Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
leeaaun Jul 4
our eyes will keep on hiding
the secrets
deep inside our cores

till someone will reach us
with genuine intentions
of providing us with help

that we couldn't provide ourselves with

they will be the one
who believe in their powers unlike us
who can read what we have to say
because they understand thrmselves

making us understand the same logic
soon there will be a day
where we will learn to accept ourselves
Nigdaw May 4
someday I'd like to sit
in my armchair
by the window
bathed with sunlight
book open at a portal
to drift off into storyland
like Alice
down the rabbit hole
Ken Pepiton Jan 29
If there were a story asked,
and the asker were as weary as me,

I might ask the asker what good
could a half told story be.

The asker answers, well then,
begin at the end,
then we all rest easy, knowing
it all works out.
As the grands grow too old for such silliness, they listen to Audible,
and I listen along, longer, usually, unless we begin at the end.
Aer Sep 2022
my love.
folded behind dog-eared pages
you're a book I've yet to finish
yet before I've reached the ******—
I shelf you with a bookmark
that will never be revisited.
writing in class, thinking of books.
Steve Page Aug 2022
I remember dad sitting and reading
each evening after dinner
once he and me had washed up in the galley kitchen.

After, I remember him stripping down to the waist
and body washing at the sink, then completing
his evening shave.

I remember his big old badger shaving brush
and a shaving mug refilled with Old Spice.

I remember the odour, filling the kitchen
and sticking to him.

But mostly I remember him in his white vest
in the brown armchair under the warm standard lamp,
feet up by the fire, reading his books.

Wilbur Smith.
Alastair MacLean.
Jack Higgins.

The Sound of Thunder.
Ice Station Zebra.
Wrath Of The Lion.

Always a hardback. Always a loaner
from the regular family trips
to the woods and the library.

Always sitting in his heady mix
of Old Spice, Brylcreem and St Bruno,
reading and relishing the opportunity
to pass the book on to me
telling me of his envy of my first read
of the adventure he’d just finished.
My dad was a reader

As it dawned upon them
It was their final chance
To dance through the night

And they danced
Donning the colours
Of the new dawn

As it was
The final countdown
To forevermore

For the words to forge
The unwritten
The written, Unforged
Had been away for a very long time
Hope you all are doing well
Didn’t write much all this while
Hope to write read and share here
My Dear Poet Aug 2022
If I can do with words
what your lips do with kisses
The pen will be a weapon
the poem becomes your weakness
So wean these words willingly
the way I hold to your lips
and savour the “ I Love You”
and kiss me, like this
Steve Page Jul 2022
Sadness is finishing a great novel
on the train to work
and carrying it home
empty of suspense,
with a faint hope
for the yet unpublished sequel.
Bad planning on my part.
Ylzm Jul 2022
as in clouds so in words
many things seen and read
hiding keys affirming revelations
in the unseen and unspeakable
Next page