Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Caroline Aug 16
My heart is a smoldering ember
That too easily ignites,
Melting this skin of innocence  
Releasing feral things to flight.

But oh how they are beautiful,
Like solitary wolves, slinking from the hollows of my heart
All glistening and yellow-eyed,
Gliding through the midnight forests
On the inside portion of my soul;
The part that only others like us ever know.

Yes, I can see the untamed wilds that make you whole,
And I release the ravens from my heart each time I walk with you.

And sometimes they are beautiful
And sometimes they are dark
And sometimes they cry as their wings beat a breathless pattern to the stars.

With this pen, I trace the elegance of their arcs across the
Uncharted corners of our skies.
Wided Ben Jul 2018
And sometimes I feel like my heart is bursting from all the lives I’ve lived for others, I’d abandon the comfort of the familiar and the approval of herds
for the enchantment of new faces, new songs and the mystery of new roads, escape from the tyranny of morality and sanctity, and lose myself to the beat of the soul and the pulse of desire. I want mornings that don’t remember yesterdays and a present that exists for itself, days that don’t hope for the future because the moment is so full of my mother and all the love she has for me, all the wrong that’s born out of splendor and a God that has no expectations but to see us surrender to the wildness of our spirits and the softness of our being.
kiran goswami May 2018
Embraces me
Devours my senses.
Love eats my hunger away.
All Beauty is in the darkness.
In the heart,
A wild beast rules.
While the withering soul cries,
Waiting for the true love
Waiting for the only one
Tears don't fall anymore.
It's heavenly but it's lonely.
Those cries are no more heard.
Shrieks have become inaudible
It's only silence that echoes
And only solitude embraces me,
It traces down my curves.
Dryness kisses my throat.
My lips meet the darkness where even
The darkness can't see me.
My hands are touched by the unwanted pain.
Hatred eats my happiness away.
It's all wild, all dark.
But it's only solitude that embraces me,
Devours my senses.
Jade Mar 2018

The colour

of bruised knees


and lips begging

for oxygen


A hue

caught somewhere

between blue and red

(two extremes).

Blue for misery,


(frigid, the tundra),

blue like the ocean

(drowning, an ode

to Ophelia).

Red for anger,


(burning, the inferno),

red like flame

(gasoline for blood,

playing hide and seek

with embers).

Ultraviolet radiance

(blinding, turn your eyes away

the Purple).


(well, not so vibrant)

yet dark

(sometimes, too dark).


(just as the lilac

blossom is)

but harsh

(the bee that devours

the blossom's nectar).

China Doll complexion

(rosy cheeks,

skin the colour of moon dust)

paralleled against whirling eyes,

surging pools of burst blood vessels

and flared veins

(dear god, the Madness!)

Poetry personified--

counting syllables

instead of counting sheep

(a spoonful of codeine

to wash down the tears).

Words engraved into flesh

(wearing sadness like it's

crushed velvet--lovely);

these ink-stained wrists

(or is that blood?)

Empty band-aid boxes

(the scars still ache

whenever it rains)

and empty liquor bottles

(enamel eroding,

mouth swimming in froth).

Fearful of the night,

for the night will 

surely bring the mourning

(A seer-- forever dreading


Self-medicating with

Antihistamines and Tequilla

(Witch Doctor,

burned at the stake

in another life).

Dreaming in pastels

(when the insomnia

permits it)

but existing in a

grey-scale reality

(inhaling this pain

like it's cigarette smoke).

"A penny for your thoughts?"

(Haven't you forgotten?

They've stopped making pennies

because this world no longer

has any use for them).

A reflection in the mirror

(glass shatters,

pupils collapse in on themselves).



take away this body!)

"I love you..."


not pretty enough

to be touched).

A serenade for him(s)

(rejected letters,

"maybe we should 

just be friends").










(wind knocked from lungs,

soul plucked from body).

Lips shatter as 

the kiss the cement

(step on a crack

break your mother's 



who named her child


for the gemstone


( ̶p̶r̶e̶c̶i̶o̶u̶s̶),

for the green,

Mother Nature's

chromatic blush

(wilting dandelions,

forsaken wishes).



It's a colour that

never quite suited

a girl like me--

a girl with a purple soul.
Jade Feb 2018
She is a wild thing.

And I say “thing”

and not girl or woman

because She is neither;

She is both,

caught somewhere in between

the liberated innocence of childhood

and the maddening corruption of growing up.

And this is precisely what makes Her

wilder than the rest of us.

Some will argue that She is woman and woman only,

leaving little room for,

what are considered by many to be,

girlish trivialities.

