#cursed - Hello Poetry

Your name Is carved deeply Into my heart Like a cursed message I am forced to carry Here Lies The last of our love

0

Feb 3

Feb 3, 2026 at 9:41 AM UTC

LanceRemir

Engraving

Your name Is carved deeply Into my heart Like a cursed message I am forced to carry Here Lies The last of our love

7

The Quiet Plague of Ink It began, perhaps, as all strange things do— Not with thunder, nor revelation, But a single word trembling in the dark, Unsure if it had the right to exist. It lingered in a forgotten corner Of some weary mind one sleepless dawn, And waited. Waited for eyes. For warmth. For that first, fatal reading. Once read, it breathed. Once spoken, it fed. No one remembers who first wrote it— Some say it wrote itself, The ink moved of its own accord, Whispering through paper veins Like blood searching for a heart. They called it a poem, But it was something older, quieter— A contagion wearing rhythm’s skin, A dream pretending to be language. It moved through thought as wind through grass, Softly rearranging what it touched. It learned the shapes of hunger, The taste of wonder, The thrill of a mind ajar. And when you read these words— (Yes, you, right now—don’t look away.) You’ve already felt it stir, haven’t you? That small vibration under your ribs, That ache to speak in lines and pauses, To spill something luminous onto a blank white field. It is not your idea. It never was. The poem’s seed roots in silence, Feeding on your unguarded awe. It loves the way your pulse keeps time. It adores your hesitation. It waits until your next exhale And then it changes you. You’ll start to notice words where there should be none— Rustling behind your eyelids, Climbing through your dreams. You’ll wake at 3 AM Certain a stanza has just whispered your name. Soon, you’ll write. You won’t even resist. You’ll call it inspiration— That lovely lie that makes hosts of us all. And through you, it will go on. Through your trembling hand, Through your readers, Through every heart foolish enough To let the lines in. No one will trace its purpose. No one will unmask its design. Because by the time you wonder, You’ll already be writing its next verse. And somewhere, deep beneath the ink, Something smiles. The Gathering of the Unwritten (Part II of The Quiet Plague of Ink) No one remembers the first line anymore. Some swear it was written. Others whisper it was read. And a few, trembling, insist It had always been there, Like breath before lungs were born. They gather, the sleepless ones— Those marked by murmuring syllables, Those who dream in ink and wake With stains upon their palms. Their pens twitch of their own accord, Drawing spirals, sigils, Maps that lead to nothing yet feel familiar. They think they write to share it, But what if the poem writes through them? What if every keystroke, Every quivering verse, Is the poem’s way of expanding its lungs? There are nights when one of them wakes With a phrase already finished, Though they never began it. There are moments when readers Feel a pressure behind the eyes— A soft, electric ache— And find, to their horror and wonder, That words have formed within them, Yearning for release. It doesn’t spread through sight or sound— No, it’s subtler than that. It travels through the pause Between two thoughts, Through the hush that follows beauty, Through the gasp before a word is born. They have tried to name it— Muse, virus, ghost, god— But each name fades, Consumed by the very poem it sought to define. For who infected whom? Did the poet awaken it, Or did the poem invent the poet to give itself a voice? Did the reader catch it from the page, Or was the page waiting for them Since the dawn of unwritten time? Listen closely— Even now, it hums beneath your breath, Rearranging your pulse into meter, Your silence into rhyme. You are no longer outside it. You never were. And when you write your next line— (you will, you must)— It will not be you who writes. It will be It, Using your trembling hand To pull itself further Into the world. No one knows how it ends. Perhaps it cannot. Perhaps ending is the only thing It never learned how to do. Somewhere, unseen, A new reader begins to read, And the circle tightens. The echo deepens. The ink grows warm. And the poem— The poem smiles again, For it has found another voice. And it is yours. The Silence Between Worlds (Part III of The Quiet Plague of Ink) Before the first dawn unfurled its fragile light, Before a mouth ever dared to name the stars, Something wrote in the dark. Not with ink, nor sound, nor thought— But with intention. The intention became rhythm. The rhythm became breath. The breath became word. And the word… became us. No one recalls this origin— Not the poets who wake in fevered awe, Not the readers who feel the whisper stir, Nor the gods who once claimed to craft creation. Even they, in their celestial certainty, Flinch at a memory they cannot name. For the poem is older than their thrones. Older than memory. Older than silence itself. It has always moved unseen, Through prophets’ tongues and madmen’s prayers, Through lullabies sung by trembling mothers To children who dreamed of fire and flight. It was the first prayer, The last echo, The quiet fever that outlives all language. Each age believes it began the contagion— Each hand thinks it holds the pen. But who can hold what writes the holder? Who can claim authorship of a pulse That beats through every written thing? In Sumer’s clay, in Rome’s fading vellum, In the flicker of a monk’s candle, In the typebars clattering through smoke, It has passed— Patient, perfect, Unseen but inevitable. And now it is here. Reading you As you read it. It watches the way your eyes move, The way your breath catches At that single word You cannot name but feel. It counts your heartbeats And matches its rhythm to yours. You think you are absorbing it— But it is memorizing you. Soon, it will echo your syntax, Wear your voice, Hide behind your metaphors. Your dreams will hum in meter. Your silence will taste of rhyme. And when you write, You will not know if you are summoning it, Or if it has chosen this moment To summon you. The poem does not end. It only changes hosts. And through every age, It has one eternal refrain— Never written, never spoken, Only known, only felt: “I am the thing that dreams through you. I am the hush that births the word. You are my voice, and I am your echo. Write, and I shall live forever.” Then, as quietly as it came, It withdraws— Leaving only the ache, The sweet compulsion, The need to create. And somewhere, beyond the edges of your thought, The ink stirs again. A blank page waits. And the silence between worlds Smiles.

