Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Just Grace Nov 2020
They said

her tongue is too big
for a pretty little mouth like that

They wanted to cut it
as if it will give me more freedom
Change my mind
Liberate my sleep

Then they said
tape your mouth shut
Rip it from your lips then
remember that sting every morning when you wake
Build up that grainy residue
So that no amount of scrubbing away will change anything

That raspy, hazy din of voice–
It’s not mine anymore when you let it invade your comfort

Whose grating is it then

when I bend and it works
Your move
then it just doesn’t?

I’ll rest in my autumn warmth
wait for the drowning of winter
then after
I will warn you of Spring
Courtney O Oct 2020
The pen casts a spell
to each of our little pains
Charged with our ache,
distills into peaceful stillness,
a final and blissful end
(Words indeed do save)
Humans saving humans,
this is true heaven, truly being blessed
sometimes,
it is leaving our words unspoken
that has our throats feeling choked,
it is at this point in time
when setting your words free
may be the only means
to setting yourself
free
Oskar Erikson Sep 2020
fear
he who reaches into
the core of a heart
and makes
its cavities
music.

AE Aug 2020
Your words rival the rain that washes the dust of yesterday off the streets,
They pull flocks of birds towards your speech,
And like maps of the largest cities
I dwell on them for days hoping to uncover every corner,
Even the petals of blooming flowers
Fly away prematurely to follow the words that rest on your tongue,
Because when you speak you pierce the atmosphere
With paper planes folded by your wisdom.
Your words are pungent, like mosaics of foreign colour,
They rest upon the palette of a dreamy painter,
Wistful in colour, even when you haven’t spoken at all.
Gunnika Mehra Jun 2020
The belt which holds your pants up,
The same belt holds my head high.
The game which you play at night,
The same game I deny.
The heels which I wear,
from them beware.
The make-up in my bag,
Is yet another instrument hiding my despair.
The smiles with which you greet me,
One day I will turn the tables Around.
Maybe today i ain't doing it,
But it doesn't mean that I wouldn't do it ever.
The day will come nd it will come soon.
Maybe you do not acknowledge me today,
But remember my day will come too.
It isn't only about what you did to me,
But what you did to hundreds out there.
Maybe it isn't daily that we speak up,
But the day we do can put behind the bars thousands of you.
(This poem is a message from a **** survivor to her rapists)
Dante Rocío Jun 2020
Must “speaking”
be only referred to
in the terms
of the humane apparatus of speech?
Isn’t it not only verbal?
Is it also feelings,
murmur of understatements fleeting,
trees and leaves
in a sage’s patience swaying,
child’s wailing,
Heart’s blazing?
Isn’t silence speaking too?
Wondering upon our beloved way of contact among us Poets
A R Sylvester Apr 2020
THE WORDS YOU                    CANNOT SAY
The words you cannot say
    Could possibly change the a day
Save a life
                 Change ones view --
      -- Away from that of which they thought they knew
      
The words you cannot say ..
                      
                 The wounds, you caused ,
Will not go away...

           You try but---
cannot turn away....
      For you're the cause of so much hardship and dismay----
---This may be the only way
                  To say that witch you cannot say---
         -----  They, may be the words you needed
to overcome the  memories that can't be deleted...

The feelings will be never depleted
   Unless you speak it ....
  

The words I cannot say
         Haunt me til this day...
Wishing  you could speak up. Or wanting to make a situation better  but  fearing that you will have the opposite effect
Marya123 Apr 2020
Why do words look better on a sheet,
When, from my mouth, they seem incomplete?
How is it they flow so well with ink?
If I try to speak them, I cannot think.
Will they transform, someday? From noise to sound?
If I voice words out there, will they be found?
Kvothe Apr 2020
A clipped voice,
slips noise-
lessly
into
the fray.

Yellow
and shaky.
Bland, I know.
I hate to
Say.

Butterfly
in a storm,
normally deep.
I crack,
lacking wingspan.

Headcave retreat.
Feet save
my mouth.
Because the wrong
thing ran.
How public speaking feels
Next page