Blackout
The Last Café for Poets
M Mehran In the heart of the city, tucked between a crumbling bookstore and a neon-lit record shop, there was a café that seemed almost forgotten by time. Its windows were streaked with the fingerprints of dreamers who had come and gone, leaving whispers of their stories behind. The faded sign above the door read simply: The Last Café for Poets.
By Muhammad Mehranabout a month ago in Poets
W e Of L ike F etish
It is a small offering, absurd in the scale of its appetite, yet the fire loves permission, however small; free to rise from its ashen wreath at a time of its choosing, it wants justification for the hunger of its being. An excuse to devour, untamed.
By Kristen Keenon Fisherabout a month ago in Poets
When I Finally Let God Carry Me
There comes a point in life when a person becomes tired. Not the kind of tired that comes from a long day or a sleepless night, but the kind that settles deep in the bones. A tiredness of the soul. I reached that point slowly, step by step, without even noticing how heavy my heart had become. I thought I was moving toward the future I wanted, pushing through storms because I believed my way was the only way. I fought every wave. I resisted every turn. I tried to fix every problem alone.
By Salman Writesabout a month ago in Poets