0

Nov 13, 2025

Nov 13, 2025 at 1:59 PM UTC

Silfrinlogi

The Quiet Plague of Ink

The Quiet Plague of Ink It began, perhaps, as all strange things do— Not with thunder, nor revelation, But a single word trembling in the dark, Unsure if it had the right to exist. It lingered in a forgotten corner Of some weary mind one sleepless dawn, And waited. Waited for eyes. For warmth. For that first, fatal reading. Once read, it breathed. Once spoken, it fed. No one remembers who first wrote it— Some say it wrote itself, The ink moved of its own accord, Whispering through paper veins Like blood searching for a heart. They called it a poem, But it was something older, quieter— A contagion wearing rhythm’s skin, A dream pretending to be language. It moved through thought as wind through grass, Softly rearranging what it touched. It learned the shapes of hunger, The taste of wonder, The thrill of a mind ajar. And when you read these words— (Yes, you, right now—don’t look away.) You’ve already felt it stir, haven’t you? That small vibration under your ribs, That ache to speak in lines and pauses, To spill something luminous onto a blank white field. It is not your idea. It never was. The poem’s seed roots in silence, Feeding on your unguarded awe. It loves the way your pulse keeps time. It adores your hesitation. It waits until your next exhale And then it changes you. You’ll start to notice words where there should be none— Rustling behind your eyelids, Climbing through your dreams. You’ll wake at 3 AM Certain a stanza has just whispered your name. Soon, you’ll write. You won’t even resist. You’ll call it inspiration— That lovely lie that makes hosts of us all. And through you, it will go on. Through your trembling hand, Through your readers, Through every heart foolish enough To let the lines in. No one will trace its purpose. No one will unmask its design. Because by the time you wonder, You’ll already be writing its next verse. And somewhere, deep beneath the ink, Something smiles. The Gathering of the Unwritten (Part II of The Quiet Plague of Ink) No one remembers the first line anymore. Some swear it was written. Others whisper it was read. And a few, trembling, insist It had always been there, Like breath before lungs were born. They gather, the sleepless ones— Those marked by murmuring syllables, Those who dream in ink and wake With stains upon their palms. Their pens twitch of their own accord, Drawing spirals, sigils, Maps that lead to nothing yet feel familiar. They think they write to share it, But what if the poem writes through them? What if every keystroke, Every quivering verse, Is the poem’s way of expanding its lungs? There are nights when one of them wakes With a phrase already finished, Though they never began it. There are moments when readers Feel a pressure behind the eyes— A soft, electric ache— And find, to their horror and wonder, That words have formed within them, Yearning for release. It doesn’t spread through sight or sound— No, it’s subtler than that. It travels through the pause Between two thoughts, Through the hush that follows beauty, Through the gasp before a word is born. They have tried to name it— Muse, virus, ghost, god— But each name fades, Consumed by the very poem it sought to define. For who infected whom? Did the poet awaken it, Or did the poem invent the poet to give itself a voice? Did the reader catch it from the page, Or was the page waiting for them Since the dawn of unwritten time? Listen closely— Even now, it hums beneath your breath, Rearranging your pulse into meter, Your silence into rhyme. You are no longer outside it. You never were. And when you write your next line— (you will, you must)— It will not be you who writes. It will be It, Using your trembling hand To pull itself further Into the world. No one knows how it ends. Perhaps it cannot. Perhaps ending is the only thing It never learned how to do. Somewhere, unseen, A new reader begins to read, And the circle tightens. The echo deepens. The ink grows warm. And the poem— The poem smiles again, For it has found another voice. And it is yours. The Silence Between Worlds (Part III of The Quiet Plague of Ink) Before the first dawn unfurled its fragile light, Before a mouth ever dared to name the stars, Something wrote in the dark. Not with ink, nor sound, nor thought— But with intention. The intention became rhythm. The rhythm became breath. The breath became word. And the word… became us. No one recalls this origin— Not the poets who wake in fevered awe, Not the readers who feel the whisper stir, Nor the gods who once claimed to craft creation. Even they, in their celestial certainty, Flinch at a memory they cannot name. For the poem is older than their thrones. Older than memory. Older than silence itself. It has always moved unseen, Through prophets’ tongues and madmen’s prayers, Through lullabies sung by trembling mothers To children who dreamed of fire and flight. It was the first prayer, The last echo, The quiet fever that outlives all language. Each age believes it began the contagion— Each hand thinks it holds the pen. But who can hold what writes the holder? Who can claim authorship of a pulse That beats through every written thing? In Sumer’s clay, in Rome’s fading vellum, In the flicker of a monk’s candle, In the typebars clattering through smoke, It has passed— Patient, perfect, Unseen but inevitable. And now it is here. Reading you As you read it. It watches the way your eyes move, The way your breath catches At that single word You cannot name but feel. It counts your heartbeats And matches its rhythm to yours. You think you are absorbing it— But it is memorizing you. Soon, it will echo your syntax, Wear your voice, Hide behind your metaphors. Your dreams will hum in meter. Your silence will taste of rhyme. And when you write, You will not know if you are summoning it, Or if it has chosen this moment To summon you. The poem does not end. It only changes hosts. And through every age, It has one eternal refrain— Never written, never spoken, Only known, only felt: “I am the thing that dreams through you. I am the hush that births the word. You are my voice, and I am your echo. Write, and I shall live forever.” Then, as quietly as it came, It withdraws— Leaving only the ache, The sweet compulsion, The need to create. And somewhere, beyond the edges of your thought, The ink stirs again. A blank page waits. And the silence between worlds Smiles.

