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A flower I dared not pluck -
out of love for your radiance,  
out of fear of your silent ache,  
out of care for your unfolding,  
out of awe for the life in you.  

The thought of your wither  
was a storm I could not weather;  
so I let you be, untouched,
praying you would bloom,
forever reaching toward the sun.

Letting you bloom was my wish,
but when the storms came too strong,
you decided to wither away,
because the weight of the world,
felt heavier than your light.

Holding the memory of your petals,
I wonder, if my hands, though gentle,
could have held you together or,
if the storms were always destined
to take you back to the earth so soon.
a story of firelight, clarity, and the homecoming of a soul back to herself


There are some who carry a fire
so quietly,
you’d only see it
if you’d known the dark yourself

It lives beneath silence
Beneath poetry
Beneath the long, slow ache
of having been kept in pieces
by those who only wanted her
that way

She once danced barefoot in sea foam.
She once laughed without apology
But the world found her too wild,
too bright

And so, her flame was hidden
Tucked beneath beauty
Tucked beneath obedience
Tucked beneath seduction,
where it could be wanted
without being understood

There were those who praised her darkness
not to heal it,
but to keep it fragmented..
Passed around, from man to man;
each, feeding off her trauma
like wine at communion

They spoke her name like a spell,
fed her flattery disguised as reverence,
called her “muse”

while binding her
to their emptiness—
keeping her soft enough
trying to wrap her back
   in velvet fog

   to possess
   but never  protect



But the truth was always there:
a longing not to be touched,
but to be known

And far from their fog,
in the wide, holy silence of the desert,
a fire had been lit—
long before she was ready
Not to summon
Not to ******
But to wait

She didn’t arrive quickly
Clarity is never quiet
And when she moved toward it,
their voices rose
A full court press of shadows—
pulling, twisting,
offering her everything
except herself

But she remembered
Not all at once..
Just enough

She remembered the fire.

And she came.

Not with promises
Not with plans
Just barefoot
Just brave
Just her

And someone else came too—
not a child,
not a man,
but a sacred presence
she’d known since the nights
she almost didn’t make it

The Mediator

He did not speak in poems
He chanted something deeper
He dismantled pinecones
like prayers
He did not explain
He existed

   And in his eyes,
   her divided selves
   saw each other again—

—the one who had hidden,
who had been used by those  bringing
their passion-veiled hidden love of  Iblīs
in to her room..  into her father's house
as she burned quietly behind closed door
under the floorboards of her life;

—and the holy one of God,
the one they feared,
the one  she  feared,
the one that could not be claimed
or chained
or cast in velvet light

The sacred and the shattered
stood before the fire
and did not turn away

And the one who had waited—
he never moved toward her
He simply tended the flame,
making room
without demand

When she finally spoke,
he answered with a voice
that sounded like something
she used to believe in

She asked,
“Why didn’t you come find me?”

He said,
“Because you weren’t lost.
You were divided.”


And she wept,
not from sorrow—
from recognition

Later, as dawn whispered at the edge of the sky,
she asked what no one else had ever let her ask:

“Is there a place for me?”

And he said:
“You don’t have to be finished
to be home.”


And that’s when she stood.
Not to flee.
Not to perform.

But to become.

The sacred self took the hand of the shadow self.
The dark one was no longer exiled.
The holy one was no longer alone.

And together—
they walked toward the sea.

She could see her father on the water,
laughing in his little boat,
calling out to her to bait the hook again.

And she laughed—
really laughed.

Because she was no longer
just surviving.
No longer  the little girl
forced to apologize
for her very own existence.

Or exploited  by others
for the beauty that is within her

   She was whole.

She didn’t need the fire to keep burning.
She carried it now.
Inside.
One flame.
One name.
One woman.

At last,
the sign wasn’t moved.
The arms were real.
And she walked toward freedom
as herself--

   Never again
   to be pulled down
   to the ground

   by her hair...

   for the "horrible offence"
   of simply  shining too bright



Looking down on empty streets
All she can see
Are the dreams all made solid
Are the dreams made real

All of the buildings
All of the cars
Were once just a dream
In somebody's head

She pictures the broken glass
Pictures the steam
She pictures a soul
With no leak at the seam

(Let's take the boat out
Wait until darkness..
Let's take the boat out
Wait until darkness comes)

Nowhere in the corridors
Of pale green and gray
Nowhere in the suburbs
In the cold light of day

There in the midst of it
So alive and alone
Words support like bone

Dreaming of Mercy Street
Wear your inside, out

Dreaming of mercy
In your Daddy's arms again

https://youtu.be/DYw9UrsFJa4?si=6KZ6M2h1mbm58dCn


I love you, beautiful Sand-child❤️
xoxo
I want to wander over the pavements,
The dawn bridges, the morning streets,
Where gentle wind caresses my hair.
I follow my happiness. I’m pure and sweet.

