Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I arose one morn
from a venerable night,
Whence thou consum'd
mead til dawn's light.
My head torn asunder with a fierce pain,
My stomach in tatters from drinking games.

O all ye who know of what I claim,
A terrible recovery from alcohol's bane.

I made what ministrations I could, using cold water
and dry food. Alas, all in vain.
The hangover would not relent
it's cruel tirade. I gathered the clan
who endured a similar state
and told them of a plan
to cure our fate.

We'd venture forth from K-side
and seek alchemy
to ease our pain.

But first we must brave
the barren lands
of Westside
and the enemy that lingers there.
As we made the transition
from the wastes to the west,
We eyed the onset
of a looming threat.
Off in the distance
raiders roved,
Orcs in tracksuits
stalking the roads.
Heads in hand,
Our pace quickened.
Out from the grasp
of ragged estates.
Past Glen Dara,
Weary of raids.
Make it through
to the city we did,
And set a course for
where the alchemist lived.
The prize almost within our grasp.

We called ahead to secure our purchase,
Only to find
nothing, emptiness that hurt us.

Sigh I did
with a heavy heart,
But with a pounding head,
Deterred I was not.
So onward we marched
to millennium's park.
There we spoke to a sage
of a man about a dog.
A malady we would have.
There were ill omens about
all that we did hear,
They spoke of men captured
who we did revere.
The wise-man foretold:
"The tidings are bad, the city in drought,
There be no mortal to solve yer doubt;
But all's not yet lost. To acquire your
remedy
you must give a shout to the apothecary".
With the prophecy foretold he disappeared,
Leaving us to ponder
the wise and the weird.

With a new hope
we began our approach,
We communed with the figure
and opportunity arose.
An accord was reached,
To the square we'd go.
At forty to five
the apothecary would show.
Finally our way, luck did flow.

Meet him we did and for twenty five gold,
A bag of magic
we were sold.
StoryTallinn Mar 29
Until the sun rise
I will be my own light
Until the cloud disappear
I will be my own sun

I have lost a battle
Not the war
Sorry but...
White flags do not belong in my backpack

Steps after steps
Miles after miles
This was not supposed to be a sprint
But a marathon
multi sumus Aug 2018
i seek a passion so intense that Hell itself will envy the flame
And a Love so great the angels will weep for their lack
gleck Jan 2016
People say that growth is a lifelong journey.
Talk about the scheduled trip like it's to the most holy place.

I can leave I had a talk with my attorney.
I have packed my bags and I'm ready for the new taste.

Where is this fantastic place called the future?
Selcæiös Feb 2018
Curiosity killed the cat
and it's got me flaming
far past the first degree
and her secret’s in the coup d’etat;

Now viewing the reality
of the Gemini’s hereby guarantee


At combat with the Technocrats
because they’re both too headstrong
Her lust for learning might sound
an occasionally lethal song
But for now her secret’s as confusing

as her sense of right and wrong
Nice to meet you, you can call me Catt.
labyrinth Sep 23
What I will emphasize may look to y’all as history
From humanity's standpoint; it’s a big shame and mystery

It sure happened in the past, this ain’t a current topic
Or maybe still around, hurtful and traumatic

I’m not saying it all did start out with Avery
But it’s been a good home for too long to slavery

Man was treated and traded as goods in public auctions
Disgrace was all over but not a single sign for conscience

It’s not just the body, you also bought mind and soul
Wow! You must’ve paid a fortune to buy’em all

What happened to empathy? Please answer me Dear Sirs
Are you taking the fifth? Don’t you know what it refers?

You never thought of yourself in the body of color
Yet gave long *** speeches on dignity and honor

Rough and proud on surface to make them obey.
However rotten inside, and that was all okay

Why captivate a race and give them the stupid belief?
That they are secondary and all they deserve is grief

Motivation’s obvious; too much errand to take care
And Blacks came in handy to use rather than share

Don’t run away now, we just heated the subject
He is a human being mister, not a ******* object

Oh, I see, you don’t wanna face with the sheer fact
That indeed your cruel ancestors attacked

These innocent African tribes for no good reason
In a barefaced manner against the age of reason

And you’re not ready to pay for their deadly sin
Alright! Stand up and admit that we’re all close kin

It’s **** important. Do you even know why?
That is to say residues of slavery bye-bye

Opportunity gap, project houses, ****** education
Are the real meanings of the word, discrimination.

