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Create me to love,
But to never be accepted.
Bind my soul to sin.
Then for sin, deem me rejected.

Destine me to burn,
But to never burn clean.
Create me in divine image,
That's never to be seen.

Persuade me to trust,
To ensure I’d feel betrayed.
Gift me with a life,
To watch a life's decay.

Give me fragile emotion,
To observe my shattered core.
Hoard all sense of peace,
In a world at constant war.

Offer me no wings,
Then demand I ascend.
Force me to be strong,
Then force me to bend.

Decide my directions,
Then curse all the roads.
Promise me forgiveness,
That's neither felt nor shown.

Mold my faulted psyche,
To be damaged by confusion.
Make real my nightmares,
Make my dreams the delusion.

Shackle down my conscience,
Then tell me that I’m free.
Create me in divine image,
Drive me to hate what I see.
I haven't cried in so long
so long...
it's been so long...
a year
it will be a year in May
a year
a year
since I've seen my home
with countless more till I return
it's been so long since I've felt the pain
homesickness
was something I'd never experienced until the plane
approached that perfect island
until I stepped off
and the sun soaked into my soul
and I took a deep breath
and knew I was finally home
you can't tell me that's not home
YOU CAN'T
I WILL FIND MY WAY BACK TO YOU
I WILL FIND MY WAY BACK TO YOU
I WILL FIND MY WAY BACK TO YOU
someday, somehow
I will return
to the only place I could stay forever
to the only place that breaks down my walls
the only place that still makes me cry
I can't believe it's been a year
since I've seen home
I know it's all for Metamorphosis and crap but god it hurts so much. I thought I'd forgotten, thought I'd accepted my fate to be marooned forever. I cannot be marooned forever. What am I going to do?
rk Apr 2
and maybe that's why
after seven summers
passing between us
i still find myself
coming back here
because it's the only place
that i get to love you.
Babakagolo Apr 1
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My tongue stays knotted, a noose around my throat,
A strangling coil that I cannot break.
I choke on words I can’t release,
Hanging in the silence of sentences I can’t yet find.

Thoughts race past, swift like speeding cars,
Yet I remain mute, frozen in the stillness…
I can’t speak.

How can my mind hold all these questions
But no answers to ease the chaos?
So many ideas, yet I’m lost on how to bring them to life.
I stay speechless, trapped in this silence.

I reach for better days,
Clutching at air, hoping for a shift.
But all I seem to gather are bitter ones.
I am too young to feel the cold of this despair.
This noose tightens,
As I dissolve further, suppressing all that troubles me.
I need the words to voice my pain,
A voice that has long since eluded me.
I must find it, before it’s too late.
Arthur Vaso Mar 30
I rather sticks and stones
words mean too much to me
a poet embracing ugliness
to be called it once
is a sword in the stomach
to be called it twice
a thousand arrows in the heart
to lose a friend
dreadful is this agony
to be blind
yet to see inside
misery
A ticking clock sits crooked on the kitchen wall only to help us wave
the seconds goodbye.

Why did we stare at it everyday?
It's the same routine just the next day.
It becomes the next week, the next month,  then the next year.

The seconds go by with
many desolute moments
and many cringe worthy processes.

Where does all this time go while it crushes our dreams, destroys our ambitions, as we sip on a pina colada
on a beach to nowhere

Is it 5 o'clock somewhere?

Feels like midnight though
with a full moon
crossing over with rainclouds
that are beckoning to be heard.
Time didn't stand still for
those thunderstorms in our bedrooms,
but we did welcome them in.

Glancing back at the clock on the wall,
the essence of time keeps going.
We cannot retreive those lost seconds until we capture the moments
we have together.
Persephone II Mar 28
And in her
there was silence
Silence so deafening
Silence
Sitting within
Waiting
Encompassing
Stealing the space
Meant for
Laughter
Meant for passion
Even rage
God how she begged
Pleaded
For even her rage
But they had left
And all she that remained
Was their essence
And cruel cruel
Silience
Linden Lark Mar 27
Do you ever feel like your story is being written for you?
Maybe that’s why I write—
because when I look down, at least I know it’s mine.

How did I get so lost,
so far from what was once so bright?

Page after page keeps turning,
but my pen ran out of ink long ago.
Time keeps passing,
but the story unfolding isn’t me.

Maybe my story was never mine.
Maybe it belongs to someone else.
Maybe I’m just a book collecting dust
on a stranger’s shelf.

Maybe that’s why I write—
so that somewhere, buried in those pages,
there is at least one part
that is undeniably mine.
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