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gray Dec 2021
Ophelia’s swinging herself across her lake
The salt of the water is hitting my face. Can she leave?
Can’t she go? I’m fed up with the artificial show.
Female insanity, that’s me.
If I die today I’ll make it pretty.
i wrote this whilst drunk so its literally the worst thing ive ever written, idk how to be more sophisticated tbh
Mystic Ink Plus Dec 2020
What you feed
So is the seat
Genre: Minimalist Abstract, Non-Clinical
Theme: Thinking Mind
Author's Note: It is simple, yet too deep. Everything in it.
Brewomble Oct 2020
Don’t coddle me.
I don’t like to be coddled.
In fact, I don’t like to be held.
I don’t like to be touched.
In fact, don’t breathe my air.
I’m coming down with something, it must be from here or there.
And please don’t try to conversant about the news like its traverse
You cannot sit at the table without a place to put it first.

Don’t coddle me like a child.
We both know we lost our way
Don’t speak to me in such numbers
Where it seems I’m not okay
Don’t twist my words or quarry
About my younger days
As if I don’t quite ponder what will become of my wicked ways

Don’t coddle if I’m so intolerable
Don’t call if the time is not just right
Don’t feed me to the world
Just to hide me from viewers sight

And grace reflects my mere impeachment
Lets not forget about my lucky stars
Don’t count them in their glory,
Then question where they are

Don’t nurture me into success just to strip it all away
Don’t treat me like a doll
Then give me of which no house to play-

In fact, you shouldn’t coddle; when heavied from all of which I’ve weeped
What use is it to coddle- when the wicked get no sleep.

-Bre Womble
Jada Sep 2020
A heart symbol doesn't count  

There's no love in that  

I want your real response  

How did you react?  

I shared my poem with you, took a real risk

Opened up my soul, received no closure for it

I don't want to have to beg you not to be brisk

But like bruh please use your words

My fragile soul craves this
I shared a poem with one of my peeps, but they didn't respond, so I wrote a poem about them not responding to my poem.
Druzzayne Rika Aug 2020
Am I even visible,
I see no view coming
Is this a glitch
Or just how it is, it is.

Suddenly there is a jump,
but there are numbers reading
This place is forever changing
Am I vain to keep a track of count
But there is no count
and then suddenly there it is
But it is static now.

It seems everything is fine from outside,
I get no notification for the poem I sent out
I do not know, should I even post it?

The people I follow,
I don't see them on my homepage
Their works are available,
but not simply accessible.

What features come, what goes
update us about
I am curious.

it is just me,
am I invisible to all?
Has anyone observed these glitches on this portal?
Jessie Taylor H Aug 2020
A poet never really stops writing,
only sometimes, we lose the strength to write it all down.

But when we write,
we spill our hearts upon the pages.
Every ink filled line,
giving full access to our minds,
for whoever dares to read them.

I apologize for the tears and blood stains,
sometimes my pen reveals too much.
As I close my eyes,
and my hand glides across the page,
my soul speaks to me in the best possible way.
sage short Apr 2020
I opened the cabinet where all the plates were.
They were all the same color and shape
with the same cracks and chipped paint.

One by one I threw them all onto the ground
until they shattered into oblivion.

I gathered some of the scraps and cradled them like a baby,
glued some back together,
and I told them it was going to be okay,
that I had been crushed by the foot of a giant too.

But when I woke up,
there were no plates.
Or bowls, or cups, or forks, or spoons.

So, I dug a hole in my bed and sank into it, deeply,
landing in the grass, sprinkled with dew.
No twinkle of stars, no sunshine or snow,
no bird wings flapping or croaking frogs,
or busy highways or empty neighborhood streets.

A bitter-sweet orange lay next to my arm.
It was bruised too, and a little soft.
I dug my nails into its stomach and clawed its insides out
and devoured it monstrously and unforgivingly.

But then I remembered the plates.
My shadow was leaning against the house with them inside.
Did they belong there? In that cabinet all these years?

But when I woke up,
I was in my bed
And the plates were downstairs,
in the cabinet,
where they belonged.
rough draft of a new poem
Lately we drink
And then we talk,
And it’s perfect
Because I’ve missed
These conversations with you.

Lately we drink
And then we talk,
And then I get caught in my
Feelings because I don’t
Think I’m enough for you.

Lately we smoke
And I fall asleep,
And when I wake to
Your back to me, I pray
You didn’t fall asleep lonely.

Lately we smoke
And you fall asleep,
So I smoke some more
Because there’s a sadness
Brewing that I can’t explain.

Lately we ****
Instead of make love,
And it feels so good,
But I crave the raw love
You showed me the first time.

Lately we ****
Instead of make love,
And you moan in your dreams.
I stay awake at night
Hoping you’re dreaming of me.

Lately I think
And get stuck in my head;
Dangerous terrain.
My emotions flip and
Play tricks on my brain.

Lately I think
And get stuck in my head,
And allow my insecurity
To become reality,
Instead of using rationality,

And I’m so sorry.
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