Biased justice with never ending prejudice on black
Are updated slavery forms deserving a good smack

People are haughty for the things they didn’t earn
Race and color are given, but they are yet to learn.

No man’s been a property for your royal dynasty
Facing and accepting this takes a lot of honesty

Freedom became vague, when society was stratified
Where the privilege owners were safely identified

By color, neighborhood and school in the whole nation
In ******* good-old days, during segregation

Therefore, do me a favor and don’t give me the cliché
That all **** sapiens had an equal say

That’s even nowadays neither valid nor truth
Let alone it would be then effective in sooth

For all the years they have chosen to be violent
Slave owners don’t even have the right to remain silent

Before giving me the crap on Afro-American’s wrongdoing
Let’s put you in their shoes and see how you’re doing

By the way, it’s not like Blacks need a defense from me
Look around, you’ll see how they get even with thee

Jazz, rap, hip hop, soul, reggae and blues for that matter
Or non-blacks dropping their pants down to bladder

Look at youngsters' hands, when they’re saluting each other
Trust me, there is nothing white, it’s all from black brother

In return all belittle, denial, tyranny and attack
They are transforming and painting you solid black

It all began in New York with the Harlem Renaissance
Artistic, rebellious and witty. Possibly the best response

I know what I’m talking about with absolute faith
Once my home address was 135th and 8th

Stop pompously calling this junk as modernity
It’s in fact nothing but big-fat-white sovereignty

Nonetheless you are more than welcome to anticipate
That communities of color will in fact emancipate

You from yourself if you know what I mean
Too deep to grasp, huh? For what you have been

I seem to hear people are constantly asking me
As a white person. Oh no, sorry. A brown maybe

Why on earth am I now irritating the past?
Like what happened back then is not manifest

I suppose it’s both because of my aching heart
Feeling in the history for this vile part

And also because of my Turkish nationality
That’s Europe’s Black these days, with Asian paternity

Add to that as well, keenness for reality
Truth needs to be cried out, it’s my personality

This way or that way, what difference does it make
Ignore who says it. Embrace the truth for God’s sake

In case you couldn’t fathom, to whom I am addressing
I’ll clear that part for you, so you won’t have to be guessing

Aiming at the racist ones, words are my sole arsenal
And if you’re like them too, go ahead and take it personal

All great thinkers somehow felt deeply for human
With their vast and perpetual acumen

It’s not a duty assigned to philosophers only
We must do the same, so no race becomes lonely

There is no other way to the salvation of mankind
Notice it already and don’t insist on being blind

In case you still didn’t realize, what matters the most
It’s your effort to correct the problem we just diagnosed

Make no mistake, we don’t cry over spilt milk here
Action must speak louder than the words to clear

This longstanding injustice along with insincerity
A bleeding wound that is, blocking solidarity

Here’s your chance to make it all right again
Treat people equally, you bet you’ll get their Amen

Kindly stop acting like nothing happened in the past
Labyrinth says you can’t be enlightened without quest
Copyrighted work
Nat Lipstadt Aug 19
Alaska:
“though the whole world should be mad at once
though the elements should be changed, though the angels should rebel: yet verity (irrefutable truth) cannot lie.”  
                                                         ­                  Erasmus of Rotterdam

<> <>

for BJ Donovan, a fine, fine poet
<><><>

verity, irrefutable truth, cannot lie,
or belie it’s non-contradictory nature,
even, in a small airport, a one runway affair,
somewhere in Alaska
ribboned tween icy crags and dagger-ous peaks,
low cloud coverings of sub-zero visibility,
that inquire, in an indigenous tongue
of the flying fool pilots,

“really?”