But these people have only ever viewed Her

from a respectable distance,

a distance from which She appears to occupy

both the form and the essence of a woman

what with Her full ******* and

the manner in which She writes poetry–

with a sort of opulent brutality.

What you will not see

is the girl

(if that is what you choose to call it)–

the lovely child-beast

that dwells inside of Her,

antlers entwined with garlands

of succulents and autumn leaves,

eyes veiled with an ethereal mist.

A deluge of stardust drips from its lashes,

raining down upon the dry expanse of Her bones,

planting dewdrops in the barrenness–

honeyed globules nourished

by free-spirited ambition

and a nonsensical imagination.

And If it weren’t for you,


if it weren’t for your

incessant howling to the moon

and the sweetly curious expression

you get on your face when you’ve been daydreaming,

then this “woman” would be just that–

a woman and nothing more,

the same way you, lovely beast,

would be a girl and nothing more

if it weren’t for the overpowering

womaness of your host.

Do you recall

how you two first met–

the night She had first made your acquaintance?

How, that next morning, you woke up to find

your Hello Kitty ******* stained red,

a sharp pain stabbing at your belly.

You yelled for your mother

in a panicked shock;

you were convinced you were dying

(and perhaps you were, for this was

the very moment you began to grow up.)

But mama told you that there was nothing

to fret about– all females bleed, after all.

But you have come to realize that

while some bleed by nature,

there are also some who bleed out

of their own free will.

At first, it was Her mere nature that

had caused you to bleed.

And, after that, Her wildness.

But She did not mean to hurt you,

to burden your wrists with the

gravity of Her sorrows.

And so you must understand this,

my beast:

like you, She is a wild thing.

The only difference is that

She is a wild thing with a broken heart.

And there are some days where She

would do anything to quiet

the melancholic fervour of her thoughts.

I can see how this alone has destroyed you,

how you have been leached of your innocence.

I watch as you deteriorate

antlers withering to stubs

eyes weeping

stardust congealing

around your tear ducts

mouth frothing with whiskey

shards of broken bottle

embedded in your palms

your body degraded

blouses with alarmingly low necklines

skirts long enough to cover up

the scars on your thighs

but short enough that they feel

the need to whisper “*****”

when your back is turned

because maybe this

lovely beast

is the only way She knows

how to feel okay.

And maybe you have simply

found yourself caught in the

insatiable crossfire of Her darkness;

because the light you possess

was never enough to save yourself,

and it was certainly never enough to save Her.


The wild in you

was never a match

for the wild in Her.

And it is here

in this state of unadulterated wildness

that everything  you are,

everything that She is–

Woman and

child and

Beast alike–

will eventually

be forced to surrender

to the chaos.

This is the place,

wild thing,

where you will be forced to

eat yourself alive.
Jade Feb 2018
Perched on bloodied haunches,

she stands beneath the

swirling blackness of

the night sky,

singing to the

bayonet moon

and gun-powdered stars

a song of heartbreak.

--Love is war
IPM Nov 2017
Thrown into wildness
I was thrown into wildness...

Law of the jungle runs deep in ones veins
food chain topped by vicious prowlers
if blood keeps running cold
murderous minds grow more bold
predators take pride in their
hunter's prowess.

Thrown into wildness
I was thrown into wildness.

Where fights in the dead of night
and greedy hands with high demands
are everyday life
all part of ulterior motives
and rotten plans.

Where pretentious intentions
are the cost of survival
and no saints nor prophets
are offered revival.
It's hard to stay calm...

It's hard to stay calm
when wrath's laid on the tip
of your palms.
Gluttonous man eaters drool
in the depths of the concrete jungle
over lustful people
whilst maintaining an iron ******

Thrown into-

The sad reality of living day to day
and sloth's not tolerated
unless you've royal blood
survival instincts often tempt
a few to stray
their ways forgotten rest
beneath the murky mud.

In the end, envy runs errands
against the common folk
for in the jungle defenceless insects
have no place in the grander plan
or any rights to live humble.

It's a vicious cycle that takes
its toll
being thrown into modern wildness
and when the sun goes down
and follows darkness,
the world is then devoid from
and humanity is swallowed whole.
Inspired by Ka and his unrivalled lyricism. Also by other events.
Sanya Sep 2017
I whisper the Strom in my soul ,
That Stygian mask with freaky smile was mine.
I propose the wildness every night.
Every night I flaunt with my pumping heart dipped in darkness.
My chaotic  heart , its in the cage of love .

I dance with the dusky rose ,
I play with my inky & curly hair .
I roll , I jump , I fly , I giggle ,I hop , I do stylish walks, I run , I run , I run and I blot ......
An wild imagination ............device used :- persona in literature ☺☺
Next page