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LastSun Apr 2
Why does the story not end?
Don’t you long to know its final breath, oh Sun?
How many words must still be spoken,
How many must still bleed onto the page?

The story is eternal,
Flowing like the tide of time,
Like the ichor of gods and the blood of mortals.
It breathes like a wish,
Drifts like a whisper,
And soars like a bird unchained.

It watches me with the eyes of the abyss,
Loves me with the touch of death.
It lingers in the spaces between silence and sound,
Between memory and forgetting.

As long as I read, it lives.
As long as I listen, it speaks.
No end, no chains, no grave to rest in.
I am the reader—
And so the story walks with me,
Unbound by time.
Linden Lark Mar 27
Do you ever feel like your story is being written for you?
Maybe that’s why I write—
because when I look down, at least I know it’s mine.

How did I get so lost,
so far from what was once so bright?

Page after page keeps turning,
but my pen ran out of ink long ago.
Time keeps passing,
but the story unfolding isn’t me.

Maybe my story was never mine.
Maybe it belongs to someone else.
Maybe I’m just a book collecting dust
on a stranger’s shelf.

Maybe that’s why I write—
so that somewhere, buried in those pages,
there is at least one part
that is undeniably mine.
Emery Feine Mar 27
I am not accustomed to feelings of longing
As it is now not from a person

I stand on the creaking logs in the middle of a swamp's river
Balancing to remain afloat

I watch from a distance
Sitting on my rain cloud
As my acid raindrops on your safe haven homeland

I have hidden my heart under these planks
And the beating is like black and yellow sparks
Screaming in my ear
"Now,"
They shriek,
"Now."

I'm like an artist staring at a canvas
The rainbows swirl in my mind
But there is no shadow
There is no story.?

I watch the band from below
I shower them with photos
And they ask me to be there
Again and again

I watch from the wood
Longing to be in the rainbow rain
I describe the floorboards
Because that is all I know.
"And all I can sing about are the floorboards backstage." - SOFIA ISELLA
Piyush Mar 26
Locked inside the walls,
Sitting in the hall,
Trying to recall,
Yet I slip and fall.

What is it that inspires you?
What is it that desires you?
Is it inside these walls,
Or is it the outside calls?

Did I do something wrong?
Or have I been wrong all along?
Is it me who doesn’t belong,
Or is it the world that belongs?

The struggle is hard,
The game isn't fun,
But the process is an art,
And the player is one.

The inner voices ask,
"Am I done?"
The player removes the mask,
Killing himself with a gun.
Axus Mar 26
Bathed in moonlight's gentle caress,
Lost in the labyrinth, a maze of distress,
On life's twisted path, I falter,
Each step, a burden on my silent altar.

The cold breeze whispers secrets, "Shiver," it sighs,
Heavy limbs trudge through night's dark disguise,
Shadows cling with sorrow's icy embrace,
Ensnaring my spirit in this barren space.

In the distance, a flickering beacon I glimpse,
Its ethereal glow, a whisper urging me to wince.
Guided by its glow, a wary step I take,
Closer, my fears recede with each move I make.

A solitary firefly, sparking the garden of the night,
With twinkling radiance, it invites me to take flight,
Dancing through foliage, leading with its luminous dance,
Towards a hopeful morrow, where fears trance.

Through winding tunnels, where shadows twirl,
Deep within the cave, where mysteries swirl,
An exit blooms with lights so bright,
A golden aura, guiding to realms unseen in light.

To the exit, I find myself, enchanted with delight,
Amidst myriad fireflies, painting the dim night,
They sing with their soft luminescence, a celestial melody,
I join their harmony, feeling my spirit soar free.

In the garden of fireflies, where dreams softly trace,
A promised visit, seeking its own space.
Their ethereal dance inspires, a vow to keep,
To return to my garden, where wishes deeply sleep.

I extend my hand, they swarm, aglow on my palm,
A vow affirmed, in their tranquil charm,
Easing burdens, lifting weary limbs,
As we voyage towards dreams' uncharted whims.

Taking humanoid form, they whisper tenderly,
"Meet us again in your garden, where dreams roam free, endlessly,
Where wishes unfurl, and dreams bestow,
Together, we'll bathe it in our gentle glow."
In your garden of dreams.

The alarm softly stirs me from sleep's gentle hold,
Yet its beauty lingers, a beacon of hope untold.
Today feels different, as I rise from my bed,
With newfound friends and dreams ahead.
Steve Page Mar 25
Turn the page clockwise,
a full one-eighty degrees. 
 
Any further and you’ll lose perspective.  
Any less and you’ll slip back.  

That’s not irretrievable,
and you’ll probably
have an opportunity to re-cover.
You might re-live and re-peat,
but if you make it a habit,
you’ll get stuck in a loop
never breaking out of the prologue.

Stick to the clockwise-one-eighty approach
and you’ll myth like a Makar.
You’ll story, fable and yarn.
You’ll chronicle and tale.
You’ll saga.  

That is what we call a true page turner.
[Not sure what that's all about - but we'll see where it takes us.]
Archer Mar 23
The Duality of Man,
may very well be
The Singularity of Man.
I have been writing a story
but don’t know how it ends

It has 20 pages of nonsense
and it could use some help

You might not like it so far
I haven’t gotten to the good part yet

But if you stick around you
may find yourself within those pages

And our story might be
the greatest
J Bjork Mar 18
She wakes up every morning
with a frown on her face
as he stumbles from his bed
and into a chair that
he will never get out of-
there is tension in the air
as she downs another
exclaiming, "bottoms up"
when it makes her glass world
shatter
at the rise of a cup

All he can do is watch the pieces
as they become pronounced
while the shift of retreating cats
induces a pitter-patter
and more pictures fade out;
the happy memories
now stained
from her cigarette smoke
to ensure they'll die together,
yet somehow alone

He is cursed with a disease
that has rendered him pitiful
but alcohol doesn't care,
she drinks another swig,
becoming more cyclical
and deems the mans hindrance
as sinful

Stuttering, he can't escape
a liquid she's drowned him with
by pouring it into her own veins-
maybe it's better this way,
to watch the walls as they cave in

What else can he do
as he slowly degrades
from Parkinson's?
03/25
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