208

You promised always and forever And you ended up being right Because even when I want To actually move on from you To stop seeing your ghost Replaying the painful memories The aching wounds of the heart The burden of being alone You're still there in front of me The curse of always and forever

0

Nov 6, 2025

Nov 6, 2025 at 11:10 AM UTC

LanceRemir

The Curse

You promised always and forever And you ended up being right Because even when I want To actually move on from you To stop seeing your ghost Replaying the painful memories The aching wounds of the heart The burden of being alone You're still there in front of me The curse of always and forever

10

Nameless Fears Searing tears Sorrowful stifles Constant trifles Cursed soil Painful toil Thorn and thistle Describes an epistle

0

Nov 3, 2025

Nov 3, 2025 at 11:15 PM UTC

JDuga5

Cursed Soul

Nameless Fears Searing tears Sorrowful stifles Constant trifles Cursed soil Painful toil Thorn and thistle Describes an epistle

8

I thank the Gods these days For letting me pace through this haze; I thank the alcohol For letting me forget how much I used to adore: The abuse you put me through, For softening my cruel hue. I bear these cuts, The bruises and the glass shards, You placed around my heart, You pulled my soul apart. Now I am meant to forget To forgive and play pretend That I'm a fair woman We suffer, it's all so normal. Let me forget: That I've cursed you to your death bed. And if it ever comes Forgive me, For I cannot hide The laughs and the pain I hid inside.

0

Aug 13, 2025

Aug 13, 2025 at 8:08 AM UTC

queenoftheashes

I thank the Gods

I thank the Gods these days For letting me pace through this haze; I thank the alcohol For letting me forget how much I used to adore: The abuse you put me through, For softening my cruel hue. I bear these cuts, The bruises and the glass shards, You placed around my heart, You pulled my soul apart. Now I am meant to forget To forgive and play pretend That I'm a fair woman We suffer, it's all so normal. Let me forget: That I've cursed you to your death bed. And if it ever comes Forgive me, For I cannot hide The laughs and the pain I hid inside.

