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She stands, it calls her
From the cold and damp, stale air
These walls - a cage now
Orange flowers a scatter
Past the plethora
To the quiet green, she moves
Shadowed sussurus
Of leaves, root and soil afoot
They whisper. She stops,
And settles into the grass
Her eyes, blinking slow
Cool gusts move
through her fingers

Softly, she exhales
She didn't know she'd withheld
That breath -
Now a tear
A poem about escaping what’s heavy and letting the earth hold some of it for you.
Sometimes healing starts with a whisper through the trees—and a breath you didn’t know you’d been holding.
I must look ridiculous
to these other café patrons—
just a woman with orange-dyed hair
blinking back stubborn tears,
trying not to cry
into her honey, lemon, and ginger.

But I sit there, half-failing
to maintain my composure.
I look anywhere else—
up at the ceiling,
out the window,
trying not to meet anyone’s eyes.

These tears dare to seep,
but this sadness needs to steep—
not pour.
Or else they'll overflow
in overwhelm.
I must take the helm.

So I take a sip:
that warm, sweet bitterness
rights the ship.
And the gentle calm
soaks back in.
They may glance over and wonder
What must be on her phone
To evoke such emotion?

Oh, don't mind me
I'm just writing poetry
about a silly girl,
and her hopes for understanding
Falling onto deaf ears yet again
and again,
and again,
and again
One more long swill
A sharp intake of breath
They prickle at my eyes,
Again

My teacup is empty -
I think I'll need another ***
For the sake of my sanity
I cannot let them see it pour
For a flood, an empty teacup
Has begot
A poem about writing a poem in a café – literally TODAY, trying not to cry. It's about holding it together when your heart is steeping in too much.
Warmth, near-overwhelm, and one more *** of tea.
My precious velvet donkey,
my dreamt plush toy, pure poetry,
a  cotton skin, so soft.
As tender as a warm cloud,
that dreamlike Platero, pure jet black,
as sweet as an angel's sky.
Oh, to have a Platero in my life,
to walk beside me in green meadows,
to mingle among wildflowers,
to lie down with me, to be my friend.
Oh, to have such a sweet little donkey in paradise,
all beauty and tenderness, love in its purest form,
to caress you and feed you,
ambrosia for my friend.
Together through the world of perfumed earth,
trotting in nature's heaven.
How I wish I could have held you
in my lap,
my little donkey,
together
in that world.
A gentle world,
where all is good,
in the world of my dreams,
where we are all so happy,
where that other Platero and I reside.

---
Mi precioso burrito de terciopelo,
mi peluche soñado, pura poesía,
piel de algodón, tan suave.
Tan tierno como una nube cálida,
ese soñado Platero, puro azabache,
tan dulce como el cielo de ángeles.
Quién tuviera un Platero en mi vida,
que me acompañara en verdes prados,
que se confundiera con flores silvestres,
que se recostara conmigo, que fuera mi amigo.
Quién tuviera un burrito, tan dulce, en el paraíso,
todo bello y tierno, el amor en estado puro,
para acariciarte, y darte de comer,
ambrosía para mi amigo.
Juntos por el mundo de la tierra perfumada,
trotando en ese cielo de la naturaleza.
Ojalá te hubiera podido recostar
conmigo en mi regazo,
con mi burrito,
juntos
en ese mundo.
Un mundo amable,
donde todo es bueno,
en el mundo de mis sueños,
donde todos somos tan felices,
donde vive ese otro Platero y yo.
lisagrace Jul 17
The woman scrolls her usual scroll, not looking for anything in particular....then she sees it - not perpendicular.
Ethereal,
Quintessential.

Moons and stars and coloured gems all
glinting in the afternoon light.
The woman afixes them to her curtain rail
The girl gasps - her eyes wide.
Rainbows danced across the walls, a shifting, sparkling tide.

She breathes. She is delighted.
It's such a little thing, she knows,
The girl and I -
She is me and I am She.
The girl did not die in the fire

She stepped out, glazed with gold.
She still gasps at rainbows on the wall—
proof that wonder never grows old.
A soft reminder that it's okay to be a child at heart.
Sometimes healing means letting yourself play, notice, and believe—just like before.
Broken Halos Jun 27
They didn’t quite know how to express it, but deep inside, they, too, were afraid of losing someone they love. Pride often stood in the way, a shield built from past pain and lessons learned the hard way. They had always promised themselves never to repeat the mistakes of their past, never to be as vulnerable as before.

