.
Back to the dreaming
where I will wrap my mind in cotton
and try again tomorrow.
Sometimes my ADHD brain becomes overwhelmed and the effort of sensory processing exhausts me entirely.
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