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Seltzer tears

Bubble
Down,

Burning eyelids

Shut.

Fizziness stings

Like bandages

Ripped

From healing
Wounds.

Quiet popping

Reels in silence.

Time
Is slow.
Stacey 4d
There comes a time, every full moon or so,
When I crave the quiet trill of nature -
The private experience of melting my awareness into hers.
Like honey swirled through warm tea,
I slowly dissolve into her.

My mind stalls in time.
My heart swells with deep belonging.

Alone and untethered to the human world,
I can forget everything I have learned about myself
And remember everything I am.

For she is me,
And I am her.
She shows me who we are.
silvervi Nov 21
Silence
I invite you
To bring me the truth

Silence
I adore you
For you are what you are

Silence
You help me
Find myself again

Silence
You are an anchor
In this present moment

Silence
You are here
And you always were

Silence
Sometimes
You are louder than words

Silence
In your lullaby
I want to fall asleep softly

Silence
In your presence
I am.
Calming myself down before sleep after an exciting day, listening to silence.
Kian Nov 20
The world does not stop.  
Its hands grind the hours to dust,  
indifferent, relentless,  
a machine that tears beauty from its roots.  

They pave over wildness,  
turn green to gray,  
and laugh as they vanish into cities  
built to collapse.  

And I hate them for it—  
for the way they pass by  
what remains,  
too blind to see the tender rebellion  
of a wildflower rising through cracked stone,  
the stillness of a hill beneath an endless sky.  

At fifty-five miles per hour,  
they reduce the infinite to a blur,  
a place they will never touch.  

But I love the quiet, the overlooked.  
The way moss clings to damp stone,  
the faint pulse of water through soil,  
the hum of life in a field mouse’s frantic dash.  

A single blade of grass,  
standing unbroken beneath the frost,  
carries more grace than the world  
they call progress.  

For I, too, am a speck of dust,  
being ground down by causality,  
spun within the great indifference  
of all that moves and does not see.  

And yet I persist—  
a small thing against the weight,  
an ember clutching at its warmth,  
a whisper in the deafening void.  

I want to scream,  
not to stop the world,  
but to make them see.  
To make them hear the voice of moss,  
the whisper of grass,  
the soft rebellion of the unnoticed.  

I want them to kneel  
and lay their palms to the ground,  
to feel what still endures beneath them—  
not in grandeur,  
but in the quiet things  
that will outlast their noise.  

Let them say I was hollow.  
Let them call me bitter, or ruined.  
But let them know this:  
Every fragile thing that stood defiant  
held a piece of me within it,  
a weight to steady its roots,  
a breath to fan its fire.  

And when they forget,  
as they always will,  
I will remain in the places they passed,  
small and unseen,  
but unbroken.
Elle McAulay Nov 6
I'm scared, okay?
I'm scared I'll never be loved,
I'm scared I'll never be held,
I'm scared I'll never be wanted.

I don't know how to change this.
I'm not one of feelings,
I can't express them.

I'm scared my thoughts will push you away
I'm scared my bones won't hold me straight
I'm scared I'll never find a way to
be loved.

"Can I interest you in a sarcastic comment?"
is something like Chandler would say
But what if I can't even make my own
defense mechanism protect me?
What if you don't like my jokes;
the only thing that might be good in me?
But that's not even the problem, is it?
I can't even find strengths to tell'em out loud
I can't even let you decide if you'll laugh or leave
I can't even

I'm scared, okay?
I'm scared that no one will ever know me,
will never want to know me
I'm scared I'll never find the words to fool you,
to make you think I might be interesting
I'm scared no one will ever think I'm worthed
of spending their whole life with
Why would they?
I'm just a quiet dull girl