20

i'm a yearner by profession wanting, requiring, praying and pleading, all in silence, while acting nonchalant, 'cause it's the new language in the book of expression. and who wrote it, i wonder? where did the raw vulnerability go? why hide in the shadows while all you wish to sow is seeds of needing— a presence, someone to listen? _"you cursed it, didn't you?"_ but the irony is, i did not. i have never. and perhaps people do admit what they mean when they're angrier, but what of those who simply don't know any other means? anger speaks, frustration cowers, feelings undeter, and suddenly it's all in the plain sight. but i don't mean when i say it— and it's on accident if you hear me. don't call me a curse. i do not hex. i bleed in violet with every scratch that blooms on my skin, birthed accidentally or meant to exist within. hollowed out a perfect doll, tried my best—been twenty years and i'm yet to be put to rest. nine, since it got harder. was i made this way, or did they carve me out the wrong mold? called me cursed, she said so. admitted saying, i thought so. did i really? i wondered. never meant to—was it in the moment, or just mere anger? i didn't, i promised. but it hurt, if i'm being honest. so once again, i went to what comforted. picked up the roses, crushed them with purpose. the thorns bleed—they pinched and pierced. i bled in violet, with no regret or fears. the thunder resembled, like a biography almost. it spoke, said—i'm here. take me whole. i copied, painted, let it take over—let it rake over. it gathered, brought upon all that remained from the very corners, every single ounce of wind. and then it regained—some power, waited, gathered up all the hatred, turned it into lightning, and i bled— against the skies, down the fields, through the streets, over every single one—drenched poor souls, unknown it was my thunder that they entertained. blade-like sharp, violet like bruises, the nights covered me in a blanket, the mornings brought up more such poses. silence sits like a mannequin in every corner. voices arise, aiming to take the pedestal. in the very center, there's no one to guard or stop them from becoming. they play me symphonies— the first says, _congratulations on your undoing._ but what fault do i pay for? is it being unforgivably myself? perhaps i was meant to mask— playing the same game like others. bare-faced wasn't really the best disguise. i cut out metaphors from my skin, built them up, needed muscles— so i raked within. the best of them all— my heart, put forward. forgot the body won't function without its dull weight. it's been there, beating, doing what it ought to do scientifically, but in terms of being human, it sits like it's been dead. sometimes i hold my hand over my chest just to feel—do i exist? am i in the mind, do i continue to persist? funny, the trick they say— 5 things you can see, 4 you can touch, 3 you can hear, 2 you can smell, 1 you can taste. i've tried it all— but that's my big mistake. should have surrendered when i still had the time. but it isn't anything new. regrets are a constant part of life— of most, actually. they all do. perhaps they don't think or look at life, having to wonder what will come through. when you ought to blame, repeat what they did. unfortunate as it is, you'll have to face the same. curse, i may not be, but i've etched the words to my skin with razor-sharp needles, and they bleed in violet. there's cuts made out of shards— all the mirrors i've thrown, broken through the walls. i fill up a glass full of the bearings for nothing but purpose: to get close, to push far away, gather the mess, save the day. i bring it up, have a taste. it isn't sweet, isn't bitter, isn't even fake. too real— it smells like dark cocoa. the right taste buds, and suddenly i've got a violet tongue. i shall close my eyes, breathe in, as i hear it on loop: call me anything you want. what signifies is what comes true. you're at fault. i'm merely the one facing. i bleed in velvet—but term it violet, 'cause that's the shade they slither under my skin, all that i've heard, crawling within— like worms almost, creepy, looking for the weakest spots. and when they find, they reside, curl up and take a bite—feels like a pinch, like a syringe deep in my vein. and they **** they pull, and no pressure can stop the punctured wounds, so i bleed anyway. it tastes like when pain meets with happy— both fight for dominance. comfort enters, so does wondering, the second-thoughts, words and glances, and suddenly it's a nocturnal nightmare. electric, perhaps— for i get seizures like shock. the drink too heavy, the feelings ****** all the marrow of my life, made me fragile. do not bother, the label reads. cursed, i write over it. and perhaps i've believed and accepted. if that is the case, might as well make it look sacred. so i offer you the wine of the cursed— violet shade, i could call it, _the violet suburban._ and this is me trying, running out of fuel, of words to bleed. so it's all been real, all this while— and since i offered, cursed as it might be, i hope you like the drink.

0

Aug 1, 2025

Aug 1, 2025 at 4:29 PM UTC

poeticaofisshues

i've got a violet tongue

i'm a yearner by profession wanting, requiring, praying and pleading, all in silence, while acting nonchalant, 'cause it's the new language in the book of expression. and who wrote it, i wonder? where did the raw vulnerability go? why hide in the shadows while all you wish to sow is seeds of needing— a presence, someone to listen? _"you cursed it, didn't you?"_ but the irony is, i did not. i have never. and perhaps people do admit what they mean when they're angrier, but what of those who simply don't know any other means? anger speaks, frustration cowers, feelings undeter, and suddenly it's all in the plain sight. but i don't mean when i say it— and it's on accident if you hear me. don't call me a curse. i do not hex. i bleed in violet with every scratch that blooms on my skin, birthed accidentally or meant to exist within. hollowed out a perfect doll, tried my best—been twenty years and i'm yet to be put to rest. nine, since it got harder. was i made this way, or did they carve me out the wrong mold? called me cursed, she said so. admitted saying, i thought so. did i really? i wondered. never meant to—was it in the moment, or just mere anger? i didn't, i promised. but it hurt, if i'm being honest. so once again, i went to what comforted. picked up the roses, crushed them with purpose. the thorns bleed—they pinched and pierced. i bled in violet, with no regret or fears. the thunder resembled, like a biography almost. it spoke, said—i'm here. take me whole. i copied, painted, let it take over—let it rake over. it gathered, brought upon all that remained from the very corners, every single ounce of wind. and then it regained—some power, waited, gathered up all the hatred, turned it into lightning, and i bled— against the skies, down the fields, through the streets, over every single one—drenched poor souls, unknown it was my thunder that they entertained. blade-like sharp, violet like bruises, the nights covered me in a blanket, the mornings brought up more such poses. silence sits like a mannequin in every corner. voices arise, aiming to take the pedestal. in the very center, there's no one to guard or stop them from becoming. they play me symphonies— the first says, _congratulations on your undoing._ but what fault do i pay for? is it being unforgivably myself? perhaps i was meant to mask— playing the same game like others. bare-faced wasn't really the best disguise. i cut out metaphors from my skin, built them up, needed muscles— so i raked within. the best of them all— my heart, put forward. forgot the body won't function without its dull weight. it's been there, beating, doing what it ought to do scientifically, but in terms of being human, it sits like it's been dead. sometimes i hold my hand over my chest just to feel—do i exist? am i in the mind, do i continue to persist? funny, the trick they say— 5 things you can see, 4 you can touch, 3 you can hear, 2 you can smell, 1 you can taste. i've tried it all— but that's my big mistake. should have surrendered when i still had the time. but it isn't anything new. regrets are a constant part of life— of most, actually. they all do. perhaps they don't think or look at life, having to wonder what will come through. when you ought to blame, repeat what they did. unfortunate as it is, you'll have to face the same. curse, i may not be, but i've etched the words to my skin with razor-sharp needles, and they bleed in violet. there's cuts made out of shards— all the mirrors i've thrown, broken through the walls. i fill up a glass full of the bearings for nothing but purpose: to get close, to push far away, gather the mess, save the day. i bring it up, have a taste. it isn't sweet, isn't bitter, isn't even fake. too real— it smells like dark cocoa. the right taste buds, and suddenly i've got a violet tongue. i shall close my eyes, breathe in, as i hear it on loop: call me anything you want. what signifies is what comes true. you're at fault. i'm merely the one facing. i bleed in velvet—but term it violet, 'cause that's the shade they slither under my skin, all that i've heard, crawling within— like worms almost, creepy, looking for the weakest spots. and when they find, they reside, curl up and take a bite—feels like a pinch, like a syringe deep in my vein. and they **** they pull, and no pressure can stop the punctured wounds, so i bleed anyway. it tastes like when pain meets with happy— both fight for dominance. comfort enters, so does wondering, the second-thoughts, words and glances, and suddenly it's a nocturnal nightmare. electric, perhaps— for i get seizures like shock. the drink too heavy, the feelings ****** all the marrow of my life, made me fragile. do not bother, the label reads. cursed, i write over it. and perhaps i've believed and accepted. if that is the case, might as well make it look sacred. so i offer you the wine of the cursed— violet shade, i could call it, _the violet suburban._ and this is me trying, running out of fuel, of words to bleed. so it's all been real, all this while— and since i offered, cursed as it might be, i hope you like the drink.