if I or you ask me why I’m here,
Alaska,
the answers come in only three Heinz varieties,
true or false positive, no differentiation needed,
the other, is called
“one who doesn’t know how to ask”

you know him,
the simpleton, the simple one, me,
who can’t frame the question without

risking that he frame himself

betraying and displaying his woeful ignorance,
a veneered confidence of knowing so little about much

in the shed, a/k/a
‘the terminal,’ we wait,
me and an ex-Buddhist priest,
head stubble shaved, of course, round horn rimmed glasses wearing,
stone washed jeans blue, the color of his eyes,
reflecting mine as well as the blue glacier ice
surrounding us both, we,
the extraneous human eagle interlopers

showed him the Erasmus quote, provoking one of them,
thin lined, whimsical, eye-glinting smiles of those
who know the answer
to the knotty ones, or,
know better, that knotty questions one asks himself
when high up in the mountainous glacier ranges,
get answered just by silent patience

he smiled for an eternity of
at least five minutes,
my heart pulsating big time,
this modern man anticipating, in his calm, dulcet two tones,
his understanding of another ancient translating another,
even more ancient, speaking:

”the world is indeed mad,
through neglect letting the elements warp, glaciers melt;
the angels have indeed rebelled at the
foreseen fated falsehoods perpetrated,
verity,
torn asunder,
and the line between balance and imbalance,
so jaggedly ripped in too many places that verity a victim
so badly assaulted, its face is no longer identifiable by AI, worse,
so covered, dying, undiscoverable.

but you ask!
ask of yourself, asking of others, and tolerating
uncurled, uncut uncertainty, you retreat and reconsider,
this then is your answer!
it is the
ASKING,
that is verity, itself! there can be no lying thing in the
quest of questioning
that accepts, rejects, and unceasingly asks again^

this is a the only irrefutable truth and what it asks of you:

never accept the illogic of belief, let your own eyes be the best judge;
ask and ask thrice, be satisfied that being disastrously dissatisfied
is the norm, the mean,
the line toward a perfection that may not ever exist(ed)
for our flaws define us, thus so much greater is our truths when we
we reshape them, ourselves, for verity itself is not so hard to find,
but the finding of one self is too difficult for most


for asking is too painful,
too primordial, and why I am no longer a priest nor teacher,
but a simple observer of the answers that can be found in the
silences of places,
the Alaska’s inside of us,
where nature’s sets
an open table for anyone
wiling to just ask...”
8/18/19
S.I., N.Y.

^”It is not in the asking, but in the searching and wrestling that we gain clarity.”
Eloisa Jul 27
In my quest for solace, love truly never fails,
Your memory magically appears to calm the violent storms and adjust my sail.
OTP Jan 29
With you, I try my best
'Cause you mean more than the rest
To keep you with me is my quest
So I fight and put up my chest
In my heart, you're my main guest
And every time I see you it's a fest
God, I swear I'm blessed.
© 2019 OTP All Rights Reserved.
Mia Wallace Sep 2017
I'm weathered and weary from shapes of greed
Their colors mislead me
I am naive
But I know eyes that taste
Without seeing
Now you know me, don't you?
But you are just waiting.

I am tired of this misinterpreted concept
I am tired of our tangled body's, this act between two that is only about you.
I'm tired of not being able to dance freely in fear of needy hands and sharp teeth
Pressuring possessiveness
Climb into your soul and off of my body
See that I am a creature of interrupted freedom
I will not answer to your hollow eyes
Your misconstrued ideas of love constructed by a society that forgot to feel
That forgot to see
That forgot that you are you and I am me

I will not answer to your hollow eyes
You are not welcome here.
an eternal search
a perpetual urge
a deep inner sigh
subsequent to a "high".

a low-key loner
once flew higher
the flaring fire
of an unfeterred desire.

here i roam
to find my home
a key to sire
peace before the pyre.

an unknown quest 
the soul, yearning to rest
searching for the path best,
life's an endless test!!
मेरी रूह का परिंदा फड़फड़ाये.......
Jason Lingaya Feb 17
For you I’ll learn to fly

