Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Alienpoet Mar 30
There is no room for gods
for angels and hope
for wings of flight
and depth of field
this defensive arms want to yield
and this scarred heart wants to heal

There is no room
for imagination
under the weight of these books
the text fills me up
no devils cup
no drugs or substances can free my mind
the weight of the world is unkind
and the sub titles aren’t signed
and chaos has died in my mind
or it’s been set free
I can’t escape I just don’t want to be…
Nigdaw Feb 24
I offer my prayer
to the ancient Gods
of sun and wind and rain
for they are the only ones left
when all the others have failed
Persephone Dec 2021
There are so many ways to worship the divine
Though my absolute favourite is in an abandoned parking lot
With fogged up windows to hide our devotion within
A temple of our own construction, and as sacred as the sin between our lips
As your hands roam the curves of my body, the fire within us ignites
Ready to sacrifice any and all logical thoughts
The rituals begin soon after in a rush to take our clothes off and I am nothing more than a humble offering
So you can drink me in like the finest of nectar, suited only for the gods
And finally the festivals commence with a tangle of limbs and a fight to keep ones breathe
Hands still explore as the fire burns hotter and before I know it you take me to the home of the gods
You welcome my acts of piety and respond in ways that make me see stars
My screams echo louder as your pace only quickens
And as the fire consumes us both
You take great pleasure in hearing your name being sung from my lips like a prayer
Satisfied by my worship you have no doubt in knowing which god my devotion belongs to
Tichozpytec Dec 2021
Hear the Greek gods laugh
On the top of Olympus
Watching life below
Paul NP Dec 2021
In the group that I come from, where philosophers comprise. Virtue, ethics and values they wrestle or oblige. One thing is missing and thats the truth in definition. From where philia itself is all about friendship.
Friends in wisdom, hey..it might just be empathy. Compassion hey, its truly a victory.

Whether Sophia or Nikea, it shouldn't really matter. Put them together and the robes will never tatter. Lest apart, were back to the start where this cute mythology loses its heart.

Yo, The Gods and Goddesses are just virtues. Principles of importance marked as divine. Personified and glorified to keep the spirit alive, thats just how they emphasized. Thats just how they empathized.
Finn Dec 2021
Shaking shuddering vibrancy
A blink and I'm gone
Past the twisting fracturing light
Stretched and bent around gravity
The twisting halls that are pulled out into eternity
And instead found in Aether

Galaxies and stars searing my fingertips
Dark inky waters surrounding me
Skin sliding off, muscles turning to dust
Revealing my core
A bright
Spiraling
Supernova
Burning and revolving with rings of ice,
like Saturn
But much like how stars burst in their passion
And time itself will trickle the last grain of sand in its hourglass
A ticking timebomb in my soul
An explosion of firecrackers waiting for me,
at my end
The heat death of every universe living in my mind
and sprouting from my skin
Even Gods are forgotten
But as I reach like Icarus once did
setting myself aflame on white dwarves and red stars
And I
finally
feel
Alive
this is what happens when I drink redbull
Elaenor Aisling Nov 2021
TW: Rpe, Sucide
.
.
.
.

Dionysus wipes his hands
With a wine dark-cloth,
His bar the confessional booth, for gods and mortals.
The absinthe green of his eyes loosens tongues
until their sins fall from their mouths like snakes and stones,
clattering onto the tarnished marble bar.
The stinking incense of each dog-eared dollar,
sustains him in its foul smoke,
the muttered prayers over empty glasses
chants and cries and pains and joys
Falling over each other like drunken feet,
Weaving themselves into stories
He recounts to Ariadne in the morning
As she folds laundry, and he does the dishes.
The threads of small mortal lives hanging around them untethered.
His patrons check their best at the door, he knows this,
Welcomes it,
He still has the best wine in the city
Even if they ***** it into the storm drain outside.

Asclepius stops in after his 12 hour shift
Eyes haggard
The blood of an attempted suicide on his scrubs,
the pull of a thousand witnessed deaths curled around his hip flexors,
Trying to drag him down with every step.
Still, he moves like a snake through sand,
The soundless strength of his movements
Ripple a wake of quietness, hallowed calm
On the floor they call him gentle giant
Always ask him to work full moons.
Artemis never did like him,
But the mortals are stilled
Under his hands.
Cracked and dry from over-washing
His knuckles bleed when he reaches for his glass.
At home Epione will take them in hers,
Rub lotion into the palms with the pad of her thumb, working her way in concentric circles all the way out, tenderest on the backs of his hands and their maze of scales and interstices,
The strong cherry-tang scent of almonds rising from their fingers.
At work sometimes he will feel the ghost of her touch
Crave it, as the sanitizer and soap smart against his skin,
This is an old intimacy they have always shared—the meeting of fingers, the firm pull of her thumb against palm,
And sometimes the way she traces the faded green lines of the serpent tattoos that twine around his forearms,
The slow caress of her index finger, the tiny scrape of her nail
Until her hand encircles his neck, cradles the serpent’s head
And she leans in to kiss him.
He will go home to her in an hour
When he is warm from the whiskey
And his mind is a little softer,
Some of the blood washed away.
He sighs,
Men are curing men
But they always find new ways to **** others
and themselves.

Athena’s seat is in the back, near the fire escape,
Where the shattered vinyl of the seat
Scrapes her thighs like desert sand.
Steel eyes to the door,
She gulps ***** neat.
After her second deployment, it’s the only thing that stills her hands.
Her pearled teeth gnaw the end of a burned cigarette—
If she chews hard enough,
the tobacco replaces the taste of her staff sergeant’s tongue, his breath, his blood.
Bodies in the dark, the vice-gripped wrists,
She bit, she clawed, she kicked,  
the muscles weakened by so few prayers
the dim fire in her eyes could not muster a single flash,
a flintlock in rain,
and she was another nymph, another Cassandra—
No one believed,
no one believed.
She can still feel Cassandra’s arms locked around her calves,
hear Ajax’s guttural grunts,
she understands now.
But for her there was no temple, no statue,
She tries to cling to herself,
But falls away to dust,
The guttural grunts of the staff sergeant echo as
The memories drag her, screaming, across her bedroom floor
Poseidon cannot drown them,
Only ***** can
And no one believes,
No one
believes.
Goal was to write a modern interpretation of Greek gods and goddesses. Title drawn from Niel Anderson's album/song.
ScaryGary Nov 2021
when you go from low to low
how do you know when you're low again?
jump off the roof, to get back in the flow again
oh no, here we go again

seeds we sow blow away then grow again
we never know the seeds that we sow again
get up high, now get low again
i paid child support here come that ** again

can winds blow away?
to never blow again
wind creates the way
to have it's own go, again

oops

i am sorry

point that finger and confess
i can't digest or digress
we digest to find less?
pro and pre and method best
***** clap da floor
Next page