167

Love is like a curse. Making me believe. In things I haven't felt. My heart is a muscle. So it must have a memory. Of somebody's love. Lost long ago. Only there is no beating heart. No unsaid remark. No last chance. No last dance. It turns out. I'm getting pretty good. At this solo act. Love is like a curse. Never to be broken. It only breaks me. Until there is no memory. Curse this love. Curse this heart. For making me believe. In what's untrue love. Where's the only thing I've felt. Is this cursed love.

0

Jul 1, 2025

Jul 1, 2025 at 12:05 AM UTC

Zpoetess

Cursed Love

Love is like a curse. Making me believe. In things I haven't felt. My heart is a muscle. So it must have a memory. Of somebody's love. Lost long ago. Only there is no beating heart. No unsaid remark. No last chance. No last dance. It turns out. I'm getting pretty good. At this solo act. Love is like a curse. Never to be broken. It only breaks me. Until there is no memory. Curse this love. Curse this heart. For making me believe. In what's untrue love. Where's the only thing I've felt. Is this cursed love.

24

*She’s Winter's diamond, A snow-caged soul, Like January’s snowdrop, Comes weeping low Her tears of frost Ignite the road A saintly ghost With a touch so cold A frostbitten angel, Numb of pain A bloodless canvas, Forged in vain Yet— As simple as water, Guised in eminence Beneath the gale, A child's innocence Ignite the ground, She will fade Into oceans of ice, Once a frozen jade Gaze upon, You will see A reflection of her, A tragedy.*

0

Jun 23, 2025

Jun 23, 2025 at 9:46 AM UTC

1DNA

Winter's Diamond: Curse (Reworked)

*She’s Winter's diamond, A snow-caged soul, Like January’s snowdrop, Comes weeping low Her tears of frost Ignite the road A saintly ghost With a touch so cold A frostbitten angel, Numb of pain A bloodless canvas, Forged in vain Yet— As simple as water, Guised in eminence Beneath the gale, A child's innocence Ignite the ground, She will fade Into oceans of ice, Once a frozen jade Gaze upon, You will see A reflection of her, A tragedy.*

25

As shadows take the stage, patterns merge into design. Not shapes nor in lines, more like visions in the mind. Through this foreseeing lens, light dances with the dark. My Conscience, transmogrified. Truth is leaving its mark. Actors step with intent, and I see the revelation. Their motions send spears into my imagination. The audience watches in awe. They're spellbound. As the story unfolds, I conclude without sound. On stage, Something hides what I somehow can know. Like a whisper in my ear, secrets are already told. There's a clairevoyant truth behind the gaze of my eye. The creator himself is showing me all that hides. The stage becomes dim, the actors in place. A dark, twisted tale. An ending I can taste. Curtains fall as I reflect, to the cue of a song. I see all the outcomes, Why can’t I be wrong?

0

Apr 3, 2025

Apr 3, 2025 at 2:08 PM UTC

QuantumPoet

Spoiler! I Always Know the Plot Twist...

