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Spike Harper Oct 11
What has changed.
Surely it must be plain to see.
Rooting oneself in anything but this moment.
Is one way to certainly spell disappointment.
Too many days spent autographing pages.
Like a name makes the man.
Or perhaps.
So that the past can only condemn its owner.
Destined to be a heretic of life itself.
A hidden transgression cant hurt those it does not reach.
Then why is it chained through the bone.
Chasing daylight like the moon.
Slowly the wound festers deep and driven.
Don't you know.
These ailments take on a mind for themselves.
why else would we create them if not to one day speak.
It is the stone that shatters a paradigm.
The avalanche brought down by a whisper.
Or rather a whimper.
Yet there can be no tears here.
Not when this creations time was set.
Don't be fooled by negligence wearing the mask of ignorance.
But first its time to put down the blame.
For there is no one else in the room....
...And that laughing was beginning to irritate.
tarma-de Sep 28
Smoke dissipates all throughout Lerma street as stores close down. Everything went by quickly. I could witness the poor souls imagining the endless traffic on their way back home. Life is a fleeting sensation; it commands us to think about the things we might miss along the journey. Perhaps the spit and trash scattered on the asphalt serve as marks for the other individual to remember — that someone used to be there. It should be the case.

I'm starting to accept that we are mere vapor and gone in the next moment. Maybe I'll regret not taking the chance when it's right in front of me. Maybe I'm just tired. Maybe the worst thing about time is it never slows down enough for me to catch my breath.
everyday.
fray narte Sep 24
this is how i'll let you go:

i'll open our photo albums for the last time, touch the yellow edges where your body ends, and not get drunk on what we could have been. i will wipe the coffee stains you left in perfect circles; sometimes, i pretend that they had the color of your eyes when the sunlight hits them. i will scrub your fingerprints off my spine; it's time for them to let me go too — slower, gentler than the way you did.

i will pass by your street, and not send you a bunch of paper rings engraved with all my overused metaphors. i will not hope you'll chase after me, wearing them over the promises we've broken, and over the promises we're yet to break. i will stay up late; midnights are somehow still for missing you, but i won't be writing anything. and we both know it kills me — not writing poems about you, when loving you and losing you are the closest things i ever got to call poetry.

instead, i'll hold on tight on every word that spills out of my mouth, seal them all in a trinket box buried in some place where we let romance die. i will fall asleep next to our cemeteries, wet from the rains we made; i might wake up at 3 am and not think of calling you. and i will wake up at 7 am, when it's still raining, and i will watch the early morning thunderstorms, and i won't wish you're back with it. i will sit there, free from the damp coffee stains and from the traces of your kiss. my tailbone will no longer recall the intricacy found in your fingerprints, and my eyes — they will have forgotten if yours were cobalt or turquoise or electric blue, 'cause darling, maybe it's too late to make you love me again, but it's not too late love myself.
fray narte Sep 23
I know I have been okay for a while now, but it feels odd — not knowing how to handle being okay. I have been held captive by the emptiness — the kind that consumes you from the inside out. I have been that girl, trapped in a skin, and my wrists have become the walls she scratches whenever she tries to escape.

I have fallen apart with sunsets to déjà vus I have long forgotten, and my brain — it has become Eris incarnate and my body — her armless prey, walking willingly into her trap. I have been Ophelia, tiptoeing on a willow tree and drowning in a lake of deep, black butterflies. So being okay and all this — it doesn't feel right at all, and maybe it's possible to despair for sadness. Maybe it's possible to morph with the darkness I thought I wanted to escape. Maybe it's possible to ache for self-destruction with an intensity I've never known before.. I no longer know what's wrong with my brain, but maybe it's possible to feel so lost, so broken, so messed up for so long — that being whole feels like a mistake.
Dagen Kipling Sep 22
pen slipped
ink spilled

    dripping onto a blank canvas
begging to be filled

    cover her with with words and ideas
force yourself to stop, sit still

    let the creativity flow
absence from you, I feel ill.

     my muse please don’t go
without you, I have no skill.
fray narte Sep 20
I will love the me
that squeals over cat videos
even though she's not
a cat person,
the me that sings
Disney soundtracks
under the shower,
the me that makes coffee
and finally sits down
to read the piled-up books
that were bought last year.

I will love the me
that stays in bed
and eats chocolates
for breakfast after a night
of mental break down,
the me that drinks beer
and shares cigarettes
with tattooed strangers
in a rock concert,
the me that writes
generic poems, hoping they'll
harness the storms
brewed by her brain.


I will love these parts of me —
both the good and the bad,
the breeze and the hurricane,
the gentle rays and the glare.
I will love these parts of me,
equally, completely,
kindly, softly, gently,
with no guilt or shame.
I will love these parts of me
with tenderness, and, patience
and understanding and care.

I will love these parts of me,
the way they deserve to be loved.
Afiqah Sep 19
life is this crazy
whirlwind
of morphing, wistful colors
sometimes,
it simply just sets
your very soul introvertively
as life’s dealings slowly
maturate and stretches you on

-a.
e Sep 14
i don’t know
how to admit
that i’m losing
the fight

and that
i can’t do this
alone
fray narte Sep 13
There were midnights when I could still tell you about my dreams. Of course, they were always about us — marvelling at the colors of the sky. With you, standing under the sun and getting lost in the afterglows and collapsing with the black holes sounded romantic. One night, I would dream about reading the books we collected together. Other nights, I would dream of kissing the tips of your lashes inside our blanket forts in terry cloth robes and Birth of Venus and Starry Night socks. Regardless, we would be up at 5 am — you with your whole bean coffee, listening to the tales authored in my sleep.

Except that in my dreams, it still feels like her instead of you. It always does. So tonight, I hope you keep yourself warm and touch the dream catcher tattoo on your nape and not think of me anymore. I know that I'm the reason for your sleepless night and memories dressed in nightmares, but tonight, I hope that you go back to sleep and no longer dream of the love I fabricated. And when it's 5 am, I hope you realize that you need something a little better than my dreams. I hope you brew your coffee to the right strength and no longer look at where I used to sit to tell you my daytime stories. So go back to sleep now. You'll be okay — without the what if's and the dreams and the happy ending written in our name. You'll be okay, darling.

You'll be okay without me.
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