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Here it is once more
- a dark form looming -
A shadow from Before,
A storm's mark, dooming.
.
Invisible vise grip,
the weight on my chest;
Marble-heavy crypt,
A thornbird's nest.
.
This hunter is slow,
patient, though relentless;
with no arrow, or bow,
or trigger to press.
.
His footsteps fall monotone
- finality's beat -
Like soot on a wall of bone,
the last defeat.
.
Although he'll stay
out of sight, a dark drape,
Know that his prey
might never escape.
.
When no one's around,
When comforts are few,
In the scent of moist ground,
He could find you too.
.
04.03.2024.
(Halloween is only 241 days away, lol)
Anais Vionet Nov 2023
I dreamt about an alligator
- what could that possibly mean?

Am I hoping that a lizard man
will slowly romance me?

Are my desires so primitive, so ancient
that we could come to some arraignment?

Would a silent and cold-blooded lover
be as ​​considerate as any other?

Do I long for scaly fingers
to caress me up and down?

Or lust for reptile Dolce Gabbana pumps
and a matching iguana gown?

Do I long for another dazzling week
of lying lizard-like under a mediterranean sun?

If I saw an alligator prowling there,
I’m fairly sure that I would run.

What, on earth is going on,
in my secret subconscious mind?

After years of psychotherapy,
what do you think they’d find?
Shevek Appleyard Oct 2023
Lit by angels and adrenaline
silent auctions, abductions
still as death decends here
Archadia dimmed
a dimension of distractions
sinking in a pretty little nest
feathered with fear
she sinned so softly
knowing nothing else to sleep beneath
twigs and bones returned from the battle
gnawed clean from anxious teeth
so brittle; you become a love song to the cold
a rattle of defiance
a longing for a place you cant face alone

this is not Archadia
these sweetly poisoned streets
full of tempting berries
choking on my mind
every sniff every sip every inhale is all we have
to stop what we are in-between
awaiting, impatient
feral from empathy
dreaming of each others bliss
an escape to humidity
an instant view of the sea
it might fix this

but it doesn't

I wish , I wish
my memory could imprint on me
that cascading fading message
I always leave in rem sleep
that lack of loathing now I'm older
old enough to know life's secrets
still too young to live by them
this is not Arcadia
this is a January town
where every new idea never starts
an eternal dance
a feast for show
so starving eyes swell

the grass is always gone where I go

I wish , I wish
the night could take me to Archadia
my silence as loud as
the auction lost
here were are; in the rotting sequence
pining for a reward
I'll build my own Archadia
out of precious words, molecules of hope
how to enlighten
omens of wonder, summer rain excitement

I roll down the grassy hill
turn another page
to somewhere I can smell resilience
a rest bite, evacuate the cold and reunite with your innocence

Welcome to Archadia
where hands are full of strength
a land full of scents that warm frantic souls
giving out their tidings
tiny rebels repel your decisions
deviate what you hope to replace

for here is your Archadia
empathy is everything
a peaceful wave of lighting
a quiet sob of clarity
an instant view of the sea
Welcome to Archadia
you're here to be free
B Nov 2023
Something unforgivable
blood in the wool of a lamb
you said I'd be this way forever
I am. I am. I am.

You're quiet as a child sings a hymn
someone so soft and angelic
shouldn't witness such a sin.
Where is your shepherd,
where is your father?
Can all really be healed
with just holy water?
Francis Oct 2023
You can explain trigonometry to a zebra,
You can blab till blue in the cheeks,
But that doesn’t at all determine,
Whether a zebra will learn trigonometry.

A piece of irony:
We expect Zebras to be black and white,
Because their appearance says so,
But what about their feelings,
Who they are as Zebras?

Luscious, rare, and totally majestic,
But most of all,
Slept on…
Like most beautiful things, a pity indeed,
But that’s nature.

You find yourself mesmerized by them,
Yet you never truly grasp their beauty.
I ponder one small thought:
What do we really know about zebras?

We know what we are told,
We know what we see,
We know what we read,
But somehow,
These zebras,
They just… unapologetically exist,
In ways that never remain consistent.

Lions hunt zebras,
and rip them a part,
Because lions assume that these zebras,
Are merely the inferior species,
Ready to be preyed upon,
Simply because they’re less dominant,
In a world of carnivorous predators.
Poor little Zebras
stillhuman Aug 2023
A writer's hands
are soiled in ink
and I know it
'cause I've written your name
over and over
and the black covers my skin
while I write of all your love
and all your pain and heartache
Thomas W Case Apr 2023
Words will be my
food today.
I don't want
to get dressed,
eat breakfast
or go to church.
I'll stay in bed and write,
until the demons stop whispering,
and humanity quits
******* on me.

Last night,
on my way to the
bookstore to get some
Bukowski, I found a
mourning dove,
not a baby
but, too young to fly.
It was huddled against
a concrete wall.
I picked it up and put it through a fence hole in some tall grass,
so that the dock cat, Prozac,
wouldn't **** it.
She caught a lot of birds,
and ate them.
When I went outside
the other morning at five,
She was stalking sparrows and starlings with a murderous
look in her eyes,
and I thought to myself,
Someone should have put me
In the tall grass, a long time ago.
i have asked but
it remains unclear
if it was planted
purposefully
by somebody
for some reason
unknown to the rest
or merely discarded
within a pile of
offcuts and waste
following a frenzy
of gardening chores
regardless of
whether it was
intended or not
it has taken root
it has bloomed
bright and proud
brilliant cherry red
against dandelion yellow
and uncut-grass green
one solitary red tulip
amongst the weeds
Haley Lana Feb 2023
You can hear the alarm bells,
See the red flags.
You know this will ruin you,
And you walk in with eyes wide open
Nonetheless.

You try to justify it to the world,
To yourself.
It's the end of the road;
a sense of belonging, finally,
of having a purpose,
and you're tired.
So tired of wandering, searching,
Hoping.
Choking on the salt in the air, the sea an endless barren desert with no land in sight.
So when you hear the siren's call,
And you know it spells doom,
You answer it anyway.
At least it will be over.

Except it's not death you're heading towards, but not a life either,
You'd be called crazy
If there were anyone around.

You're tired, and this feels safe,
To fall sleep in a dungeon,
To drop your heavy defenses.
It's hard work keeping them up,
And you're tired.

There's no room for mistakes in chains.
Your hands can't move to sin.
You're clean, and good;
Your mind is light, free from worry
And planning.

Your eyes fall shut.
You don't dream.
23. 02. 2023.
This poem can be interpreted in a few different ways, and I wrote it with more than one meaning in mind. Choose whichever you like best, the significance is always in the mind of the reader.
xoxo,
Haley
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