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Vazago d Vile Jul 17
They took the rebel,
with dirt on his feet
and fire in his voice,
and dressed him in silk,
floating
like some sainted mannequin
in Saint-Tropez.

He flipped tables —
now they kneel at golden ones.
He fed the poor —
now they feed on gold-plated prayers.
He walked with ****** and thieves —
now they polish marble for the pious.

He healed on the Sabbath
just to make a point.
Told the rich,
“Give it all away.”
He spat truth like lightning
and stood firm in storms.

But they couldn’t control that man.
So they made him God.
Not to lift him —
but to bury him in worship.
Because if he’s God,
you don’t have to follow —
just bow.

They crowned him
to silence him.
Sanitized the sweat,
bleached the blood,
branded the rebel
as royalty.

But I remember the man —
not the myth.
I see the dust,
the rage,
the truth that burned in his chest.

And I say:
bring back the fire.
Let him walk barefoot
into temples again.
This poem questions how society and religion have polished away the raw humanity and rebellion of figures like Jesus. Once a voice for the oppressed, he’s now a glossy icon—safe, distant, and silent. A protest in verse. A reminder to seek truth, not comfort.
My precious velvet donkey,
my dreamt plush toy, pure poetry,
a  cotton skin, so soft.
As tender as a warm cloud,
that dreamlike Platero, pure jet black,
as sweet as an angel's sky.
Oh, to have a Platero in my life,
to walk beside me in green meadows,
to mingle among wildflowers,
to lie down with me, to be my friend.
Oh, to have such a sweet little donkey in paradise,
all beauty and tenderness, love in its purest form,
to caress you and feed you,
ambrosia for my friend.
Together through the world of perfumed earth,
trotting in nature's heaven.
How I wish I could have held you
in my lap,
my little donkey,
together
in that world.
A gentle world,
where all is good,
in the world of my dreams,
where we are all so happy,
where that other Platero and I reside.

---
Mi precioso burrito de terciopelo,
mi peluche soñado, pura poesía,
piel de algodón, tan suave.
Tan tierno como una nube cálida,
ese soñado Platero, puro azabache,
tan dulce como el cielo de ángeles.
Quién tuviera un Platero en mi vida,
que me acompañara en verdes prados,
que se confundiera con flores silvestres,
que se recostara conmigo, que fuera mi amigo.
Quién tuviera un burrito, tan dulce, en el paraíso,
todo bello y tierno, el amor en estado puro,
para acariciarte, y darte de comer,
ambrosía para mi amigo.
Juntos por el mundo de la tierra perfumada,
trotando en ese cielo de la naturaleza.
Ojalá te hubiera podido recostar
conmigo en mi regazo,
con mi burrito,
juntos
en ese mundo.
Un mundo amable,
donde todo es bueno,
en el mundo de mis sueños,
donde todos somos tan felices,
donde vive ese otro Platero y yo.
Cadmus Jul 17
🤴

Approach, dear dreamer, if you dare,
But know my skies hold thinning air.
My steps are stitched in woven flame,
My name, too sharp for lips of shame.

You came with hands of dust and thread,
A crown of noise upon your head.
No sword, no gift, no golden key,
Yet thought to tame a storm like me.

Did Daedalus forget to warn his son?
Even Icarus soared closer than you’ve done.
You chase the sun but dread the cold,
A heart too timid, a hand too old.

I dance where only giants tread,
I feast where lesser men have fled.
I wear the stars, I breathe the skies,
I kiss the sun where eagles rise.

So take this truth I lay in rhyme:
A throne too high commits no crime.
It’s built for those who carve through air
Not those who knock and gasp for prayer.

🤴
Footnote:
This poem is a declaration of unreachability - a message to those who approach greatness with presumption but without worth. It evokes mythological imagery (Daedalus, Icarus), not to flatter the dreamer, but to caution them: wings of wax and hollow pride won’t carry you where gods walk. The throne is not cruel for being high - it is simply not meant for the unready. This is not arrogance. This is altitude.
lisagrace Jul 17
I don't know what I feel.
I don't know who,
or what I like.
I just know,
that I do not feel
the embers,
I am blind to the spark -
The light

I think back on that time,
To that shallow kiss
I know that it was warm.
I know that it was nice.
Hell, I was on cloud nine.
But the moment passed.
And the butterflies were...sparse.

Was it him or me?
Was I just too slow?
Or he too fast for me?
I don't know.
I don't know.
I just...
don't know.

