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Celwyn Evans Dec 2020
Again. Again. Again.
I am in the circle
It has been with me forever
Five decades
Of going round
Round and round
I am tired of repeating
I am tired of being me
iris Aug 2020

A late night trip to the bathroom
shows a warped vision of myself
through a cracked mirror
it tells a story
through the dark circles
under my eyes.
It all tells me to sleep,
although that was already made clear
by my foggy mind and hazy vision.
I go back to bed
but when I close my eyes
I cannot see sleep in the future.
So instead I lay with my eyes open,
staring at the white ceiling.
It looks back at me,
harsh, unforgiving.
The storm outside
does nothing to help
quell the voices in my head.


The voices in my head argue
and tell me that
everything is either all very clear
or a muddled swamp of metaphors.
And they have decided
my life is all one horrible metaphor
for childish infatuations
that could never be
that turn into a stronger feeling.
I tell them to try and be quiet
because I’m trying to sleep,
but they do not quiet.


They do not quiet,
they never do.
Quiet is a warm hug
and space in my head.
Quiet is muted murmurs
creeping up stairs
and slipping through keyholes.
But they do silence.
Silence is deafening.
It lures and traps me in a cage
where I am unable to breathe.
It is a force that stops me
from being human,
it is all consuming.
That is why I let them stay,
because I prefer the chaotic cacophony
of voices
to silence.
They never stop.


Never stop dreaming
is what everyone says
but I think I did
when I stopped being able to sleep.
The clock blinks 4:32
and so maybe it’s more
early morning than late night,
but is there really a difference?
I’ve given up,
maybe I’ll sleep tomorrow night
And when they all ask
if I’m okay,
I’ll just tell them
it was a late night.


It was a late night,
I was kept awake by
the voices in my head.
They do not quiet,
They never stop.
It was a late night.
Poetic T Aug 2020
Haven't wrote in a while my
               words stutteringggggg.....

repeating the words

                     before that

duplicating expressive

that sounded different!

A particular vibrant diversity,

worded, formulated..
           effectively resonating, echoing

in the same flow that seems different
     but cascading within contrasting similarity's..
Hi All I`m back, you miss me :)
Nylee Jul 2020
how the day spins
There are chains in
All entwined in

How little my life means
To those I give my everything
it is humbling, to know your meaning

In the scope of greens
I am a tiny speck of red
a very lonely feeling

Cannot say anything
Without meaning other things
Deciding against it
The purpose defeating

It is so small and beautiful
I am noticing the life beyond my life
I cannot help dreaming

Every good thing
That happens after bad ones
That helps us forget
The last thing

I am still living breathing
It is gratifying
How human is still a thing

is my heart still beating
And it always for me.
monique ezeh Feb 2020
I was always so afraid that the monster would get me.

I’d hide under the bed, breath held silent while my heart thumped in my throat, and

Wait. And

Wait. And


Then I’d hear it: the soft
pat pat pat
Of feet nearing me.
Tears blurring my eyes, fighting to keep the whimpers down, I’d


Then he’d arrive, bearing sharp teeth and pale skin and eyes full of malice.
He never hurt me the way I expected (teeth, blood, the works).
It was always hands on my throat; the air would leave my lungs and I’d feel my trachea collapsing, plum-colored bruises taking shape on my neck as I felt the life leaving my body.
At the last second, I’d feel the air rush back in.
Sit up straight in bed.
Wipe the tears I didn’t feel myself cry.
Stare at the wall. And


I could never escape it, not in any real way.
I tried hiding in the bathroom. The closet. Under the covers. Sometimes I’d even try to run—
It always ended the same way.
Until he stopped coming.
(I wonder if he ever really did stop, though.)
Sometimes, I find myself sitting up straight in bed, wiping tear-stained cheeks, gaze locked in The Great Stare. And I


In the dreamland between conscious and un-, I wonder what caused me to wake. But then I hear it:

pat pat pat

I used to have a recurring nightmare that a vampire-esque monster would get me. I had the nightmare several times a week for many years (which one can imagine being very troubling for a second-grader). More than the monster itself, the fear was in the waiting and the inevitability of its return. I always wonder how the monster manifests in my life now; I almost miss the comfort of being able to put a face to the danger.
Ashlyn Yoshida Feb 2020
get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out  out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them  out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them  out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out get them out
I don't belong here.
get them out
Dani Jan 2020
The song plays on
Though it scratches itself up
Playing on repeat over and over again
The same old beat
The same old lyrics
Singing away
The words had stopped making sense
Long ago
Still it keeps playing the same song
It keeps doing the same things
Nothing has changed
How can I expect a broken record
To fix my life?
Izlecan Jul 2019
Attires of a closer regime,
Closed in on the muddling assets
of a light,
On a dead end street,
Through a meandering
There’s an eventful animus.
Past eleven,
“To lobby is to redeem,
For I sin and repeatedly sin.”
Only by 1 and only through one
Single flock of wind-blown sediment,
man acknowledges life and
It’s dreadful stripe,
Laid upon a landscape;
Full of faux images of random schemes.
Well, there the ongoingness goes
Of moments that are no way chronologic
Where one plaster over another
Seems like a perfect match.
When the clock strikes to 3
Merely a sigh passes along,
Yet another minute,
On the cold street
The light knows no acuity at all.
It means for another tick,
Yet does not wait for the tock;
There lies 3 hour worth concurrence,
Confronted for each tock, for half a minute,
But only the seconds pass.
And with each skip that matters,
and only that matters nevertheless,
The clock goes back to
There(!) the gutter calls for another drink,
For another trace
On another strike.
However mournfully,
Escort of a humanly maze,
The muddling sort,
Births confusion.
The attires seem gone by now.
The heaves; quite impeccable,
The path adopts another protest,
For a much tackled breathing
Time overlaps,dreamily,
On a spectrum,
Laying as a single faceted imposture;
Mocking a postering of shed upon the pavement.
For another street that seemingly differs;
where the marching will always depend
Solely on the counts of seconds
By the potency of motives
That merges as to defy
The years accounted
On the flesh and bone.
Now there goes another strike,
Audible over the plane
It carries on as
“To lobby is to redeem
For I sin
And sin
And sin
On a 3-hour worth strike,
Starting at 11
Over another man’s bearing.”
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