Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Poets.
The Dream
It's so cold you can barely see anything in this fog. It's starting to rain now and i can still smell perfume and cigarettes in the air but you are long gone. The train left hours ago. I am alone with the things that i left behind because i thought that you were a dream of mine what a fool i was to think you had the same dreams in mind. You are in fact a dream killer you suffocate you take the air around you. I know that im just another dick in your mouth something that is the best of all the other hand jobs you give out on any given Sunday Honestly you have stifled the dreams that i once had but even if i cry you will never ever know that im sad.... alarms are screaming now what a fucked up dream i had. I'm glad it's over i hated being so sad. You are a bringer of misery not part of my dream the one where the world goes right so wherever you are i hope your happy tonight i'm moving through the world cause you're not in sight, by the way i'm in love with your sister she treats me right. It may be wrong of me nah that can't be right
By john noakes8 years ago in Poets
Alive
A Poem. Alive In a Morning on Sunday Oh why? Why upon the lives of men, women, and children. Screams in the midnight air. Cries through the dense fog in early morning of Sunday. The sun will not rise within the seven of hours. Canon's blasting, gunshots firing. Oh why? Why upon the lives of the unknown souls being taken, lifted, and trapped upon the earth's surface. Free but unwilling to roam beyond the stars. Do I run? No I stand my ground. Do I weep for the dead? No I stay strong and take on this challenging life. Do I give in upon my weakened soul? No because I am alive in this morning on an unimaginable Sunday.
By Kayla Roses8 years ago in Poets
The Magic of Words
Words. They are the medium by which we relate reality; a currency of intuition and thought. Toward lexiconical pools we cast our poles of cognition, weaving from our bounty elaborate tapestries of self reflection. To the spiritualist, words are aether made form. To the reductionist, words are impulse made vibration. Perhaps the beauty of words lies in the fact that they posses the power to relay intent, thus reassuring guru and scientist alike that we are not alone in the dark and infinite cosmos. Words reassure us that our senses do not lie. Remember a time when you basked in a cerulean pool under the soft light of a full moon? If you can not, make a note to do so; it produces a holistically pleasurable warmness. Remember a time when you exchanged glaces with your love? Such euphoria and understanding can not be properly expressed without metaphor. To sate our dire need of relation we cast our poles out yet again, for senses are meaningless if we can not make sense of them. Every word we use references each of its predecessors and provides context for each of its ancestors in the continuous dance of discourse by which we mediate experience.
By Zeno Antonius8 years ago in Poets