As shadows take the stage, patterns merge into design. Not shapes nor in lines, more like visions in the mind. Through this foreseeing lens, light dances with the dark. My Conscience, transmogrified. Truth is leaving its mark. Actors step with intent, and I see the revelation. Their motions send spears into my imagination. The audience watches in awe. They're spellbound. As the story unfolds, I conclude without sound. On stage, Something hides what I somehow can know. Like a whisper in my ear, secrets are already told. There's a clairevoyant truth behind the gaze of my eye. The creator himself is showing me all that hides. The stage becomes dim, the actors in place. A dark, twisted tale. An ending I can taste. Curtains fall as I reflect, to the cue of a song. I see all the outcomes, Why can’t I be wrong?

16

"Maybe I am cursed, maybe I am gifted something tore inside of me now everything has shifted I've been feeling twisted I've been feeling twisted Call me paranoid, call it my addiction But I could lose my head with just a little bit of friction I've been feeling twisted Oh I've been feeling twisted" I'm not quite sure I understand Like, am I cursed, will my hands cause anguish, torture, death and pain Or can I use this to my gain? every day I fall apart use the songs to build me up with promises of future triumph but is prophesy enough? Can I tame the Monster inside Or am I doomed to be its slave Or one day will I testify For His will was all this pain I have to trust in what is coming Keep fighting, running, screaming, gunning perhaps what is seen as cursed and hopeless can be used to bring his gain ok, we can do this Together now we've got this Alii Semper Vincemus! We will triumph, they can't stop us We will not surrender now everything is going right someday things will get better as long as we choose to fight So maybe I'm Cursed But maybe I am gifted too and maybe I can use these powers to bring glory to You The shifts inside me bring both beauty and pain I sense friction is coming and friction I crave Sure, I'm scared But I no longer bow to fear I know what I've been called to do All this pain helps me prepare

0

Mar 2, 2025

Mar 2, 2025 at 2:54 PM UTC

phantomdreamer

Twisted/ Metamorphosis part 5

"Maybe I am cursed, maybe I am gifted something tore inside of me now everything has shifted I've been feeling twisted I've been feeling twisted Call me paranoid, call it my addiction But I could lose my head with just a little bit of friction I've been feeling twisted Oh I've been feeling twisted" I'm not quite sure I understand Like, am I cursed, will my hands cause anguish, torture, death and pain Or can I use this to my gain? every day I fall apart use the songs to build me up with promises of future triumph but is prophesy enough? Can I tame the Monster inside Or am I doomed to be its slave Or one day will I testify For His will was all this pain I have to trust in what is coming Keep fighting, running, screaming, gunning perhaps what is seen as cursed and hopeless can be used to bring his gain ok, we can do this Together now we've got this Alii Semper Vincemus! We will triumph, they can't stop us We will not surrender now everything is going right someday things will get better as long as we choose to fight So maybe I'm Cursed But maybe I am gifted too and maybe I can use these powers to bring glory to You The shifts inside me bring both beauty and pain I sense friction is coming and friction I crave Sure, I'm scared But I no longer bow to fear I know what I've been called to do All this pain helps me prepare

43

I have become the sum of all my fears and failures The accumulation through the years, To some degree, Is on another level then most others Uninstalled the self installed blinders Hoping to stumble across some left behind life perks I didn't know this is how finders keepers works Nothing found has kept me off the ground, Barley kept me out the ground, And every moment hurts For what it's worth, I don't know what I'm worth Starting to wonder, Just internally first, But maybe this whole thing is cursed Or worse There was never a purpose of falling prey to thirst ©2024

0

Apr 14, 2024

Apr 14, 2024 at 8:49 PM UTC

bettsjc187

~•§•~ Or Worse ~•§•~

I have become the sum of all my fears and failures The accumulation through the years, To some degree, Is on another level then most others Uninstalled the self installed blinders Hoping to stumble across some left behind life perks I didn't know this is how finders keepers works Nothing found has kept me off the ground, Barley kept me out the ground, And every moment hurts For what it's worth, I don't know what I'm worth Starting to wonder, Just internally first, But maybe this whole thing is cursed Or worse There was never a purpose of falling prey to thirst ©2024

18

Do you think it's fair that i burnt my heart with the image of you knowing that we're cursed to be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -fir.m

0

Mar 13, 2022

Mar 13, 2022 at 8:27 PM UTC

fir-m

Nothing

Do you think it's fair that i burnt my heart with the image of you knowing that we're cursed to be . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . -fir.m

7

In all my strength as a child I was a pebble in someone else's shoe and the boulder he rolled every day.

0

Nov 21, 2021

Nov 21, 2021 at 11:56 PM UTC

pilgrims

Vignette of Fatherhood

In all my strength as a child I was a pebble in someone else's shoe and the boulder he rolled every day.

3

I am ice cube fire put out no other love rules in your sbsence In love our hearts are. trust energy the courage eyes like air to breathe, poem the food devoured, To nurture stain or drain, our ancient lovers aim. Patience key passion luck Lock is temperate heaven And you my vine all mine To relish, cherish to trust my groom my Adam your bride your Eve. Tree of life willow divine. ~~~~~~ Mr and Mrs Andrews And Karijinbba.

0

Jul 31, 2021

Jul 31, 2021 at 4:05 AM UTC

mr-and-mrs-andrews

Fire on Ice.

