Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ghost
/gowst/

1.   The bleached whale teeth of your bones covered in layers of papery humanity, the blue of your Veins as they lie, š˜ŗš˜°š˜¶ š˜¢š˜³š˜¦ š˜¢š˜­š˜Ŗš˜·š˜¦.

2.   Static white and less, a phantom haunting your own skin. You were murdered, murdered, murdered by this coffin of a house.

3.   Dustless and fearfilled; can the dead die again?
there is something
ugly,

about being born in
the dark,

no home, no purpose,
just this ever aching feeling
that you are something more
even though the world tells you
that you are ordinary,

you have no answers,
no one to give them to you,
because nothing is really known,
just something we made up to
cope.

we had to give things meanings,
names, purpose,

humans have an incessant need to
find where they belong,

maybe it did that on purpose,
blinded us from the start,
limited our knowledge,
limited our understanding,
threw us in this place where
anything can happen,
just to see what would
transpire.

Something so ugly, so cruel, and yet,
I understand, and I love it.

I am my own to mold.
I'm kind of new to poetry, I usually try to write novels but poetry is my therapy and I had an urge to share my drabbles.
eliana Aug 2
This is how we deal with things
Red, blue, purple, green
Splashes of paint against the canvas of life
Leaving our marks in the world

Black

The color of tragedy and of growth
Growing from the ground we walk on
Criticism taken; a better artist created

Yellow

Stereotypical isn’t it?
Of happiness and life
But also of illness, of worry, and flowers in the waiting room
There’s another streak on the canvas
How many more before it’s filled?

Aqua

Drinking and paint water
Vital to life
There’s a calmness around aqua
That makes you feel at peace,
A false sense of serenity created

Purple

For too many thoughts inside our heads
We can’t get them all out
Confusion, royalty, and pride
Pride in knowing that we’re contributing to society
And confusion on how to put it out there
Another streak on the canvas

Magenta

A confusing color, magenta
An equal mix of similar colors – pink and red
Happiness and anger
Or the colors of the flowers next to a grave
Perhaps of the bike next to a coffee shop
that you go on your first date

Green

We’re taught to love green
The color of money, of nature, of all good things
And the color of the carpet at your grandma’s house
The difference you made there
The color of a soldier’s uniform before going to battle
More streaks go on the canvas

Look where you are now
A beautiful concoction of colors, of experiences
That otherwise wouldn’t have existed without the bad moments
Look in the mirror; you’ve changed lives
Congratulations artist

Another masterpiece created
eliana Aug 2
Love.
How simple that word is except it has been misunderstood; illused,
Media portrays it everywehere.
So much so, it's shoved down our throats.
Some say love is forgive and forget; blood runs thicker.
But what about the one who manipulates, anillates, and isolates this thing.
This little thing called love.
L-O-V-E
it puts the L in "love me just as I am,"
the O in "Over and Over please forgive me,"
V in whispered in the "Very unpredictable challenges that come" and E.
E as in"Every day remind me with those sweet tender nothings. "
We wish for the old timey love but instead we now wish,
for the love where we grow old, and it doesn't matter what time makes us look like.
The love where we don't want to get the phone.
The love where we pursue through the tough times.
Where we don't give up after just one fight.
Or we misuse our words.
Kind of like the word love.
I've heard it gets misused a lot.
Kaiden Jul 25
I used to say my life lost its meaning,
But im not sure if it even had it in the first place.
I feel like i took the meaning away myself, and im too tired to give it a new one
Draumgaldr Jul 23
O one that holds the strands of fate
Weave this worthless soul a tale
From your fragile winding strings
stronger than armies of noble kings

Don’t let this wandering wretch be lost
Through your halls of ancient tales
With the ways of your silky words
Let my deeds be louder than storms and gales

Let my name be heard when the songbird sings
By your cold and placid grace
To your strands I hold and cling
Until you lift me from my lowly place
And be with you ever…. coiling.
A voice rises from the low places—
not to command, but to be remembered
in the story spun by hands unseen.
Marc Dillar Nov 2024
That night,
weary of the crowd,
weary of the human machines that clatter,
I tore myself away from the noise as one sheds a diseased skin.
I left the city,
and found myself alone beneath the warm breath of the summer sky.

I lifted my eyes,
and in that upward gaze,
something from childhood returned —
a sacred astonishment, a soft humility before the infinite.

It felt like falling up.

The sky was wearing a cloak of bronze.

