Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Zywa Jan 11
Splashing, destroying

the puddle by stamping, and --

again, and again.
Novel "Een Fries huilt niet" ("A Frisian does not cry", 1980, Gerrit Krol), chapter 1.1

Collection "SoulSenseSun"
Malia Jul 2023
I spill over my skin
So messy, so messy
I am a puddle
You are a stone.

As you ๐’„๐’“๐’‚๐’”๐’‰
Into me,
It ripples my entire
๐’‡๐’‚๐’ƒ๐’“๐’Š๐’„ ๐–”๐–‹ ๐•“๐•–๐•š๐•Ÿ๐•˜
All while you canโ€™t
๐“•๐“ฎ๐“ฎ๐“ต ๐“ช ๐“ฝ๐“ฑ๐“ฒ๐“ท๐“ฐ
New stuff from old poems!
Zywa Feb 2023
As a child I roamed

the grounds, barefoot through puddles --

and I still do that.
"Het Bureau - Het A.P. Beerta-Instituut" ("The Office - The A.P. Beerta-Institute", 1998, Han Voskuil), page 130

Collection "Not too bad [1974-1989]"
Odd Odyssey Poet May 2022
Trodden puddles; muddy waters of cattles laiden on the
path of a dry river bed. The surrounding being ever present
of one's land loss. It's love (like many hearts) so bare to the
humid air, under these heated moments. Skins have broken
out, in my rash decisions.

Don't butter me up, to spread the falseness of a left hand.
Though it's right isn't always holding onto doing right.

Shall I tend the fieldโ€”once after the herd passes? Let no puddle
be open on where you walk.
Isabella Feb 2022
i want the storm to dissolve me
i want to melt into a puddle on the broken concrete
i want ripples to fall on my surface
i want to tremble when cars drive by
people to step in me without a care
children to splash
and dogs to drink
i want to be a puddle on a winter afternoon
i want the raindrops to expand me
until i trickle down the sidewalk
through that cracks in the pavement
and down the curb
i want to fall onto the street
and let the wind push me far, far away
J Dec 2020
it's raining again.
It's been raining a lot lately.
I rush outside with jars usually,
tonight I sit under
and I fill myself up.
my hair clings to my neck
my face
my soul.
I close my eyes,
dipping myself in and out of
the sky's tears
in hopes that she'll never recognize
the difference if I were
to be extracting tears of my own.
There will soon be no distinction
between me and the wet.
catching a breath, I peer up
I blink so much I'm surprised I can find the clouds
They shield Gaia from the cold
I count the stars, though I mistake
the majority of raindrops for the plasma.
So I tilt down,
face to Hell
my hair curtains around me
as if a cat had torn them into nothing but
clumpy pieces of string,
and recognize the puddle of a person,
through blurry sockets,
that I can no longer hide from.
I'm in a weird writing mood. I don't write many long things anymore, though, as we see
Unpolished Ink Nov 2020
Oil on the water

Gentle spilling colours

Tumbled greens and inky blues

Fade to yellow and pinky hues

Filling the puddle

A requiem for rainbows
Even rainbows have to die sometime
Giovanna Sep 2020
When the arrow of overthinking strikes,
feels like have my head on spikes.
Thinking a lot these days.
Next page