High up high

Above the skies

Past the limits

Of the mind

To the serene siege

Of the soul

Where light is dim

And time is still

You are my pride

My Odyssey

My everything

Ghosts and Demons behold

To mine fears I command

Coz today coz of you

My quest is within.
Danny Wolf Jun 2018
The Hanbleceya.
The cry for a vision.
The Vision Quest.
The space between worlds.
In the presence of the Great Mystery.
I went down to the fire,
and she, the self I aim to be,
was not there.
I became her.
And maybe just for that moment on my blanket because I needed to be her.
She is on the eternal quest.
Forever in search,
forever seeking.
That magic I was hoping for did not emerge in the way I believed it would...
I let instead the Earth, and only her,
hear my screams.
Hear some deep agony within me,
maybe not even completely of my own.
Maybe the ancestral pains of the women who carried lives before me.
Red is the road to my heart,
is the color that bled out of me on the way up.
Dripping prayers down my legs,
each step became even more sacred.
Together, we sang our warrior song.
They are my amor, my comfort, my shelter, my warmth.
But on your blanket in your circle of prayers,
there is only you and the Creator.
You and the Great Mystery.
You and your fears, your pains, your demons.
You and your truths, your reasons, your prayers.
It is your choice whether to feed to thirst and hunger in your head,
or the hunger in your soul.
There is no greater pain than a soul not enacting its purpose,
its duty, its agreement with the Divine.
No greater pain.
And those screams that emerged from me,
from depths vast and deep,
was everything I ever let block me.
When we are broken open,
when we cry that deep soul cry,
we are breaking to let love and truth in,
we are watering our gardens.
So what magic am I believing was not present?
A vision may have not been shown to me,
but the courage of a single moment was.
To decide to not shut my eyes,
but to pray.
To offer compassions back to the Earth and take less for myself.
To not **** a single mosquito,
but rather walk off that blanket four days later marked with their persistence.
I watched their points enter my flesh
and saw their bodies fill with my blood.
Maybe they were extracting from me all that I no longer need.
And what itch is worse?
That of a red bump,
or that of the soul's need to incessantly scratch through its flesh suit to get to the core of its truth?
There were hours upon hours I let myself fall silent.
Listened to the sound of the woodpecker,
watched the spider crawl,
saw the turkey run.
They know how to be at home here.
And it is nothing grand that they do,
but they understand their purpose and place and they do not strive to feed and ego.
They do not "Ease God Out."
They are of God,
they are a God of their own.
So how do I remove myself from all the ******* of this world
if I do not place my being into the womb of Creation and sit?
The layers strip down,
the sun rises and sets and does so again.
I began to know before the sky would lighten that the morning was coming soon just by the sounds of the forrest.
The great trees barely swayed and the Earth was uprooting.
What am I doing here?
The days were long and hard and filled with a frustrating buzzing in my ears.
Buzzing like all the nonsensical thoughts we have on a daily basis.
If only our ears would buzz and ring every time we had a thought that backtracked us from our truths
and the inherent love that is within our beings.
If only we had the persistence of the mosquito that does not,
will not stop until it is filled with the one nectar it was meant to live on.
There were moments of bliss and moments I felt anxiety bubble up within.
Such a rare form of myself,
a piece of me I do not know too well.
I wanted to crawl out of my skin and be gone.
Be wind, be ether, be smoke.
Be gone.
And then they came,
bearing compassion.
Just a single sip of water.
Just a little.
They handed me that cup and I just cried.
Cried from the depths of my being.
"Do I even deserve this?"
And I let some moments pass,
held that cup in my hands and prayed in the form of tears.
That water,
that precious gift bearing life,
it touched my lips and made its way into my being.
And all become calm.
I am here for a purpose,
on this blanket, I mean.
I am here and meant to be no where but here.
And gently they spoke of the 6 pointed white star flowers surrounding me.
Not to me,
but a message for me.
A reminder of the beauty all around,
if I would only just look.
There I was,
sitting upon the hands of Creation.
If I had just stopped to listen,
stopped to breathe,
maybe I would have understood that on my own.
But that is why we tie that red prayer hung to our Ancestors.
He said,
"that prayer is your reminder to come back."
So for the next 360 days until I sit upon my blanket again,
the only prayer is to remember what I learned on that Mountain.
To remember what a blessing it is to drink a sip of water,
to be alone,
to look not into the eyes of another,
but only see the beauty of Creation.
I went out there wanting to be silent.
To just listen to what the world had to speak to me,
to shut out the voice in my head,
but there were moments that I could not hold back the words and prayers from my throat,
moments I needed to send my voice up or else I swore I would get up off that blanket and just walk away.
Moments I swore I would have filled the Earth with my screams again.
And when I spoke,
it was with such softness.
Maybe to not disrupt the frequency that Mountain has known long before Creator ever chose that spot for me to pray.
Maybe because when I spoke I barely recognized my own voice.
Because when you speak to Creation,
it is the truest version of yourself whose voice rises up from the very depths of your soul.
This is the voice that Creator knows.
And I just need to say I'm sorry that if for any moment I used my voice not pray
or to talk myself back into my heart and out of my head.
I'm sorry if I wasted a single moment on that Mountain.
The minutes seem so long when you're out there,
but now as I'm back home,
I'm wishing I could have just a few moments back on my blanket.
That I could have just one more opportunity to pray.
I would say to the Creator my name,
I would say please help me because I am struggling.
Please help me because  just want to make the best out of my life.
Please help me because I want to make sure I am on the right path to my purpose.
Please help me because I never want to know a life without you,
without prayer, without this Red Road.
Just one more time I want to speak those truths and let my tears become offerings of myself to the Earth.
But that is why we tie that prayer in Red.
Because I can go back.
I will go back and again be given the holy space to send my voice up and pray,
to cry,
to fall into silence,
to watch the sun set and rise again.
And I can stop now and breath.
I can stop and close my eyes and be on my blanket.
I can smell the freshness of Earth and the copal cloud of smoke.
I can pray and cry with myself on that blanket,
because there is a piece of me that will always be there.
In the land of the wise men,
where the wind blows ceaselessly
and the moon glows perpetually,
a great poet and his young protege
sat in the courtyard under the shadows
of the sycamore tree to meditate.
The protege said to his master.
" Sir, please make me a great poet"
The old master lifted his head
and gazed at the protege in awe.

