Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Poets.
Into the Void
The wind whipped the strings of my hoodie against my face as if trying to strangle me. I stood at the edge of the cliff, close to the mountain peak. All was silent, minus the occasional shrieks and howls of the wind. It felt as if everything was still. Like a presence pressing upon my head and heart. As I gazed over the precipice viewing the trees and empty space that separates me from the bottom far below, I am overcome with melancholy. The wind slowly fades out of hearing, and I listen, its my heart beating, the blood pulsing through my veins, my breathing which has become less. Little by little all sound fades away into the nothingness as the last ray of twilight disappears beyond the horizon, stealing the golden paint from the skies and splattering it with blacks and blues. I feel the presence of it. The lack of life. The oppressive feeling of separation. The desolation from the music of life cut off. The vacuumed chasm below me. L'appelle Du Vide.
By Jordan Belville8 years ago in Poets
The Killing of a Muse
You may kill off the muse early on in the story, but you can’t get rid of her. She will forever be there, engraved on the typewritten paper, embroidered on the readers memory, the light shadows of her name or description being cast through the thin sheet of word covered paper.
By Scotch Vaughan8 years ago in Poets
A 2 A.M. Poem
You left two cigarettes at my house but two cigarettes is all it takes to start an addiction and it's an addiction I'll always hate but on you... it looked hella great. You wore the smoke like cologne and the smell was enough to make me choke and you apologized for it. You apologized but never quit and eventually I became used to it. I started to like the stench or maybe it was an acquired smell but when it finally became home, so did you. You were two a.m. cookies and 10 minute back rubs when work was wearing me down. You were slow dancing while breakfast was cooking and you were the sturdy arms that held me when my depression was more than I could handle and when your hands wiped away the tears that poured from my eyes, it was enough to break the camel's back. You were the feather that broke me. All of my walls collapsed. But when they collapsed it was a free-for-all barren wasteland full of arguments and thrown shoes all over the ground. My home now contained a stranger I had believed to be my lover. My home was a damaged one to begin with but when you left, depression and loneliness and rubble was all I had to call mine. Those cigarettes weren't mine. They were the memory of you and I never wanted to relive that memory again but without the butterflies you used to give me, my insides felt so empty. I struck up the lighter that I used to burn our bridges and lit up the stick of cancer you left and the first huff was like I was breathing in the lighter itself. The smoke burned my lungs and brought back the smell of you and by the time I lit number two, I realized I was addicted. Not to the taste of cigarettes, not to the toxins filling my lungs with every huff. I realized I was addicted to the smell of smoke and the taste of ash on your tongue but if smoking these cigarettes is the closest I can get to you, then I guess lung cancer doesn't seem so bad.
By Trisha Kirby8 years ago in Poets
Washed Through
There I stood, numb, in the dimly lit shower. The room was filled with hot steam that covered the mirror, and the water cascaded onto me. Drips of water ran down my face and off my nose. The longer I stood, the less numb I felt. The humidity was pressing against me, filling the empty space with sustenance, while the shower floor collected puddles of dirty water. Not physically dirty, but the soiled sin filled mind getting washed away. The longer I stood, I began to realize that it wasn't the steam or water filling the void, but the one who whispers into my ears at night. The one who greets my waking breaths with sound and light. The one who spreads a fog among the forest trees bathing it in mysterious wonder. No. I wasn’t numb at all. The shower tempo had not changed, but the beat of my heart had, the space around me became heavy, heavy with emotion, as if something electric was sitting in the air, waiting to burst forth in. It wasn't water that streamed down my face anymore, but tears. As I now sat, in the mechanic rain, eyes closed engulfed in blackness hearing the water splashing against my ears like violent drum beats, it all seemed to fade… hope came to me, in the rhythm of my soul. “You can do this”, he gently said, “You are not alone….You are loved..
By Jordan Belville8 years ago in Poets
