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polina May 5
On a cold November evening, she met herself
Her reflection was shivering; confident,
Her lips cold; her smile warm
On a cold November evening, she saw herself

Her eyes sparkled with humor in time with the gentle dance of the snow,
Each snowflake a waltz reflecting her mood
And she asked herself, how did you get here, me?
How did you escape your cage?

And she answered, oh darling, I never did.
The cage simply outgrew me, and the iron bars scraped my arms
I hurt myself no longer, but I still hurt
And yet it was all worth it, to see that look in your eyes

On a cold November evening, she walked away
Those iron bars so far from her hopeful face -
A cage so big she didn’t understand how she could ever leave
And yet the phantom pain on her arms was a promise
That this wasn’t forever.
minisha Apr 28
Merely a ghost in the blue void,
flesh and blood kissed the lighthouse as
the silhouette of her beloved ship greeted her.
Yet stripped of his graze, she crumbled,
as guided by her vehement yearning and
cloaked in her gleam, he sailed closer,
but faded in the horizon forever.
this has been a personal experience btw, haha
Sudzedrebel Apr 17
You couldn't tell if I was crazy
If you were even any sane!
And you're not.
You couldn't tell if I was sane
If you weren't any crazier!
But you are!

Does it hurt your head to think?
Why, let it stop!
Does it hurt your chest to breathe?
Why, just quit it!

Soemone else can do that for you,
You can just take the credit!
For if the heart should ache
You're better off without it!

But serious-
The cloud tells the rain
What is & is not water.
Do the falling droplets care?
"What are these foreign definitions?"

The destination is the same,
Their own priorities remain,
And perspective is unchanged.

These strange properties,
Words themselves as elements
When strung together by sentence.
Is repentance within a reflection?
Redemption by sight through a drop of liquid?

What grippings within these pensions,
What potential within these tensions,
What whippings within these conventions.

By the accounts of every party attended,
What stern material has been cobbled.
Yet, poverty is worn stronger.
That which itself is as the weather,
I think it closer to trinkles
Than shine & twinkle.

What do the poor pour?
What do the bums toast?
What do the homeless shower?

A buddy of mine
Left really only notes.
Another was a rotten cheater.
I knew one that liked to play with guys,
Knew one that liked masks & needles.
Comes what? What goes? Who knows.

It can't be worse than before,
But that's not something you remember.
Of course, I mean, not someone you know.
Heavy Hearted Apr 16
Happy birthday- its what they'll say
With voices which typed words delay
Where on your behalf today, they'll wish
Simply for your happiness

A wish to me, is like the Horizon
An imaginary line of undefined potential,
Forever fading when approached.
With its endless opportunity preceding the powerless thrill of pursuit-
Forever fading,
we approach.

When Happiness is fleeting
as all emotions are,
The golden light of  this April's dawn-
Not silhouetted, scars.
After the soul's darkest night
Drifts into it's deepest blue,
nightmarish, waking dream's reveal
relentlessly, nothing new.
Ren Apr 16
I store the tourmaline in the shade
of my heart, unbeknownst to it.
"What a sordid gemstone I am," it sighs—
if only it knew how I yearn for its light.

"I'm only prized for the lucre I bring,"
if only it knew I cherish its quiet gleam.
"There are finer stones than me," it mutters,
but to me, they are mere rocks in your shadow.

"People just lock me away in their boxes,"
but I’d carry you with me through every voyage.
"I’m scratched, worn — mishandled," it says.
But I would thread gold through every groove,
and call them the paths that led me to you.
The tourmaline is a metaphor for someone I cherish deeply .
Ren Apr 16
Oh, how cruel a tree appears!
Shedding the leaves that cooked its food,
Shedding the leaves that gave it shade,
Shedding the leaves that bore its name,
Shedding the leaves--parts of itself!

Yet with a gentle simper, the tree whispers:
“Oh my people,
I shed these leaves not in malice, but in need.
For only in letting go
can I survive
and see a brighter tomorrow.”
To be as The Moth, born to the dark.
A fleeting fragment, a flickering spark.
To live life alone and die by the flame.
To be its own shadow. To not have a name.

Guided by stars too distant to hold.
To exist as a soul, that exists all alone.
To run into hiding by dawn’s first light.
To be haunted by, and to haunt all in sight.

Each light forms a lust that burns like a vow.
A promise of warmth that its fate won’t allow.
With wings, so fragile, that are pinned to this fate,
Its destiny cursed like sins born into saints.

Not resting at night, nor waking in peace.
For the pulse of the glow, we know, doesn’t cease.
To be called to the light as it paints life black.
To be deemed punishable before any ill act.

Yet The Moth questions nothing, asks nothing in return.
Never questions its darkness, or why the light burns.
A creature that lives in desperation of the night.
A creature that dies by desperation for the light.

Its symbolism, carved in my endless pursuit.
My shape stitched into the seams of The Moth's truth.
A life chasing embers no matter fate’s cost.
To be as The Moth, to find only what's lost.

Just like The Moth, I was born to the dark.
A fragmented soul with a flickering spark.
To live life alone and die by the flame.
To be my own shadow. To forget my own name.

♦ Đerek Λbraxas ♦
Sudzedrebel Feb 9
If progress meant evolution
Which was the resurgence
Of a previous adaptation
Since dormant but readopted,
Would you deny it & shun it?
If after some period
The same was once again true
For this only recent change,
Would you embrace it & transform?
Willing to take flight,
Willing to cocoon?
Willing to immerse,
Willing to emerge?
By the same notion,
If the divergence required
Was new or exotic,
Would you welcome something extraordinary?
Would you accept & learn from your failures
And share in the fortune of your successes?
Would you help others to grow?
Will you sicken to septic & go toxic
Feeding from discarded wastes
As like ******* overgrowth?
Sudzedrebel Feb 9
It's a funhouse of smoke and mirrors,
Where the unnatural angles & fumes
Have clearly affected their proprietors.
It's an old-timey, ****** circus;
The performing artists are mismanaged
By ringleaders who may be animals.
It's a rigged boardwalk game;
The hoop's too small or pegs too thick,
Baskets too tight or ***** too corpulent.
You can hit it square on,
Swing the hammer with a force sufficient,
But the bell hasn't been ringing.
Grab a hotdog,
Order a slice,
Get your popcorn & crackerjacks,
Your cotton candy & cream iced.
That sugar is a rush,
Like laffy taffy freebased off of a fish which is Swedish.
Get in your distractions,
Cause I don't forsee you winning.
datura Dec 2024
I felt the sting of nightshade bubble up inside me,
Once more, I cough up the bloodied Solanaceae.

Purged into my lap, budding with flesh,
Pallid petals ripe with Persian plum mottle, gored and fresh.

Racking my body in waves of herbaceous excruciation,
Crawling up my throat, clawing in botanical mutilation.

Lain out on the creased stone,
My macabre of a garden is blotted with the watercolour of my own.

Weary from retching, I stare at my withering ***** with distain,
I shrivel internally at the burden of mopping each and every stewed stain.

But I know I must clean the mess I've forged,
Because its nobody apart from me, who impulsively gorged.
This poem I have written is an allegory for impulsive anger. The act of vomiting nightshade is a metaphor for lashing out, the flowers used as a substitute for harmful words and the dread of cleaning is the regret for the harm the intentionally caused by the outburst. Feel free to interpret as you please and comment on the poem if you enjoyed reading <3
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