" My son, you are a poet he retorted.
You have it in you. you live it,
you are engaged with it each day,
you hang with poets and read the
amazing works they penned.
You understand spoken words,
the unique linga Franca of poetry.
To find and get it out of you,  
you have to tear yourself apart.
go to where words reside.
Get into the minds of others.
Ask and read other people"s works.
Though it's kinda motivational,
but inspiration is everywhere.

" You see, the master told him,
every day the sun comes up,
it rises with a packaged gift
Unwrap it with tour mind
appreciate anything therein.
A disappointment and a bad day
can be a caveat for a writing
because it spikes emotions
and inspires one to dig deep...
My son, you have to write every day.
write about anything at any time.
rewrite what you aren't pleased with.
The more you write, the better you become.
The uglier the poems that come out
the better the poems that follow.

Write about the sun and the moon,
write in the morning and afternoon.
Write captivating and uplifting stories
about mermaids with beautiful bodies.
Or write about a wandering stranger,
who traveled in search of an adventure
with your hands, write about nature.
Using your mind, paint a beautiful picture.
Do this as often as many times as possible,
Someday you will achieve the impossible.

#IvanBrookspoetry (c)
August 11.2019
The protege's quest trended before it was written. I actually thought I was saving a draft, made of the title and just two lines. I just finished it
Peter J Jul 2018
On flat bank’s where
grass runt reeds grow
waiting for rising tide,
A lone Heron stealths silently
while Gulls cry warning, and dive effortlessly in to a cold sea air.
Pheonix  Peanut and Pandora
stranded on wet mud bank,
wait for their chance to escape
but it’s bonds that need to be severed in their quest for freedom.
Estuary lights dim and flicker in the distance while closer to shore Mermaids sing on the breath of a storm.
Beckoning sailors "come ride the waves"
Siren songs of lost souls and shadows
“Come with us” on this bursting sea.
And they sing with a drowning charm
as fishermen launch vessels under a shawl covered wife's watchful eye.
And yesterdays widows weep, face rained bright from navigational lights.
Ships bell ring in time with a rollicking sea,
Pheonix  Peanut and Pandora
still await their escape but not this night.
While the Heron has long fled this great swell.
No cries now from gulls nor mothers hurrying their little ones to the safety of their coal fired warm homes.
Just the rage of wave riding mermaids that will have their bounty
the heart and souls from a fisherman life.
#Something I dotted down while sat under the brown Laugharne castle gazing  out to sea.
ConnectHook Jun 14
Evil Drumpf ******, worse than Watergate
Orange Man bad— 'tis their hour to impeach!
Colluding, they rush to regurgitate
Nonsense from their last non-candidate's speech.