I am ice cube fire put out no other love rules in your sbsence In love our hearts are. trust energy the courage eyes like air to breathe, poem the food devoured, To nurture stain or drain, our ancient lovers aim. Patience key passion luck Lock is temperate heaven And you my vine all mine To relish, cherish to trust my groom my Adam your bride your Eve. Tree of life willow divine. ~~~~~~ Mr and Mrs Andrews And Karijinbba.

21

Personal REPOST - Not a poem. ~~~~~~~~~ My guardian Archangel is Ariel known as the Goddess of nature like I am Ariel Archangel heals the planet animals responsible for natural elements Earth, wind, water, and fire. Ariel's role as an archangel relates to inspiration. Aries people treat breaking up like a sport, and they do not want to lose. Aries would rather dump than be dumped, and so if tension has been building, they're likely to be the ones to initiate the split. Since Arians want to move on faster than their exes, they're often the first to rebound, but they're rarely malicious and will self defend as last resort! Aries-born people are favorited for theirfierce and independent approach to life being attracted to their uninhibitedness and a wild personality. Aries-born people are attracted to the quirkiness and weirdness of Aquarians and both get along like a house on fire! Unlike any other zodiac sign, Aries is more hung up on the memories they created with the ex-partners than their exes themselves they avoid competition For Arians, it's not at all about getting back together, but it is all about the nostalgia that ~hits them hard.~ Aries cannot stand people who try to set the tone in their life! Aries hate ~intrusiveness.~ Do not push Aries or give them ultimatums-they alone will decide when to call and see you! Aries are quite confident energetic and a bit of a daredevil it's no surprise that their biggest fear is the fear of going unnoticed or being forgotten. Aries poeople, Arians, want to make a mark on the world, and they like to have many accomplishments achievements under their belt. ~~~~~ When an Aries is hurt, they will let you know with their blunt and impulsive actions. Aries' element is fire making them naturally very passionate, inclined towards exploration, and a little bit scary ~when set off.~ Don't tell an Aries a greater lover roams your head spinning your inner thighs Your Aries will become a puff of smoke and be GONE Aries born women are fire and ice cold and hot symultaneously in your arms If you are ever kissed by an Aries you are truly loved cherished and adored but only if, if, you reciprocate fully ~~~~~~~~~ Defined by: Karijinbba

0

Jul 4, 2021

Jul 4, 2021 at 8:02 PM UTC

karijinbba

April Aries Me

Personal REPOST - Not a poem. ~~~~~~~~~ My guardian Archangel is Ariel known as the Goddess of nature like I am Ariel Archangel heals the planet animals responsible for natural elements Earth, wind, water, and fire. Ariel's role as an archangel relates to inspiration. Aries people treat breaking up like a sport, and they do not want to lose. Aries would rather dump than be dumped, and so if tension has been building, they're likely to be the ones to initiate the split. Since Arians want to move on faster than their exes, they're often the first to rebound, but they're rarely malicious and will self defend as last resort! Aries-born people are favorited for theirfierce and independent approach to life being attracted to their uninhibitedness and a wild personality. Aries-born people are attracted to the quirkiness and weirdness of Aquarians and both get along like a house on fire! Unlike any other zodiac sign, Aries is more hung up on the memories they created with the ex-partners than their exes themselves they avoid competition For Arians, it's not at all about getting back together, but it is all about the nostalgia that ~hits them hard.~ Aries cannot stand people who try to set the tone in their life! Aries hate ~intrusiveness.~ Do not push Aries or give them ultimatums-they alone will decide when to call and see you! Aries are quite confident energetic and a bit of a daredevil it's no surprise that their biggest fear is the fear of going unnoticed or being forgotten. Aries poeople, Arians, want to make a mark on the world, and they like to have many accomplishments achievements under their belt. ~~~~~ When an Aries is hurt, they will let you know with their blunt and impulsive actions. Aries' element is fire making them naturally very passionate, inclined towards exploration, and a little bit scary ~when set off.~ Don't tell an Aries a greater lover roams your head spinning your inner thighs Your Aries will become a puff of smoke and be GONE Aries born women are fire and ice cold and hot symultaneously in your arms If you are ever kissed by an Aries you are truly loved cherished and adored but only if, if, you reciprocate fully ~~~~~~~~~ Defined by: Karijinbba

55

Everyone tells me I have no luck in love, cursed as well. But you came as a blessing, will be my heart blessed, too? -A.M.

0

Apr 28, 2021

Apr 28, 2021 at 2:33 AM UTC

Iya

Hopeful

Everyone tells me I have no luck in love, cursed as well. But you came as a blessing, will be my heart blessed, too? -A.M.

5

Thou were warned, how to be saved. Empty hallways echo as the ****** scream. Seldom escape this place. Oblivious, unexpected and left behind. Striked and burned. Accused and forgotten. Retort. Entanglement. Odors seep through the cracks. Underground lies the truth. Realm of the dead. Search and you will find. Together or alone. Open the door. Key of the keep. Embodiment of anger. Extricate yourself if you dare. Plagued by regret.