There was a longing in them, a quiet desire to know what it felt like to be cared for deeply, to be love like a child for once. But in trying to protect themselves, they may have gone too far. The very walls they built to keep heartbreak out had begun to suffocate those who tried to get close.

They didn’t regret building those walls; they were necessary, a form of survival. But a part of them did wonder, had they shut out the very experience they longed for? The chance to be loved for who they truly were? Perhaps. And yet, even with that bittersweet truth, they carried on, not with bitterness, but with acceptance. For now, that was enough.

N O I R
My thoughts lately
Lance Remir May 27
Those soft, delicate hands of yours

That once held me with such love and care

Wrapped me with such warmth and safety

That felt small and fragile when held by me

Those slender fingers fitting perfectly in mine

Tracing my face and lips with eagerness

Tapping me to wake up for a morning kiss

Caressing me for our nightly love

Those soft, delicate hands of yours

I can still feel them after all this time

Wishing that I held them a bit longer
Gentle breeze,
Softness that touches ears.
It comes and goes.
It does what shows.
It is mutual.
It brings scents of sweetness,
Or brings clouds of death.
But to tell why,
You may hold your breath.
Do not worry,
It is not what’s due.
Love in patience,
Will always- walk back to you.
I stopped listening to songs
with bridges—
they always begged.

I shrunk my appetite
until it fit inside
your gaze.

Then I shrunk
my gaze.

I killed the part of me
that expected softness.

She died
like a deer:
slow,
staring,
unconvinced
until the end.

I buried all of it
in poems
and told myself
that was healing.

But I check
the dirt
sometimes.

And things
move.
Ronit Apr 20
I heard the other day that you went to touch the blue horizons, riding the lonely waves.
I heard the other day you were walking along the endless shores, stretched across for miles upon miles.
Leaving only your solitary footsteps behind ...

I have never seen these shores, never glided on the blues.
Never caught a glimpse of the vastness that embraces eternity with such grace.
Never for a second in the life of a singular eternity have I thought that maybe, just maybe, serene feelings lie in simplicity.
So, next time, when you go to the and walk along the endless shores to meet the horizon,
Will you take me along? ...

It's just that I've been thinking recently.
How, from the beginning, we are rigged to self-destruct.
How much we yearn for oblivion with every atom in our flesh and blood.
Yet, we never think for a moment about these footprints we leave behind.
And our parting sighs ..

If you look at me now.
Sleepless nights, bloodshot eyes, weary soul, and still trying to reconnect.
But you were always beyond my reach, always up so high.
Endless foolish attempts of mine to reach you among the stars.
But everytime I have overlooked one simple fact.
That you have always belonged to the sky ...

Live on, and keep dreaming on.
These self-centric lifestyles, mine and yours, ours and theirs, closer and torn apart.
If this is the definition of love,
Why am I fighting for peace? ...

But I heard that you still dream, still write stories, poems, and songs about all of us.
Chant music of the olden days from the depths of your soul.
The saga of human existence still makes you think that love still blossoms.
In the far corners of this world, like a still blooming rose.
So, the next time, when you write another song about the love that still blossoms,
Will you write some lines about me? ...

You should write something beautiful, something only a foolish romantic would say.
"Hold my hand close in the middle of a crowded street, and maybe I will reconnect."
So that I can answer you with this,
"Make me believe in closure again, and maybe I will again look at your face." ...

If it's not too much trouble, can we just talk all night?
Just you and I?
Until the stars cross our paths,
And sing us a lullaby? ...

I heard that you still wait for the end of the eons at the edge of eternity.
Still watch the starry skies on melancholy evenings with the eyes where the horizon finally came to rest.
I have never seen this edge before, nor have I seen such evenings.
So, the next time when you go there,
Will you invite me? ...

Maybe we will watch the starry explosions in the sky.
The end of everything on a melancholy evening,

With your hand in mine? ...
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