Accusations and trials. It's quite a show.
He's guilty, so guilty, of serious crime.
They're not sure of what, but he HAS to go.
(Their permanent peeve is our circus-time.)

Through dark lenses, opthalmologically:
They can hate on our optics; we won't mind
Our magic glasses allow us to see
With twenty-twenty vision . . . but they're still blind.
Please be sure to have regular eye checkups.
Ocular health is important for all.
Evan Stephens Jun 19
In the attic
with sister
old computer.

Insert disc 1 of 9,
King's Quest IV:
The Perils of Rosella,

argue about
who types,
where next,

do we call
the hintline,
5 a minute.

Rosella walks
screen to screen
in red dress.

We direct her
to act and
to die.

Reload
Rosella,
start again.

It took
all winter
to complete.

I remember
everything,
the whale and

the bridle,
the ball and
the hen.

In memory's
treasury
this is among

the most dear:
walnut table,
voltage hum,

sister yelling
watch out
watch out.
I can't decide,don't know what to do,
I look around but I find no clue.
Is it some other quest of life too?
I can't decide,I can't even move...
Longing for answers to all of the questions related to life and future...
Matt Sol Jan 20
so juxtaposed
I feel, I feel
concomitant
on a fulcrum
in a stasis
at the nadir
and the return
and I demur
A play on words, Pure lyrical content, good joo joo
Amanda Aug 2018
Seeking happiness in the wrong places
Then wonder why I am not
Blame fate for most my problems
When I am chasing my tail in the same spot

Sit and watch the world spin circles
Wait for opportunities to drop into my lap
Neglect health in the process
Realize I'm about to snap

Ready to give up this quest
Staring at a looming distant goal
Contemplating if I am the only one
Emptied of happiness, a hollow soul
My happiness is never enough to stick around
Dead Rose One Aug 2017
consciously, willfully, I wish it

quietly the Sunday, the sun day, drifts toward,
in its natural game, set, overmatched,
the foregone conclusion, nightfall diminishment

the water songfully swishes,
as the tide departs for places unknown, this then, now
the only natural authorized aural apparition,
the power boats renounce their normal noisy conditioning,
honoring their silenced, under-sail brethren,
as well as admitting their noises disfigure
the fast approaching majesty of the end of
our summer seasoning of humanity

consciously, willfully, I wish it

once again, lush is the quietude,^
now given up, surrendered and surceased to wonder,
how come I to write of these moments so oft,
thenever-ending quest to re-inscribe it on my sensibilities,
in vainglorious hopes that this stamping will last, be the last,
see me through the turgid frigidity of my Lucifer life,
come the fall, the winter, the early dark,
the daylight's brevity, the hurricane season of the mind,
that...need I say more?

consciously, willfully, I wish it

the particular white cloud formation of the moment at hand,
shall stay in place,  be the capstone of my summer living vision,
become permanent part and parcel
of the sclera, the white of my eyes, and when
I will write, soon enough,
my vision white weeping clouded,
you will weep knowingly, sympathetically

consciously, willfully,
I wish for that as well*

8/27/17
6:35pm
multi sumus Aug 2018
With eucharistic characteristics  hard swallowin phenomenal anomalies

                you follow me?

