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ash 2d
what an empty epitaph that is—
the art of noticing,
fragility of life.

does iron fear the rot
that overtakes it in the moisture the world provides?

it is what it is,
but does it have to be?

plots of the unknown—how can i thrive?

liminal space of some sort, where i've found myself this once,
and all the other once’s.
i’m still in the spirit,
but the dead don’t return.

can’t find a body—everyone has souls,
not a single empty one.

i have stars on my ceiling.

can you hurt a spirit,
wound it like you’d wound a body?

find me a confessional—
i’d like to admit to my sins.

long since it has felt
like grief lives in the walls of this room where i reside.

you write and you put it out
and it’s like baring yourself in the naked truth
and ugly to everyone outside.
i intend to stay hidden—
in a shirt twice the size of me,
a pair of pajamas i should’ve thrown away a while ago,
and the same damaged pair of glasses—
except they’re light
and they feel mine,
with the same teddy and old laptop.

needed this to be a list of prompts.
found it making sense instead.
my life’s woven this way—
of symphonies, perhaps i’ll leave unsaid.

uncertainty begging for understanding,
faith asking to be relieved.
i can fit into the same years ' worth of old clothes.
have i never really grown, all this while?

i’ll save this to push it down the bin,
choke as every word comes out to spill—
the darkest of secrets, epiphanies of the night.
you breathe in the love,
tend to forget its might.

half-eaten swiss roll, rotting with sour cream.
a modified bunny made out of clay.
purple tulips—
but they’re fake.
i like the color grey.
cherry bombing every lie.
kiss till you’re numb,
dissociate into the wild.

what speaks—and what swallows?
golden halo of the angels,
wings tainted in red,
singing siren sounds,
myths ruled over, unclad.

i broke my old pair of glasses.
they’re beyond repair now.
umm
i've lied
lisagrace Jul 10
My hands linger on the barrier tight,
Fingers twitching in the failing light.
Blood is drumming, hot and loud,
A whispered thought beneath the shroud. There’s a pressure blooming in my head,
Like every word I left unsaid.
It hums behind my aching eyes—
A silent song that never dies.
Half-lidded eyes, I am silent and watching
There waits the void -
                
         Gaping
                          
                    Calling
                                    ­  
                              Pulling

There's a gravity that pulls me near,
A silent whisper I half-hear
As the yawning void draws me in,
slow and thin,
I can't help but gaze,
its pull a curious haze.
It's promise I have not destroyed.
It sings in shadows, soft and low,
A voice that tells me where to go.

But still I hover, still I stall,
One heartbeat shy of letting fall.
I want to leap, to drown, to fly—
To find out what comes after why.

The wind shifts, and picks up my hair.
I blink and turn—no fanfare.
Just the concrete path, and the noise of life -
the cars, the birds, the sun burning bright.
I shift my weight. The void still calls.
It tugs at my feet, my arms, my soul.
It's hold trembles. The strings snap.
I step away as the chords retract.
The mouth closes. Now threadbare—
fraying, curling...but I don't care.

I am stalwart. I am serene.
No longer caught in what has been.
The path ahead is cracked and wide.
I don’t look back.
I walk.
I try.

Maybe this is why.
First post here.
I wrote this in a moment of tension—between fear and curiosity, between holding on and letting go.
I think I’m still somewhere in between. If you give this a read, thank you. If you do and something pulls within you.....I know.
Joss Lennox Apr 15
facing deepest truth—
in the belly of the whale
finding purpose there
my attempt at Haiku for Writer's Digest daily poetry prompt writing challenge for April 15, 2025, "Write a poetic form poem and/or anti-form poem." I chose to write about liminal spaces, essentially because, I'm almost drawn to them. Although most of them tend to be nostalgic, eerie, isolating, haunting, confusing or disorienting, I find the transition to be beautiful. There's a sense of hope in uncertainty that I find remarkable in all of us. How we overcome our obstacles and turn them into our victories. They're incredibly inspirational to me. Looking at it from a melancholic view, I think most writers/poets are melancholic, or at least a little cholic (you'll only get this if you're an office fan, maybe not even then). I tend to be drawn to nostalgia or even longing or heartbreak. It's morbid and depressing I guess, but I find loads of learning, inspiration and opportunity there.
Glenn Currier Apr 2021
I got to wondering today
if I am an old dog
who can’t be taught new tricks
if that windmill going round and round
catching the wind between the blades
is really who I am,
if the universe surges
into the spaces still left in me,
if it is trying to wake the music
yet alive inside
in the curves of my heart,
if the blood pulsing there refuses to go down
in one grave path
and insists on a symphony of swerve
an inclination in a new direction.
If that breeze is really grace
then maybe I am being reborn
a puppy full of life
eager to be all the dog it can be.
I recently saw two movies both of which touched me to tears. They were movies about believing and about dramatic changes, even miracles. I don't know exactly why they touched me so, except that they might have had a message for me, a message about changes I need to make, about a slightly new direction, a swerve away from what is expected, away from the exact trajectory my life has been taking. Also in this poem is the idea of swerve, a philosophy that some believe sparked the modern age.
Glenn Currier May 2020
Here I wait resting on the door jamb
standing betwixt and between
shall I stay here or drop my hand,
move beyond what I’ve known and seen?
What will be out there to my left and right
where will the next step take me from here?
They said danger is there out of my sight -
threats, jinxes, and disease if that step I dare.

But if I move back into the shady cool
I’ll be safe in this cozy inner space.
Being in between without old rules
not knowing the beyond I’ll face
is scary but this is a journey of revelation
even if sacrifice and loss is in this race
I trust I will find peace and inspiration.
It seems these days we are in what is sometimes called liminal space, it is a place in between what we have known and experienced and what reality will be in the future.  It is a threshold which is uncomfortable and scary but also full of opportunity and possibilities of new discoveries, growth, and self-awareness.

To see a picture that goes with this poem:
https://84d50815-7c77-4829-a384-7a6e7e70b8aa.filesusr.com/ugd/7a608a_cacaa28d34534eb1abedac23bd88f6e8.pdf

— The End —