Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Glenn Currier Jan 30
I have spent so much energy, time and money
avoiding pain
not realizing that it is a gift
its own reward
only earned
by enduring it
securing it

Can’t get it just by sitting

But I can earn it
by listening
The crime
is not taking time
pain is earned
with time spent
with the climb
into someone’s tortured heart.

Pain must not be spurned
it must be earned.
Author’s Note: With gratitude to Jason for his poem, “Chained,”
Naveen Malhotra Dec 2020
The legend has it
All Pandavas went to hell
Except Yudhishthira
Only Yudhishthira deserved heaven alongwith his dog
Was dog Yudhishthira's alter ego?
One may ponder over it
The rest four went to hell
Despite for justice they fought and dwelled
The four great men had to commit some sins
For getting justice and win
Now think of the era I live
Sins over sins do we commit?
The way to heaven must be through hell
In Kaliyuga my commonsense tells!
better things are to come
just hold on my love
as there is great reward in patience
and you, my dear, have been waiting
for what may seem like forever
but will one day be distant memories of suffering
that are matched with heaps of joy and love
Blind Pathos Sep 2020
Untitled because it is not about any one thing. It is of the stuff written about, untamed, undiscovered… un yet. That which is just beyond. Before the hand reaches it, before the eye sees, before the mind pours it into the shape that is comprehensible. It is pure. It is debauched. It is half and complete. It is the blind mice playing a symphony with small instruments in Schrödinger's black box where he suspects a cat to be. It is the mother of “Ah Ha” and the father of “Eureka” that is this tear.

Be neither this nor that
He nor she thin or fat
Be and being not
From any given lot

That grail of poetry
That makes it be
This lightless paint
What tis and taint

Who may choose may
Find who chooses say
It choose me instead
I am and was dead

Be rabbit or sacred star
Do I follow and how far
If I am weary I resume
My fleshy wick consumed

So big… yet so small
So… yet… so it is all
Great be in my being again
Now at least I have been
Arrogance is required to write on a perfectly white piece of paper. Creative acts require the timid mouse to leave his house and gamble his life for more.
Kelly Mistry Aug 2020
As I approach the edge
Of awareness
Danger flashes!
A veil of flame
You risk burning fingers here

Crushed by the weight of the past

Once invisible worlds that shimmer
Just out of focus
Beyond the veil

What draws me near?
Why do I risk burning?

I have not always felt the lie so clearly
But as I learn and explore my world
The shallowness of my existence has been plumbed
Found wanting

It doesn’t match the world that others see

To see their worlds
I must
Walk through the fiery veil
        To connect
        To love
        To fit the pieces of their worlds and mine together

Now I pity those I was once like
Trapped in their small worlds
Blinded eyes
Plugged ears
Wrapped in cotton

They don’t know what they don’t know
But a part of me knew
A part of them knows
And mourns

For the world that waits for them
Beyond the veil
Thinking about how I, as a white person, have benefited from doing anti-racist work; a big thing is relieving the cognitive dissonance that comes from your perspective of the world being frequently in conflict with non-white people, especially distressing and confusing when its in conflict with friends and family
Fheyra May 2020
Applause to this object
A star to look up,—
But stands lower than a house
Who gathered all the fantasies— of hopeless travellers,— Which seek for devoted fancies.

Sparkling garlands,—
Simply, a life of itch
Flashlights everywhere on the platform,— Inutile to its basis
I memorize the trades of their toasts—
One day, I shall have my own boast.

After wiping spots on gold bars,—
I am still not a debauchee of love;
Even if they buzz,— Beehives— Are not mine to offer,—
But a gourmet to their stomach.

Assets clothing their merchants—
Reserving the furnitures—
To show the best features
For myself, I want a slammed window,—
Not some firm statues
"Galatea, we all desire Galatea!"

How adorable when 'twas knotted,
Lovely, but not loved,
Sheltered, yet not protected;
Paid, but not proclaimed
How many landlords will adapt me?

There is a target—
To a sudden stampede—
Oh, how startling!
Please, capture me
I will submit to your traps!
This bird is willing to be caged— Away!
I may now have my arrows— To run the bay!
Flipped death is my reward..
We do neither want to be objectified nor sold. Everyone is priceless, especially our lives.
Madison Apr 2020
When you find
that we are lost
nobody owes concern
direction is guided
by open eyes
the reward
unfurled wings
Nat Lipstadt Mar 2020
“My reasons for writing had to be my own, divorced from expectation.
There would be no reward.”

Ta-Nehisi Coates, “We Were Eight Years in Power”


certain words, hers, previous unknown, or, better,
not yet your own,
acquire your devotion, all the my oh my of possessed tenses,
words ironic, for they are the shoving of contrary adhesive separators,
AC/DC currents running together, a single physical electric stabbing,
owning you, but gulfing away those customized,
prized illusions yet kept,
freeing finally by focusing on the single commandment that matters:

Expect nothing, but write, knowing the only reward,
is the satisfying of self-imposed goals and conditions,
that are will always be,
one more step and edit away from attainable, maybe.

My reasons, my illogical reasonings, admixture of anguished highs and loving lowlights,
a porridge of seeds that need burying to be borne,
in soil of a soiled soul, write to breathe, write to see, write to taste,
write to smell, write to hear my voice say,
not good enough,
even when it might be, just, barely, though that bar is a
moving target,

a perpetual notch too high.

My reward for acknowledging, accepting, no denying, freeing, finally,

There would be no reward

11:02 Sabbath
February 22, 2020
from deep in the internal confessional
Next page