   Dont follow me ill have you arrested
   Moralities objective
   Subjective propensities towards the decrepit

   Feminine warriors ignoring the abhorrent horror stories of the deplorable boys thats imploring them

          "good guys finish last"

       Egregious dissastisfaction

The fact is even half-assin We're surpassing the masses

   And this depravity is maddening
   An asinine catastrophe
   A masterpiece travesty thats sad to see

   Thats why im actively extracted from fractional attractions lacking factors for actual natural actions

   While refusing the confusions of amusing illusions
   Refuting diluted delusions
   Until my "quest" is concluded

   i seek an inamorata thats enamored and amorous
   Elusive
virtue is scandelous
   With hastened patience
Dismantle this
Cné Aug 2017

Cné
I believe in love...
In a blink of an eye, a life goes by
extinguished in the end.
And all that's done returns to dust.
No omen can portend.
Yet love lives on, infecting all
and never really dies
It goes beyond the realm of man
to live in fragrant skies.
And on the spacious sea of clouds,
it waits to find a port.
And then it anchors in a soul
to caper and cavort.

Traveler
Perhaps
In the emotional beginning
When head was yet held high
Stumbling through clouds
Of bright blurry skies
Love was a foolish quest
Of paralyzing highs
And now you're telling me
Love can never die?

Cné
Translucent,
the clouds we've sailed
and golden sunsets made
Kisses that we could have had
while watching rainbows fade.
Alas, a life's too short to spend
in fathomless regret.
Perhaps the wheel will turn again
another lifetime yet.
And so, my love
the voyage goes on,
to "golden years"?
We'll see.
Until
the other side reveals
what shall become of "we".

Traveler
Indeed
A dangerous theory
I can't imagine
Love roaming free
The source of all misery
Another invisible ghost
Possessing unaware host
Surely
Love is the blood we bleed
All across time and history
Love is more than a mere key
More than a want
Love is a need...


Cné  
Traveler Tim


Stéphanie Feb 19
Told my feelings were fake
Laughed at for crying
Brutalized for refusing
Depicted as anomalous
This is my "home"

I exploded, caught a breath as I felt the silencing

Crossed volatile environments
Misunderstood ephemeral friends
Bullied, ostracized
Experienced injustice
This is school

I performed, in the illusion of shutting silencing

Living my curiosity
Knowledge is my strength
Reflexivity makes me grow
Embracing my difference
This is my refuge

I introspected, in the freedom of their paralyzed silencing

Meet mind-like people
Discovered my emotions
Explored my preferences
Dug my family history
This is my travel

I free-fell, as in my trust I hit structural silencing

Communicating humbly
Nourishing healthy relationships
Trusting my positions
Affirming my autonomy
This is my womanhood

Becoming a mother, I urge to gather the pieces for her freedom
I wrote this poem after days of suffering from my mother's intrusion in my maternity… how she made fun of me and invalidated my thoughts, actions and desires towards my future daughter.
Shrishty May 2017
Tonight, I feel closer to myself,
But it only means that I'm farther away,
From every bittersweet memory,
And from my mother's lullaby,
And from my father's lap.

The quest of finding myself has left me alone,
And I've discovered my inner-darkness.
I saw the bad in the people around me,
But turns out I'm only one to be blamed.
If only I had known that finding myself meant losing everyone else, I would've chose better. Self discovery is not always happiness.
Rox Oct 2018
Diacridic
He lays
While the leaves sit underneath
the brilliance of sincerities tree,

and thinking to you
were all the things done by.

As it were
Discriptless
Pages left turned and inkless
What's left behind inside
the minds of an intertwining summer
a conclusion predesignated.

I saw to you,
just as I waved hello to goodnight’s moon.
As they touched along the surfaces
fleeting into the skin
A welcomed wound.

And didn’t you know,
That the pictures I stole
Of every point of you
Were etching onto sheets of heaven
into the reflections of the mirrors
that sit before your bedside.

While it rests
with mixed spirits,
the roses that I bore

Passing through glowing bodies
are the images you started to dream with me
while the silences burrow

A judgement left only partially bridged.
Melded with the manifestation of adoptions quest

And as the calls ring in secluce,
I still feel that this alley is ghostless
Lest this vase breathe the life
of unwilted flowers

where the flip sides meet
on the evenings tides
joined by charmed indifferences

in company with the character
of an old flame,
only tangible with
lights which lay ahead.

medleyed in to what's to be.

Thank you.
Next page