Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Alex McQuate Jan 6
What will that day be like,
When the ink finally runs dry?
When the gas runs out of that gas station lighter,
When those remote batteries finally die?

Will the muse dry up,
Or will passion finally run out,
Fizzling like a sparkler at its base?

When will it go,
Will it be on a bus one day,
A startling realization,
Or something that can be seen far off?

If that's the case,
Will it come after some magnum opus,
Planned out in excruciating detail?
Or will it go out in a rapid fire of words,
A race against time to put letters on the page,
A desperate act of the unprepared?
Man of the Hour- Eddie Vedder
Filomena Aug 2022
Ruminating
Vividly

Insidious
Mentality

Anachronistic
Philosophy­

Schizophrenic
Witchery
Psych ward poetry.
Set 3, poem 28.
Allesha Eman Jun 2022
What becomes of these fleeting reunions?
Do they wash away with the sea salted sand
and becomes fragments of a conversation once had
Do they transform into the sugar in your coffee,
or the honey in your tea,
and compel you to never forget about me?
Or do they live in this rustling wind
that picks fights with your consciousness
and leaves you in a state of rumination
between the present and the past?
Allesha Eman May 2022
Do you remember when tunneling ravines would flow through our stomachs before we spoke out into the open?
And how vigorously tapping our feet felt like the only way to shake the mountains, daring to bury us alive...
or how when cold shoulders felt like judgment harmonized
and yet the dissonance euphonized in our ears as we swept our heads back into the open arms of the universe,
engulfed by inescapable laughter  

Now things are different; you wear your heart on your sleeve, washing the shores of people and things that scare you with your perpetual confidence,

and I proudly observe in wonder and admiration...

Distantly tapping my feet, fighting ravines, and laughing alone.
Osiria Melody Jul 2021
I write best when depressed.
When the world is a King and I a jest,
I boldly seize my madness and
Scream at the ceiling fan.

I write best when caressed.
When the love is a Queen and I a dream,
I boldly seize my madness and
Scream at my browning tan.

I write best when obsessed.
When the world is obscene and I a modest screen,
I boldly seize my madness and
Scream at your 20th beer can.


—M.
07/29/21 @ 12:00 a.m.
:)
Mikko Mar 2021
It leaves its handprints on all that I see,
and tarnishes all I touch with poison
Feeds depression like a maggot, to deepen
this cursed mire that is my place to be
It snatches my thoughts away from all glee,
and I wish I would vanish, be hidden
And alone long for a secret Eden,
for a decade it has tormented me

It told me: ”You will never have a hand
to hold, nor starry eyes to madly love
Alone you'll stay, you're too broken, cautious
Your spirit forever burns with my brand,
there will be no olive branch, no sweet dove”
Thus spoke the cold, dead void called Loneliness
Written sometime in October 2016 after an all-encompassing, amazingly crushing sensation of loneliness.
Steven Dec 2020
let me not dwell on things i lost, forgot.
who gains from memories of memories fought?
Nonah Dec 2020
The wind rushes by
With an unseen push
Of an untouched sound
In the dark December sky

The trees speak to me
In the cold raking air
Branches outstretched
Like fingers through hair

Yet I do not understand
What it is they try to say
But I find littered leaves
Evidence, found in day

The wind yet pushes by
A pressure on the soul
To whisper long lost secrets
Trapped in a currents pull
Allesha Eman Oct 2020
I found that the cracks in my skin began to heal whenever the moonlight lingered by my window,
during the nights when I let the wind bring in its cooling remedies.

I would sit still, lost in my head,  
With a storm brewing in my swollen heart,
Ruminating as I opened my eyes,  
And I watched the dainty fabric of my curtains as they danced with the cold breeze.
Slowly sunlight leaked into the sky as birds sang their delicate songs,

And I found my restlessness fast asleep on my palms.
For a moment, time was standing still and I was...

healing.
lua May 2020
the sun goes by, and it sets
as we lie and ruminate
in empty rooms inside our heads
and the days come late
while the nights draw near
we run in circles on the hands of fate
as we eat our fears
one by one
the moon goes by, and it sets
the days are gone
nothing but whispered threats
but we draw blood
and it drips
on soil and mud
during crashed road trips
to a destination that dies
as we grow close
and it splits,
divides
crossroads.
Next page