Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Priyam Jun 5
A babbling beauty
That's what she was
A damsel who dared
To speak her heart
Frolicking furiously
Through the gates of hell, she
Gave great new meanings
To malice and mutiny
E B K Feb 21
there wasn't something
but there also
wasn't nothing

and now the gates to my heart have flown open
Yuki Feb 13
Give the gates
of your heart
permission to
be wide open
but make sure
not to let winter
settle in your
feeble bones.
clever Feb 13
who would have known that
heaven with you
would hurt like hell
fire alarms mistaken for a wedding bell
writingsolo Jan 24
It's not as easy as it seems, sliding the words across a page to paint one's canvas heart, but somehow I manage.

   I write a story of pain and love, of how something always ends up to be a someone. But sometimes the things I say aren't always peace, sometimes they end in anger, sometimes they end in a wager and yet sometimes they end in death.

   It's not as easy as it seems, to be the one burdened with another's tongue. The cost of writing is it takes a piece of you, the hardships leave their own scars and the love breathes back into your life.

   Did you hear what happened to me? Fears became a reality, lies poisoned my life and made me feel safer in the night. Where shadows have class but what hides in the sun makes them seem not so bad.

   It's not as easy as it seems, pretending that this is all fine and that it's not making me cry. That I'm not slowly going insane or that I won't drown in my own pain; I'm floating on a raft of life that will soon become apart of the night.

   So when a writer tries to set their pages free, a discouraged friend will pull them back in only to keep their pain within. Voices are written because they're the words that can't be said, the writer's soul is almost dead.
   A beating heart lies in their pen, the ink spilling is part of one's kin, and the word, the voice that can no longer scream. The room is too loud, so they pull out page after page and people dig in to see.

   People love to read stories because they think they can relate, but what they don't understand is the pages aren't their gates to a friend. The characters they love are for the writer, the doors are open with their pens and their bonds have broke.
   For the time being, all they can do is hope. Writers write for the people who relate, but writers also write to hold open their gates.
6 / 27 / 2018
Johnny walker Nov 2018
I've never been close to
Heaven, then I was with
Helen held her hand then
kissed her lips the very
the first time
I laid down
with Helen to make love
to her
But since Helen has been
gone I've never been as
close to the gates of Hell
as I am
I'd never been as close to Heaven
as was with Helen, but now she's gone
I've never been as close to the gates of Hell as I do now
Shadow Dragon Nov 2018
I question wether heaven has gates
and if the Devil is their master.
If his fingertips has the power
to leave me out of paradise.
If he will turn me down
for what my mind has made me do.
Is there a reason they tell me to **** you
Was there a reason for this madness,
this chaos in my head.
I think there is but
will the Devil let me in?
Next page