I'm scared, okay?
Because
I love myself, okay?
I do.
I'm scared I won't ever find anyone else
that will love me as much as I do
I'm scared that's all that's left for me
Keep being one thing only:
unlovable
as I've always been
If you've ever felt worthy of love, if you're a hopeless romantic, if you love love, but never having been loved makes you question it, this poem is for you. And you ARE worthy of love, happiness and anything you dream of, and will find it someday. Don't lose hope, and remember you're not alone! I hope this makes you feel seen and heard, because I know I struggle with it, and you might too.
Love,
El
K10SW Nov 2
I picked up poetry to write what I can’t say to anyone. I picked up guitar to play what words couldn’t find. Tell me why I’m running out of both ink and melody. Why has the pen run dry and the strings snap? Why has music failed to speak when the words faltered? Why have my words fallen short when music is silenced?

Neither letters nor notes carry the weight I seek them to bear. Neither sonnet nor symphonies echo loud enough for my meaning to be heard.

But I shall continue to write, continue to play. Because when the pen runs dry and the strings snap, there will still be creation left to do. There will still be a heart that beats the rhythm of a soul with a message to be shared.
Caitlin Nov 1
one time
we were floating in the pool
(i don’t know whose)

and you told me about the conversations you were having with your therapist
how she challenged you to make the idea of
killing yourself
so complex that it would just be too much work to do

and as i floated nearby
eyes watching yours
our skin pale and wan in the moonlight and that muted waterglow from beneath us
i remember myself wondering why i knew
that we were never meant to be

our hearts too alike, perhaps
you always called me insane
but i never wanted to **** myself
i never had to come up with plans too obtuse to carry out
i did not tell you my thoughts while we pruned in the darkness

no

instead i longed simply not to be
that every night when i closed my eyes
my consciousness would cease
no future
no tomorrow
no wailing, clawing, inexorable creeping of time
tearing me apart molecule by molecule

i did not wish for death
but i did not wish to live
and trapped in that terrible ennui
you (and you) (and you)
drifted away from me

until the moon clouded over and i was alone
floating in the pool
(i don’t know whose)
Kayden Oct 31
In the quiet green of a sunlit vine,  
Where dewdrops rest and shadows twine,  
Lies a melon round, with a heavy sigh,  
In fields where days drift idly by.  

Soft and sweet, its flesh inside,  
A tender heart it tries to hide,  
Yet weighed with seeds of fleeting cheer,  
Its sweetness tinged with hints of fear.  

It’s summer’s child with autumn’s gaze,  
Golden light in shorter days,  
Both ripe and raw, it knows too well  
The taste of joy on the edge of farewell.  

And as the fields turn bare and cold,  
The melon dreams of days of old,  
Of laughter, warmth, and skies so high—  
A sweetness meant to say goodbye.
Theme and Tone:
"Meloncoly" explores the bittersweet nature of endings, using the metaphor of a melon to evoke themes of nostalgia, ripeness, and the passage of time. The poem's title, a play on "melancholy," suggests a feeling of gentle sadness associated with change and loss, reflecting the subtle beauty of natural cycles.

Imagery and Symbolism:
The melon represents fleeting happiness and the inevitable approach of loss. Its “tender heart” and “heavy sigh” imply an emotional weight hidden within its sweet surface, much like how joy often conceals sadness. The contrasting images of “golden light” and “bare and cold” fields symbolize the shift from abundance to emptiness, from summer to autumn, emphasizing the idea that all things pass.

Structure and Language:
The four quatrains are simple yet rhythmic, much like traditional pastoral poetry. This steady form mirrors the natural, predictable changes of seasons. Phrases like “fleeting cheer,” “tender heart,” and “sunlit vine” evoke softness and gentleness, while lines like “both ripe and raw” hint at the complexity of emotions that ripen with time.

Tone of Farewell:
The poem ends with a sense of departure and reflection, suggesting that sweetness and joy are always, in a sense, fleeting. It leaves the reader with a contemplative, somewhat wistful feeling, as the melon “dreams of days of old,” encapsulating the essence of "meloncoly."
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