Three or four years
have gone since then,
And I still wonder why
Then I remember -
That wasn't the only time

There had been others before
We had courted,
And I was always wishing
I were elsewhere
Trying to spring forth
All of those feelings -
To lay my heart bare
...but they just weren't there

I still feel like the moth
With no flame
My heart,
In a state of decay
Now and then there is a stutter -
A flutter
Of something
I try to hold it -
But it just flies away

You may as well smear me
Across that windowpane

There are terms now
for what I could be,
The letters "A" and "D"
might feel like me
But I won't say a thing -
Not a peep
Not 'til I'm sure,
Until I'm really sure,
of what makes my heart truly sing

There's a pressure,
a quiet, constant hum
To know
who and what I am

They ask when
Not if I'll marry,
Bare children -
And start a family
Well let's just say,
That I'll not tarry,
To find a way
Out of the charade

Motherhood never spoke to me
It seems a cage -
Agony
I've only ever wished
to be free
Free to inspire,
To create
To ponder
Free to roam,
To dream
To learn
If only I knew the secret
For what makes me burn

But maybe it's okay
Not to know
Maybe I'm still blooming—
Unfolding slow, unseen
In the dark, I find
I do not cower
Instead, I glow -
I, the moonflower.

I will not blaze,
In the ways they expect
I will not leave entrails in the sky
But I still reach -
Only quiet,
and deliberate -
For the stars in the night
For why
Late-blooming questions and quiet reaching.
A reflection on identity, uncertainty, and learning to grow in my own way.
lisagrace Jul 17
I didn't know it would feel like this
That shallow kiss
You grabbed my wrist
The second and the first
Were momentary bliss
I was on cloud nine
If only for a moment in time
We only met twice
I thought we'd been spliced
It was warm, and it was nice
I'd thought that maybe,
you could be my first someone
I'd promised myself - "I won't run"
An awkward thank you
My cheeks aflush
I stepped away,
And then came the hush

Why does this feel so strange?
Like my heart has decayed
Brown, and withered
A moth without its flame?
It was warm, and it was nice.
Still...we only met twice
I suppose I was too ready to open the door
Unfortunately,
This has happened before
Maybe if we were to meet twice more
I might feel a flutter of desire,
I'm sure

Three days have gone,
I wait, I stall
I don't know how to feel at all
Was it karma,
or was it fate?
Did the universe just spit in my face?
I thought I had been brave -
I said yes. I had stayed.
I was willing to learn how love might taste,
My heart might have bloomed
in haste - not chaste
But maybe that was the mistake.

"The ones before were purely ******"
"I'm not ready for love"
He said,

Something twisted in my chest

I hoped it wasn't true,
But I think you felt something different for me,
than I did for you
It seems you didn't want my feelings,
My hopes,
Or my dreams
I think you only wanted my body
Just to satisfy your needs
I was ready
Steady -
And now,
Empty

But it was warm, and it was nice.
We had only met twice.
A brief spark that left more questions than warmth.
Vulnerability, misread signals, and the ache of almost-connection.
lisagrace Jul 17
The girl writes with practiced diligence
"Maybe if I explain it better...?"
"Will he listen this time?"
Another note slides under the door
Silence
A quiet poem about trying to be heard.
Repetition, hope, and silence—the things we send under closed doors.
Truth bends to the eye that sees it.
Some truths stand fixed like stars in the sky,
But many shimmer like reflections in water-
Shifting with the angle ,
dancing with the light
lisagrace Jul 17
The woman scrolls her usual scroll, not looking for anything in particular....then she sees it - not perpendicular.
Ethereal,
Quintessential.

Moons and stars and coloured gems all
glinting in the afternoon light.
The woman afixes them to her curtain rail
The girl gasps - her eyes wide.
Rainbows danced across the walls, a shifting, sparkling tide.

She breathes. She is delighted.
It's such a little thing, she knows,
The girl and I -
She is me and I am She.
The girl did not die in the fire

She stepped out, glazed with gold.
She still gasps at rainbows on the wall—
proof that wonder never grows old.
A soft reminder that it's okay to be a child at heart.
Sometimes healing means letting yourself play, notice, and believe—just like before.
lisagrace Jul 17
My hands, smaller then, holding a ball of wet, smooth clay. Shaping it into what I thought were animals - but they all looked the same. Egg-shaped heads, dumpy legs, and fat bodies. Skewered out eyes and noses. But I loved creating these strange creatures. Once complete, they sat atop the cupboard, waiting, hoping to evolve. To solidify. To become. But they never made it to the kiln. The creatures stayed there, alone. Forgotten. Abandoned. A ghost of my childhood, one of the few joyous sparks.

I am grown now, still haunted. Still longing. But I have reclaimed the spark. There it is again. Malleable and messy. These hands, belonging to a woman now, caked with that familiar, wet slip.  My thumb presses into the ball - a pinch ***. Another. And another. And yet, another. My heart sings.

The shapes are wobbly. Tumbler cups, too small for coffee...I didn't realise they would shrink this much! There are no two alike, fingernail marks and uneven lips. But I love them - just the right size for honey wine. Dinosaur stamps — a T-rex and a Brachiosaurus. A quiet rebellion in clay, honoring the girl who shaped beasts and walked away. They stack beside the kiln now, waiting again. But this time, they are not forgotten. I see them. I made them. The fire awaits.

The girl, a phantom
I reshape her. I mold her
Coalescing, whole
The woman is set aflame
Imperfect and beautiful
A piece about returning to old joys, reclaiming creativity, and shaping something gentle from the past.
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