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Coleen Mzarriz Aug 2023
A little crumpled.
Fold it in half.
A bit dry from the crevasses of its body,
still, it’s a blank slate.

There’s a table placed beside it.
A warm chocolate milk on the right side of the table, the rain poured, and winds blew.
A pale hand reaching for it.
Skin like ivory, laced with thick, intensifying wires all over her body.
It connects, and there’s a pulse.

A pull.
Observed from his perspective, there’s a gravity,
it is a button, or power itself.

Drained.
Whether from the weather or words born with swords.

Birth.
It’s a little crumpled,
folded into eight shapes.
He bled as a form of escape
and she drank her warm chocolate milk.
Alongside it, there was filth.
I have been writing for years and it became who I am today. but sometimes, there are words and metaphors I cannot write and it frustrates me, not being able to write something. not being able to explain it in such a manner that it will come as beautiful, pleasing, warm, and genuine.

but today, I tried.
I S A A C Apr 2022
so many choices, I am riddled with doubt
eight of cups, which one is the one

so many chances, I am riddled with dread
eight of pentacles, build myself up again

so many crooks, I am riddled with trepidation
eight of swords, I feel powerless just waiting

so many critics, I am riddled with consternation
eight of wands, I knew you were coming all along
jǫrð Dec 2020
Brought the 62
Eight of Swords burned in carpet
Told me you'd bound me
The History: 'If circumstances were different' but they're not.
Lane O Aug 2020
Words can strike like swords,
leaving wounds that time can't heal;
They scar the heart and soul,
more so than iron or steel.
April Aug 2020
Flashes of steel and
Whispers of sound
Tramping of footsteps on
Rain- muddied ground

Pounding of heartbeats
And gasping of breath
Small sounds of life under
Shadow of death
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