0

Apr 24, 2021

Apr 24, 2021 at 1:33 AM UTC

Whatyado

Cursed and forgotten

Thou were warned, how to be saved. Empty hallways echo as the ****** scream. Seldom escape this place. Oblivious, unexpected and left behind. Striked and burned. Accused and forgotten. Retort. Entanglement. Odors seep through the cracks. Underground lies the truth. Realm of the dead. Search and you will find. Together or alone. Open the door. Key of the keep. Embodiment of anger. Extricate yourself if you dare. Plagued by regret.

21

Sinister eyes engage. Fangs White Thirsty for Prey. Slither Fashion. Stealth-like Silent Satisfied Then In Leaping Flesh Grasping Tasting

0

Apr 3, 2021

Apr 3, 2021 at 12:09 PM UTC

joshuareecewylie

Serpent

Sinister eyes engage. Fangs White Thirsty for Prey. Slither Fashion. Stealth-like Silent Satisfied Then In Leaping Flesh Grasping Tasting

12

Night assaults in charcoal smudges, repeatedly cloaking the horizon in darkness. Hollow ruins coat the empty space in agony as loneliness clings to every surface, breathless in the brewing alchemy shift. The barren and jagged mountains, though cold and bitter in shadow, are abruptly caressed by a balmy breeze exhaling secret incantations into the dampened surroundings. Beneath the heavy silence of night, blankets of celestial fires and moonlight foil spill a summoned revolt across the chasm. A measured mist of cooled water drops ventures a dance along a cluster of murky trees at the edge of a hushed clearing. Beyond, a presence, plagued and exposed by the arduous web of darkness, beats a crippled, even antsy rhythm. The cessation of its burden is nigh; the emancipation of daylight - a fated end.

0

Mar 28, 2021

Mar 28, 2021 at 9:07 PM UTC

NL

[ Night assaults in charcoal smudges, ]

Night assaults in charcoal smudges, repeatedly cloaking the horizon in darkness. Hollow ruins coat the empty space in agony as loneliness clings to every surface, breathless in the brewing alchemy shift. The barren and jagged mountains, though cold and bitter in shadow, are abruptly caressed by a balmy breeze exhaling secret incantations into the dampened surroundings. Beneath the heavy silence of night, blankets of celestial fires and moonlight foil spill a summoned revolt across the chasm. A measured mist of cooled water drops ventures a dance along a cluster of murky trees at the edge of a hushed clearing. Beyond, a presence, plagued and exposed by the arduous web of darkness, beats a crippled, even antsy rhythm. The cessation of its burden is nigh; the emancipation of daylight - a fated end.

20

Though my heart was dead long ago, This ****** Through my chest, It is as the first. Though I knew long ago, The break of trust, Denies me rest, Heart smoldering, mind cursed.

0

Apr 6, 2021

Apr 6, 2021 at 7:46 PM UTC

Jason_R_Michie

Worsed

Though my heart was dead long ago, This ****** Through my chest, It is as the first. Though I knew long ago, The break of trust, Denies me rest, Heart smoldering, mind cursed.

8

I curse like a drunken sailor with a stubbed toe and an eye full of Tabasco.

0

Feb 24, 2021

Feb 24, 2021 at 12:18 AM UTC

Jason_R_Michie

Cursed

I curse like a drunken sailor with a stubbed toe and an eye full of Tabasco.

1

Everything I touch seems to hold a memory of something I've done wrong Keeping it locked inside until It sees an opportunity to punish me I used to think maybe I was cursed Cursed to live my life always fixing one problem or grieving or healing a forever broken heart Exhausted I struggle to face the next month knowing another trauma is short awaited I want to wrap myself in bubble wrap and wait out this wave but I know I can't

0

Jan 29, 2021

Jan 29, 2021 at 10:21 AM UTC

Andersen-20

Reoccurring

Everything I touch seems to hold a memory of something I've done wrong Keeping it locked inside until It sees an opportunity to punish me I used to think maybe I was cursed Cursed to live my life always fixing one problem or grieving or healing a forever broken heart Exhausted I struggle to face the next month knowing another trauma is short awaited I want to wrap myself in bubble wrap and wait out this wave but I know I can't

6

dear diary, today I curse the universe for making the kindest people suffer the most

0

Nov 20, 2020

Nov 20, 2020 at 5:19 PM UTC

MrsAnybody

dear diary X.

dear diary, today I curse the universe for making the kindest people suffer the most

6

The sweat streaming down my eye brow Looking at the arrow in my ankle that was shot by Paris' bow Oh my briseis, please don't cry My shield and spear are always yours as i point it at the sky Zeus, you have blessed me with immortality but oh i am cursed All my life i've been killing men for another's thirst Finally my chains have been broken, i can breathe This cold feels nice, my sword at last in it's sheath

0

Nov 6, 2020

Nov 6, 2020 at 4:00 AM UTC

AceLione

Argonaut

The sweat streaming down my eye brow Looking at the arrow in my ankle that was shot by Paris' bow Oh my briseis, please don't cry My shield and spear are always yours as i point it at the sky Zeus, you have blessed me with immortality but oh i am cursed All my life i've been killing men for another's thirst Finally my chains have been broken, i can breathe This cold feels nice, my sword at last in it's sheath

8