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Chrys 8h
People look to me to solve their problems
Fix their lives, make everything okay
But what if I myself am a puzzle
An unsolvable equation
Then who gets to fix me?
rooftops are where you forgot about me.
you were up so high—
you didn't think to look down at my face.
while you were on rooftops,
i was kneeling on the ground,
wondering when you'd return.
but you simply glanced over the precipice,
knowing full well, that
you were never coming back.
A close friend of mine spent 4th of July watching fireworks with her other friend on his rooftop. Her not celebrating the holiday with me hurt me more than I care to admit.
A Poem is a Soul

Give them a voice
For they all want to hear
But I could only fear
What if the voice is not fair
Then the voice will vanish
Vanish to thin air
Let it crumble
For those who hear
Let them hear
For they have ears

The voice is my Poem
Don't let it fall
Because your view is all
Let your expectations be tall
Read and learn
So that I can earn
If my hardwork is not enough
What does it make it then?

A voice for a lawyer is words
For a doctor is knowledge
For the people is a story
But for a writer is a Soul
A drop of an ink
His what make a soul sink
For a reader to feel the link
Don't make my sadness leak
Take my voice to the farthest seas

I want to be heard
So I could see many heads
I don't want fame
I just want to make a name
They ask me what trigger a writer
It is a story
That which they live in
And that which I am living in

In my story
They gave me silence  
When I begged for sound
They gave me crumbs  
When I was bleeding for bread  
So I learned to write  
With the ink of my own suffering
Now they all listen
Now they all want a poem

I will show you a poem
A Poem that is me
For the voice is me
And I will let it be
A voice is not something we see
But something we feel
A Poem is a sea
As deep as a eye can't see

They say am wasting
But my time is waiting
A day I will show them
That I am winning
I will be living
They will be seeing
For I am the sky
That show where their regret lies
I want this poem to not only be known but to also be inspiring to other poets out there. I am not alone and I want others to know the struggle of other poets
Alez 2d
In this life
it would be nice
to have the certainty
that our struggles
have a purpose
When nature's inhalation
whips up storms,
  We are set in stone monoliths.

Carefully carved intricate marks
decorate our walls; unfinished
since we must finish etching them
   Together.

Heed lightning cracks its
own violent tremor into
   Our stone walls.

Still! Winds will tear and maul
rains will erupt and slaughter
then give way to bright sky
   and deadly clear horizons;

reflecting back to us
our own trailing ripple
   of increasingly clear syllables.

Each etched now in our walls.
Mother printed the first
symbol, a delicate addition
first of many, now forming
sprawling racing lines.
Strung together, from the
    inside.

And the monoliths stand tall
and we bare storm
   and choose together.
Side B
There are shadows
that don’t need light to exist.

They find me
in the stillness—
no footsteps,
just the pressure of presence.

A sharpness,
like something once broken
still echoing through the body.

The pain isn’t always real.
But it’s always there.

Ghost fingers,
tight around the heart.
Scars that never bled.
Memories I never chose to keep.

I don’t speak of it.
Not because I can’t.
Because I don’t know how to name
what has no face.

But somewhere,
between each phantom ache
and the silence that follows,
a flicker stirs—
thin, but alive.

And I follow it.
Even if I don’t know where it leads.
Emotions on paper,                                                           ­                                 letting  it all out                                                          ­                                   Just  like a falling tear,                                                            ­                                  it's quieter than a shout                                                            ­       Raining  and raging,                                                          ­                        get  out of my head                                                             ­                                    There  is no caging,                                                          ­                                    this hunger needs fed                                                              ­                     Freeing and cleansing,                                                       ­                              washing it all away                                                             ­                              This is never ending,                                                          ­                                    a ritual I do every day                                                              ­                   Scribbling  in pencil,                                                          ­                           I'm  pressured to get it out                                                              ­           I know it's only mental,                                                          ­                        but quieter than a shout
Feyre Jun 20
writing and scribbling and scrawling down my all thoughts,
each and every
dark and sinister alley twisting in the curves and
    crevices
of my mind.
dusty, hidden corners filled with filth -
hidden by the shadows of my
    weighted self.
sometimes my mind feels like it's rotting
AJ Jun 8
They call life a rollercoaster ride,
A thrill, a loop, a drop, a glide
But I don’t see the tracks they praise,
This isn’t thrill, it’s endless maze

A coaster ends, its path is known,
Predictable, it brings you home
But with life, where is the end in sight?
Where’s the design? Where is the right?

Life is no ride, it’s far more tight,
A chain that binds, a heavy plight
They claim I choose my steps, my way,
But choices don’t exist today

The ones around me shift the ground,
They twist my fate without a sound
You say, “It’s worth it,” from below,
But from where I stand, you do not know

My life began not with a stride,
But clinging to a mountainside
Where others stepped from stone to stone,
I climbed a cliff face, all alone

So tell me now, what hope remains
For one who scaled such sharp terrains?
I’m near the peak, with frozen breath,
Yet nothing here resembles rest

I see them laughing down below,
Their paths laid out in gentle flow
While I hang bruised with aching grip,
Each moment feels my fingers slip

This summit isn’t what I chose,
It’s just the path that hardship froze
I climbed because I had no say,
Because the world carved out that way

And though the peak is cold and bare,
At least it feels like something there
To leap back down, no solid plan,
Too far I’ve come, too weak I am

The coat I wear is thin, worn through,
It holds no heat, but hides the blue
And though I dream of stepping stones,
I know the price would break my bones

I’ve built a shelter on this height,
The mountain holds me through the night
It cradles me, yet keeps me bound,
Above the life I never found

And still, I watch the ones below,
Their lighter lives, their steady flow
And wonder, softly, with regret,
At all the things I never met
Shadow Jun 15
Would a board game without a goal
Still be one you'd consider playing
That seems to be the reality of existence
Obliviously wandering in hopes of purpose
Without any evidence of its confirmation
Then who's to say which path is truly right
When the destination is the same on both ends
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