Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
n-khrennikov Sep 9
There were three women in my life.
The first
from Volga winters, mud mixed with snow
A gentle wind and I appeared.
And rocked me in her arms,
A the hole in the fence of the house where I went
And when the sun on my back
to force myself to let go of her hand.

The second one were taken from my rib-cage,
from my rib,
my heart beats with new passion.
Two lone shadows intertwined
cuddling like two gray pigeons
I waiting for her
or did she wait for me?
And when I awoke,
she was still sleeping and sublime,
just as the day she asked me for a smoke
And to this day, she has me mesmerized.

The third one sparkled like a dowry in herself
I observe her,
she makes my patience
from the books I’d read every night in my head
When the evening sky descends,
Stars will shine
to ensure that all her dreams
Stay divine

Now the same three precious fires
in all the beauty that was revealed to me
And I will love her till the end of time.
H.хренников
Aparna Sep 2
surreal landscapes                                             

juxtaposed;
       ­                         tellurian sentiments
                      
                               ­  along ethereal lines

tell me,

does lavender bloom

betwixt stars?
Some fine-tuned
Some well raw
Kitten Yvad Aug 16
Sacred,
         your intimacy is to me
     sweet   s h y       s  t  r  o  n  g
like lemongrass
        chamomile tea



Loving myself
             I won't change
              the way I treat you
Not out of fear or
               self doubt
Not out of jealousy
                       or regret
Not out of the pain that
               rips me apart
               when you don't see
               me



Not because of tears I cry
        frightened I don't see you
      as you are



     None of it thrills me
as does my bravery
and the breaking ice
when I choose  to love you



    choose to love you
     when I don't know



I feel brave when
   I choose to love you
    though I don't know how


And have to sit quietly
                 and love myself
                sit quietly and burn
                until I present myself

with love that I accept
until I hand her somerhing
         that sticks

.
May 28, 2020 may was wildly rough for me for no reason at all. May was all curveballs and no chill and im such a serious person. And so emotional that this came of it.
eureka Jul 26
i’ll be turning a year older soon and still, my mind is clouded with so many thoughts. insecurities are surfacing; loneliness has come knocking on my door again. i haven’t let her in but somehow, she found a way like how an old friend knows every corner of you. it’s good to be alone and i like the peace and quiet that comes with it—i just didn’t think i would feel its very essence. i don’t say anything not because no one has ever asked, but because i fear that if a word slips off my mouth, all of them would overflow and i wouldn’t be able to stop. if i can’t bear and withstand my storms, will anyone ever? even the dark and the silence are no longer a friend to me. in the repainting myself; i have lost myself. i am nothing but a blank canvas, wishing i could swallow a yellow paint.
i don’t know anymore
Dante Rocío Jul 19
Giornale is
Always a tad different matter
And texture
Depending which readings
Or circumstances
It comes to be paired
With.
That Journal truly a companion is.
Your thought beholder giving a reflection itself?
That’s something!
Psychostasis Jul 2
Pages of burning emotion flutter through the wind
Flipping from one end of my journey and milestones to the other
Letting the sun kiss each page as it transfers

The ink is dry
But the blood, and tears I've graced these pages with are very much still running through the words planted in the same field.

My pen screamed and etched images of my future
As my brain burned with a passion magnified by a deep sickness

And as the gunshots of thought blare
My pen rams the pages

And then silence
The scribbling scratches of the quill quiets down
And the accelerated breathing turns soft and shakey

The Prophet ends his journal entry
With a slice of the thumb
A bit of blood smeared on his art to ensure his life stays with it
And a night of deep sobbing stalking closely behind.
Sanjana Jun 12
This is the journal of the dead,
The one that reads of misery and plight.
Pain, sorrow, tears un-wiped.
Will, I read it? Yes, I might!

He smiled and laughed through the unhappiness received,
He probably forgot that eyes could deceive.

He drank champagne till his empty heart-filled,
His soul wasn't empty, filled with guilt.

His skin was embellished with cuts and scars,
His mind within him ripped him apart.

He walked till the end, till the edge of every cliff,
Through paths lit with fires and lanes filled with pyres.

He waited for long and lost everything coming along,
Broken pieces un-joint, falling way behind time.

He cried and wept through every coming night,
Till his face turned pale and tears were denied.

He had to depart with a smile on his face,
It was finally the end, of an unendurable phase.

This is the journal of the dead,
Of the one that cried, but never lied.
Of the one broken, yet the one who never broke.
Of the one that died, leaving all behind.
The sufferings of a man through out his life until he rested in peace at the end.
Small and brown
Wrinkled and worn
It's insides hide secrets, nicks and some nooks
Mold of thy mind, mold of my soul
When pen finally falls
When the body gives finally breath
And man I am gone
It will stress me none
Because I loved, I cried, I laughed
I lusted with wild desired,
More importantly, reluctantly I confess
That above all what puts my heart to rest
Is to know that a tiny speck of me will still be here
In this leather bindings my soul will live
Next page