We’d walk together with weeks and years,
And time would go on unhurriedly long.
And I’d live my life, so cloudless, beauty,
Without any fear of love. I’d be strong.

I wouldn’t fear of stupid minds.
I wouldn’t hold unthinking people.
I wouldn’t be shy of one funny way –
To smile at passersby with a glance a little.

To love them all without purpose,
To see the world with wide open soul,
And love you whole without edges,
And wear your worn shirt. Not care that droll.
 Mar 24 Todd Sommerville
Ari
I often look across my skin
for a cut or bruise,
a scratch paper thin,
just for a glimpse,
of the pain within.

Everyone's scars seem laid bare,
others helping them with care,
the pain I feel
seems all but real,
cause no one reaches,
no one tries,
to see the hurt
behind my eyes.
I always feel like my internal turmoil is just my delusions,
and that I'm just fine and I'm only acting stupid.. I tried so ******* this poem T.T Also give me tag ideas, im still pretty new here idk what to put...

Edit: *** how did this go viral I’m so happy :D
I peel my skin to find the verse—
each line a nerve, each word a curse.
My fingers crack, the ink runs red—
I bind the poem, stitch the dead.

The page is meat. I carve it clean.
The stanzas pulse. The gaps still scream.
I press my voice through shattered teeth,
then choke it back in paper sheaths.

The world wants sugar, quick and bland—
a feeding trough, not sleight of hand.
It gorges on what’s soft and safe,
then spits me out, still torn and chafed.

They scroll past entrails shaped like truth,
preferring memes to bleeding youth.
I gut myself for depth and grace,
but all they see’s a blank, bruised face.

I nailed my heart to every page—
they laughed and said, “You’re just a phase.”
The words rot slow beneath the glass,
while bots applaud what cannot last.

They drained the soul from every shelf,
left only echoes of the self.
And still I write, while maggots hum
inside the mouth my lines come from.

I cough up metaphors and bile,
They call it “grim” and click “unstyle.”
Yet here I stand, spine sharp with spite,
my hands flayed raw, refusing flight.

This isn’t art that begs to please—
I write in wounds, not symphonies.
Let trend and comfort feed the swine,
my blood is real. These guts are mine.
100
Your heart fills me with an endless desire
I desire to love you too the end of days
Beyond the concept of love
Our love falls between the threads of mortal comprehension
To love you is too love the universe
To be enclosed in you is but a mere dream my dear
Hold my hands like the warmest embrace you’ll ever feel
I have rituals
for the first day of class
like a superstitious athlete
they get me into a good frame of mind
where I feel like a juggernaut who has total agency
and doesn’t need to seek validation
It’s a moment in time

I have all my books—stacked on my desk
they look serious—very nuts and bolts
I’ve beaten the syllabuses to death
to try to figure out where my power lies
learning is all energy, it’s a marathon
it’s hard to sustain that for the entire semester
so not switching off, now and then, is unrealistic

Still, I’m comfy in in a classroom (I’m a senior)
Good students are just a little weird.
I say hello to the moon so she won’t feel alone
I say ‘cheers,” before taking a shot of mouthwash.
If I lose my ID, my lucky pencil or something, I call out, “treasure hunt!”
When treating everyone to grubHub I ask, ‘the usual?’ When we’re done I ask, ‘how was everything this evening?’
If I see a random girl looking fabulous, I tell her, because if I get complimented, I think about it for a week.
.
.
A song for this:
Thetan by Single Gun Theory
BLT Merriam Webster word of the day challenge 03/19/25:
Juggernaut = something unstoppable
What does the poetess say?

She recites about the world and its affairs,
Like a tragic yet lovely éclair.
She stood up with a voice to curtail the noise.
She spoke of the revelation of the unsaid and what lies wrapped,
To tell the world about its gaps.
To infuse the world with words of sense,
Whimsical treasures, and stories of might.
She stood upon a podium with a book and a pen,
Like a knight, declaring her might.
Like a knight, declaring her heart and its insight.
my mind, my mind
is afire with artful
creations of words
and my heart is aflutter
with the anticipation
of usefullness,
the idea of mutual perception,
the hope of any modicum
of reminiscence,
the wish of forgiveness,
the happy distrust of memory
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