Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Phia Dec 2024
And as I tumble through the pages
Of my favorite books,
I fantasize of a better place;
Of a life that isn’t mine;
One where I am courageous
And strong
And unbreakable.
I fantasize of a place
Where I am the heroine
Instead of the villain
In my own story.
I fantasize of this place
And pray for that world to swallow me whole
Zywa Dec 2024
I like to lie on

the floor, thinking, with a book --


upon my stomach.
Novel "The Green Knight" (1993, Iris Murdoch), chapter 1 Ideal Children

Collection "Unspoken"
Flea Dec 2024
This I would read
As it was up to my speed
At recess while the other kids were
Beating eachother up
And torment one and other
While I was when one the beaten
And tormented
I took to studying law
During recess in
Avoidance of the bullies
This.... this was
My mother's idea
Zywa Nov 2024
I'm invisible

when I read a poem, I'm --


eavesdropping on it.
Maria Barnas on Mia You, in the review of You's poetry collection "Festival" (2024), in the NRC of November 8th, 2024

Collection "Within the walls"
Man Nov 2024
5:30, 4:30 -
Up ever earlier.
40, 50, 60
Pages of the encyclopedia open.
All with tabs,
Of the many windows, pages, & folders.
Through the looking glass,
Roaming far & near as an extraterrestrial.
Jamie Henderson Nov 2024
Silent days, delicate rains,
clip clopping like marching horse,
on thin, steel roofs, and nylon umbrellas.

Drenched, sweating foreheads in summer climates,
consistent, cool winds like drooling  ice,
drying sopping skin, a rough cloth to an oily pan.

Starved road trip bellies, after intermittent rests and games of eye-spy,
salivating at laminated menus, and passerby plates,
pre-meal hot fries, fulling deep guts with salty chips and fizzing raspberry.

Waking hours before blaring alarms,
knocking parents, a whistling kettle, and the popping toaster;
an hour to lay restless head into the deep world of snug pillows and warm blankets;
as if your whole universe is one big cushion.

Finishing a chapter and curling rough page with soft finger,
placing floral bookmark into the straight crease,
placing it back into its spot on the shelf or bedside table.

Dawn coffee.
Friday afternoon.
Saturday morning.
Kind encounters.
Meeting deadlines.
A finished poem.
It's much easier to be a debby downer, so here's something happier.
Boris Cho Nov 2024
The day unfolds with a heart steeped in gratitude, stirred awake by morning meditation. The afternoon finds me beneath a willow's gentle sway, a book cradled in my hands, warmth rising from a mug beside me. As night whispers its arrival, my thoughts spill onto paper, paired with a quiet indulgence. Each moment carries the weight of intention, weaving a rhythm of mindfulness, stillness, and creativity. It’s a ritual that nourishes my spirit, cultivating inner peace, self discovery, and inspiration in its delicate balance.



Through meditation, we sit with what arises,
learning to stay present with our thoughts,
to breathe into the pain of our experiences.

No longer fleeing discomfort,
we meet our fears with open arms,
letting them speak, letting them go quietly.

The thoughts, the worries, the pain;
all given the mental space to exist,
but no longer bound by our need for control.

We hold them lightly,
and as we loosen our grip,
until they all begin to drift away.

In this stillness, our healing begins,
slow and unfolding,
a lifelong journey until we are reborn.

We embrace the unknown,
finding peace in the spaces in between;
holding on and letting go.

— Sincerely, Boris
Malia Oct 2024
When your heart races,
Rushing out of a dream,
And words leave spaces
And lines in between,
Where your heart heals
To be shattered again,
Like oceans surreal
Once the reverie ends,
Frantically you strain
To let yourself sink,
With a mind soiled, stained,
And brimming with ink.
That feeling when you close the book but the story keeps going.
Malia Oct 2024
it feels like locking
the door on your loyal dog
who loved unconditionally
and saved you from your
sorrowful depths,
but you must go and
all things must end, though,
can’t you hear the whining
through the cracks?
can’t you hear the groan
through the cracks in the spine
made from opening what must
always
be shut?
Looseleft:

adj. feeling a sense of loss upon finishing a good book, sensing the weight of the back cover locking away the lives of characters you’ve gotten to know so well.
Next page