Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I ended up at the wrong time,
in the wrong place,
carrying a dead flashlight
that instead of shining,
offered me an elusive shape—
a spectacle of shadows.

What was a hand
became a dog barking on the wall,
or a ghost-rabbit
vanishing into nothingness.

My rational “I” still asks why,
and I have no answer.
I just smile with sadness:
that was the script,
that had to happen.

Bittersweet medicine,
already swallowed,
the side effects dissolved.
And I boarded another train.

Writing?
I only wanted an ordinary life,
with some humor
and a pinch of self-irony.

Saturn joined,
Saturn divided,
at 8:18 a.m.

Maybe we humans
don’t have the stillness
to break free from the pattern
of silver rings
made of dust and ice,
imposed by an ego.

Maybe we prefer
the safety of the shadow,
ice melts in daylight.

My story:
a new-old flat,
my imperfect poems…
Really?
For this, I was made?

I’m not a poet.
I’m a living voice,
taming incomprehension
convincing myself
that dawn is near,
and I’m strong enough to rise,
not looking anymore
for cold mirrors.
This poem is my way of catching a moment when something that once felt real and meaningful slowly turns into just a shadow, a projection, an illusion. I wanted to show how reality can sometimes feel surreal, and how easy it is to mistake a reflection for the real thing, like in Plato’s cave. We often fall for false impressions. The image of the hand’s shadow on the wall becoming a barking dog or a disappearing rabbit is my way of speaking about disappointment and coming to terms with what happened.
For me, every poem is also like a diary, a way of keeping things I do not want, or maybe cannot, forget. I try to leave space for different interpretations, but what matters most to me always stays hidden underneath. To me, the hand in the poem has already become a shadow. And somehow, even if it makes no sense, the shadow still casts another one. It feels like a game of broken telephone with consciousness. Scattered pieces only make sense to me as a whole.
  2d inkedsolace
Alez
Cowards
fire into the crowd,
now bullet casings
are daily bread.
I wish to cry,
but I must be numb,
to these emotions,
because they will not aid me,
when they come,
to take me away,
for my trials,
and charge me,
with unproductivity.
Let us all toast to Dystopia, for she is as inevitable as the passing of Time.
I was running as fast as I could as I heard those siren sounds
Blood is still leaking with every step of my way
My heart is racing, my tears are falling
My mind is blank as I stare at the wall in front of me
"I'm sorry, I have to save myself", words you uttered before you hand me the knife.
I still remember the pain in her eyes as the sharp-edged knife went in and out of her.
I can't blame him; he saw her naked with another man.
Perfect alibi! I went inside the policeman's car, smiling.
Love goes beyond what mind can think
we were only three weeks from shore,
when thunder struck and started downpour,
a great mist and fog clouded our eyes,
blinded us to the direction of the tides,
progress soon we did lose,
and as we lamented our perilous cruise,
we did hear an enchanting voice,
we dropped our sails and made the choice,
to rescue that fair maiden poor,
lost at sea like a jewel in a moor,
alas, when we neared her silver tongue,
entranced in the light of the song she sung,
we threw ourselves at her feet,
watched with smiles as she began her feast.
Inspired by the sirens of Greek mythos!
  Jun 25 inkedsolace
alia
Let’s not sleep—
let’s overthink!
Let’s rethink
every awkward blink.

Let’s write a novel
in our head,
then cry about
what we should’ve said.

Sleep is boring.
Peace is fake.
Let’s spiral till
the morning breaks.
Next page