The stars were twirling like tigers of light
that tore through the tar of the night.
Their fangs of fire were gnawing at the dark,
and searing holes in the velvet expanse,
like nails hammered deep in the welkin's bark.

I breathed in the beauty of this funereal veil,
That takes its source from the void that won’t echo,
And that reminded me that I’m only a mote in the abyss.

I stood there—
alone.
Like a moon-fisher
Lost in a sea of wilted flowers,
casting lines into the void.

I baited my hook with pieces of my own heart,
Hoping that something would bite
and pull back from the ether.

And I waited.

I waited for the silence to shatter,
for the night to answer,
so that my dreams stopped bleeding
into my waking hours.

I waited.

But the stars just kept on burning out in silence,
while my dreams kept dripping like open wounds.

I was fishing for meaning
in this night,
I was waiting for its answer
but all I reeled in were fragments,
slivers of light
that faded before I even got to touch them.

The dark stared at me,
daring me to blink first.

And I wondered,
I wondered how many nights like this the stars had seen,
how many souls like mine they had watched with that pale, quiet gaze,
while we knelt beneath their cold indifference
and called it beauty.

And still, they kept twirling.
Still, they blazed,
while I waited,
while I bled,
while I held my breath and hoped
that maybe,
maybe—
the next flicker would light the way,
maybe it would spill some hint,
some clue that there was meaning hidden in their glow,
a reason buried in their fire.

I would beg the stars to break the silence,
to stop their silent spin
and to just say something,
anything.

But I know they wouldn’t,
and that I could only choke on the ash of their silent dirge
that smothers those who dared to look up
only to find out that there is no answer.

And then—
it hit me.

What if it was never about the stars?
What if they are silent because they’ve already said all they had to say
and this eternal silence of the infinite spaces
only existed so we might pour ourselves into it?

I understood why we built gods,
erected cathedrals,
raised cities of glass and steel,
split atoms,
and walked on the moon,
why we loved,
sang,
screamed,
wrote poetry.

And maybe that’s also why I drink so much.
So, so much
just so I could catch flames
like these stars,
to be like them,
to rend the void that doesn't echo back,
just so I could look at myself the way I look at them
and believe that I could make any sense of it.

Science is too short to measure the infinite.
Art is too vain.

But this flame—
my flame—
is all I have.

And I want to burn.

I want to cast off this skin that traps me,
I want to lighten my bones from the weight of the world
bare my teeth at the cosmos,
howl at the heavens,
tear through the ether like fangs of fire,
and scrape the cold black bark with my nails.

Maybe I was born to blaze,
or at least I just need to believe I could,
that I am the beacon,
the dawn that splits the abyss,
the answer made flesh.

That night,
I felt something kindle,
as if I, too, could be a tiger of light.

That I could dare look into the dark
and perhaps even make it blink first.
Kalliope Jul 7
It’s small things that mean nothing
But say everything to me,
Because everything has a reason-
A meaning I just have to see.

I can’t let things be as they are,
No, nothing’s a simple coincidence.
You linger in my atmosphere;
Surely, that’s not an accident.

But why?
And what does it mean?
I’m presented with puzzles
But not all pieces are seen.

I wish I had never looked,
My thoughts no longer free,
Now my conscience is booked,
Chained to what it perceives.

I just can’t help myself,
I just had to know,
Now I’m drowning in questions-
When I should be letting it go.
I saw something I shouldn't have while looking where I wasn't supposed to be
I hide in words — tucking under their shade;
Dressing letters up with sequins and baubles.
Now showering in limelit obfuscation.
Makes it seem as if I am really there:

Dressing letters up with sequins and baubles
Blinding myself in the flashing of their colours;
Makes it seem as if I am really there
Amidst flowered touchless abstraction.

I blind myself in the flashing of their colours.
Submerged in repetition, my thumb drowns
Amidst flowered touchless abstraction,
Swirling in whirlpool ******* me underneath:

Submerged in repetition, my thumb drowns
Now showering in limelit obfuscation,
Swirling in whirlpool ******* me underneath.
I hide in words — tucking under their shade.
mysterie Jul 3
i keep looking
for the meaning
in small things --
like in the way she says
my name,
somehow it sounds
so right.
or how silence
still answers me.
a little birdie told me that if you use this link..you'll see my project before i upload it here..
https://mysteriespoetry.straw.page
date wrote: 3/7
Next page