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Slowly taken away
What at some point
Felt like would be
Impossible to live without
Maybe for the best
Although that feels like a stretch
The heat of you means so much
Gives me space between time
And love to unwind when depressed
Despite confusion at times
Over the situation of our relationship
Wouldn’t trade places for anything
That would be a great waste
So as where we were withdraws
From the places once so familiar
Which are now merely nostalgia
They still hold such importance
New beginnings extend from the ending
And brings hope for reconciliation
That would be my preferred choice
Doesn’t always work like that
Sometimes relapses occur
Making you sink amidship
Crashing against the waves
As oceanic whirlpools stir wonderment
Tides drawing painterly crestfallen essences
Which create an atmosphere of resentment
Making pirates out of fishermen
Fleeting ships firing horrific elegance
Departing for lands of exploration
Returning when tired
And making amends
Slipping into old habits
Feeling an indifference within yourself
You thought things had changed
And they have
irene ci Apr 22
my biggest fear is not to be able to write,
write for whom?
the depression is over me.
i can not trust them, false cries,
false rhymes, false sights.
if he leaves me alone,
my heart brokes,
tired of the road to love.
i just want to write a poem,
only for me and you.
Widad Apr 17
She was only five when the teacher said,
“Write your name, it’s time to learn.”
But what she felt was something else—
Like fire blooming with each word.
The pencil danced across the page,
Her tiny hands began to glow.
While others traced a simple name,
She wrote a world no one would know.
She fell in love with lines and rhymes,
With paper dreams and silent times.
Her heart spoke louder through the ink,
Each verse a breath she’d learn to think.
Down the starlight path she ran,
With notebooks clutched inside her hand.
The world was big, but she believed,
Those words could build the life she dreamed.
She wrote through storms, she wrote through pain,
In every loss, she found a gain.
Now the stars are singing back—
She’s the girl who walked the starlight path.
She sat between her sisters four,
The backseat like a traveling world.
With every mile, the silence spoke,
So she wrote the words she never told.
Outside, the trees were flying fast,
Inside, her thoughts were built to last.
While laughter danced and voices roared,
She let her pencil paint her soul.
She pressed her notebook to her knees,
And captured feelings in the breeze.
The car became her sacred space—
A moving world, a writer’s place.
At fourteen, she held a trembling pen,
But every word was truth back then.
She wrote of fear, she wrote of flight,
Of lonely thoughts on moving nights.
Then came the day—her name was called,
She’d won it all, against the odds.
The poems born from backseat roads,
Now echoed loud in quiet halls.
Regional crown, department-wide,
Tears in her mama’s softened eyes.
But no one saw the countless pages,
The silent work, the secret stages.
She smiled shy, they clapped and cheered,
But deep inside, she held back tears.
Not 'cause she doubted what she'd earned,
But for the fire that still burned.
At fifteen, no guitar in hand,
But in her mind, a dream so grand.
Her words became a melody,
Without a note, but still so free.
She hummed her poems, softly loud,
Her head filled with a growing sound.
No piano keys, no strings to play,
But in her heart, she found a way.
She'd sing them quietly in her room,
Imagining each note would bloom.
Her words were music, pure and true,
A melody only she could view.
Her sisters shrugged, her parents sighed,
“Why can’t you let the silence slide?”
But her little sister, with eyes so wide,
Said, “Keep singing, sis, don’t run and hide.”

Through every rhyme, she found her voice,
In every line, she made her choice.
The starlight path, it called her name,
She walked it through the joy and pain.
No map to guide, just heart and mind,
Her dreams were stars she’d never find.
But still she reached, beyond the night,
For every word, a step to light.
Leocardo Reis Apr 16
I cannot write.

I put aside the pen,
I turn off the light.
I step outside
into the falling dusk,
lowering my head
as if to console myself,
whispering tenderly,
'this is only temporary.'

It has been years,
I still cannot write.
Anahí Ake Apr 7
Corazón cálido y pequeño,
brinda a la chica de antaño,
para sanar lo que fue dañado,
por un pasado ya olvidado.

La soledad la cubría,
una oscuridad sin salida.
Su carisma, como brisa,
daba a su amada alegría,
aunque no era correspondida.

Chica herida y desconfiada,
se alejaba, no era abrazada.
Aun así, ella adoraba
los recuerdos de su aliada.

Una amistad de tantos años,
atada a sueños ya lejanos,
de aquella aliada distante,
que quedó en su horizonte errante.

Pero ella tomó su mano,
y borró todo lo insano.
Tocó su corazón con calma,
y limpió su mente del drama.

A su lado decidió quedarse,
sin importar los desplantes
de su chica de antaño,
con su alma hecha de telarañas.

¡Oh, recuerdos congelados!
La chica del pasado
dio su primer paso
y se quedó a mi lado,
dejando atrás el daño.

Temor de volver a sentir
sin esa “aliada” junto a mí.
Pero ella no es como antes,
no es la sombra de alguien distante.

Ella es dulce, como el anís,
con dulzura que no se ve,
pero que al probarla una vez,
queda en el alma, hecha raíz.

Aprendió a cuidarla
para que nunca fuera dañada,
como lo hizo su “aliada”
con la chica abandonada.
Renfield Mar 13
See through like borderless windows
Inside the outside of one's shallow shells
We seek what isn't broken
And fix the wrong parts
In hopes we too can be woven
Into rapturous divine coddling.
We knew nothing.
Jude Mar 12
She never really thought about age gaps before. Not in the way people usually did, where it was about romance or life stages. No, this was something different—something about understanding, about the way words landed between two people and how deep they could actually sink.

She had a conversation once, with someone much younger. She spoke, explained, even poured out her thoughts, but there was something missing in their response. Not disagreement, not even disinterest—just… a gap. A difference in depth.

At first, she couldn’t put her finger on it. They nodded, said the right things, even echoed back words that sounded wise. But it was like throwing a stone into shallow water—it made a splash, but it never sank the way it should have.

Then, she compared it to speaking with someone closer in age. A 25-year-old talking to a 29-year-old. The words flowed, deep and open, like an endless sea. There was no need to explain every little nuance, no frustration of trying to be understood beyond the surface. It was just there.

And that’s when it clicked.

Maybe understanding wasn’t just about words—it was about where your mind was, how much life had shaped it. A younger person could say the same things an older one did, but their understanding of those words was different. Not wrong, just… not as deep. Like reading a book at twelve and then again at thirty—the same words, but an entirely different meaning.

She wondered if that gap ever truly closed. If understanding was something time alone could fix, or if some people would always be standing at different depths in the same ocean, trying to reach each other across the waves.
First time publishing. Hope right people find this. 🥀
souletry Feb 25
There's a blockage in my creativity pipe.
There's some potential I haven't tapped into yet,
I read old pieces and wonder
where is that inspiration?
I'd hate to think it's because I'm over the fact you left.
Why am I only able to create when my heart
doesn't function how it should?
The words are falling out of my head
I wish they would fall onto the page.
I used to be all the 3 "I's" in imagination
Originality ran through my blood
I could mold my pain into something so delicate.
I touched people's soul with a simple sentence.
And now I can't even create something I'm mildly okay with.
There's no endearment to kiss on letters.
Nothing to set my eyes on.
I guess alterations had to be made.
There's a blockage somewhere inside of me.
A change is coming.
This is more than a simple poem.
When you feel this lost, you are bound to find
what your soul is searching for.
everything feels weird, derealization is a understatement.
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