Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
allowed to admit
these letters
are losing meaning
some days
i don't want to be me

some days i don't want
to be a person
We cry on bathroom floors
Win arguments on the mirror
But when we step outside
We cannot even speak out
But our inside voices
Are screaming for help
 Oct 14 Andrew Rueter
Mask off in the pub
but only 'til ten,
socialize in public
but not at your friend's,

A visit's off limits,
(unless you walk with a dog)
it's as clear as a field
full of Yorkshire Fog,

So don't go on the grass
without a pen and paper,
make sure to take notes
about friends and neighbours,

Track them and trace them,
it's for their own good!
It's barely invasive,
you know that you should.

Let everyone see
how you're on the right team,
wear your flag under-nose
so we all know it's clean.
does ANYTHING make sense anymore?
I have no words left
I used them all up
Before I was three
Now they tell me
Be careful what you say
you are too old now
Be careful what you say
No one told me that
I would use all the free words
the age of three
Heart of stone.
Within the corpse of a tree,
I mark my path.
One that can be
Can completely vanish.
Can be
I do what many can't;
I can change the past.
I can create
An alternate reality.
A humble creator.
But they use me.
They hurt me.
They break me.
They take me within their grasp,
Taking advantage of me;
My power of creation.
Using every bit of me they can..
Together, we write history
We rewrite it.
We change it.
We create a new future.
I make it happen.
I store the memories
Of ones having come true.
I create.
But I keep memories
Rhythmic word.
All me.
But there is another.
One who is used,
Gifted with more control.
And over me,
They have picked this entity
And have put me down.
No longer needed.
No longer in use.
It is then I realized
I missed the abuse.
This not only depicts the historians' fear that history will be lost with no one writing anymore, but also toxic situations in human relations.
 Oct 4 Andrew Rueter
Every bar looks the same
when you live in a cage,
every round rounds out
with a shot and dry snout.

A cold night out
without snow on the pavement,
as truth slowly trickles through the fickle adoration,
and the empty, impatient crowd
is waiting.

The spotlight hits
a white tie on white shirt,
his smile is perfection,
perfected from dirt
through years of tears and blood and lies,
pompous prattle pasteurised.

The spotlight lingers like cheap perfume
from the back of the room
on a white tie and shirt,
handsome as a groom,
he talks with his hands,
his nails, neatly clipped,
are still lined with dirt.

He holds on to hope
for something like bliss,
not quite convinced it even exists,
outside of an incidental kiss,
but the build-up is crucial
to a master crafter,
and the crowd is rapt,
from the floor to the rafters
awaiting their happily ever after.
My bones cracked
Like crust
On warm bread
Torn apart
By your starvation
The individual
is dual,
the I am someone
the I am someone 
who is no one.
What is Hope?
is it the absence of dark from our nights
or the reality of shade in our days

The stimulus that makes us let go
granting access to unwavering joy
truth setting you free

Grief can alter soul’s equilibrium
yet we don’t die when loved ones depart
as hope assures a reunion in heaven

Dreams embrace an early death
if not sprinkled with a dash of hope
confronting them head on

When doubt resonates its tune
lurking in that corridor of uncertainty
a grain of faith can move mountains

Life is suffering, it’s also beautiful
So key to happiness lies in something to do,
someone to love, something to hope for

by Akhiz Munawar
Next page