Blackout

Impaled
Impaled I inhale the pain Watch the blood rain As I pull your knife from my back For the heresy But now they listen to me
By Atomic Historian11 months ago in Poets
A. Schicklgruber H.
They were NPC’s with little concern Until color became oval shaped Schicklgruber was his middle name John is his middle name almost 100 years later
By Cadma11 months ago in Poets
Surviving meant
I fear what my survival instincts tell me what to do It took me so long to finally find you I watch my environment go up in flames
By Cadma11 months ago in Poets
Echoes of 1944
Echoes from 1944 Sarah's hands trembled as she opened the worn shoebox she had found in her grandmother's attic. Inside, dozens of letters were delicately wrapped in fading blue ribbon, their edges dulled by time. The postmarks dated back to 1944, and the return addresses led through war-torn Europe. As she delicately undid the ribbon, a short message slipped out: "My dearest Thomas, my love across the vast ocean."
By A.O11 months ago in Poets
Geoffrey Chaucer (c. 1343–1400, England) – The Canterbury Tales
The Frame Narrative The story begins with a prologue in which Chaucer introduces the setting: a group of 29 pilgrims gather at the Tabard Inn in Southwark, near London, preparing for their pilgrimage to Canterbury. The host of the inn, Harry Bailey, suggests that to pass the time, each pilgrim should tell two tales on the way to Canterbury and two on the way back. The best storyteller will receive a free meal upon their return, paid for by the other pilgrims.
By Mr Ali11 months ago in Poets
Ocean Vuong: A Poetic Voice of Intimacy, Loss, and Resilience
Early Life and Influences Born in Ho Chi Minh City, Vietnam, in 1988, Vuong immigrated to the United States with his family as a child. His upbringing in a working-class immigrant household in Hartford, Connecticut, played a crucial role in shaping his literary voice. Growing up, he was drawn to storytelling, especially as a way to bridge the cultural and linguistic gaps between himself and the world around him. He learned English at a later age, and this delayed acquisition of language informs much of his work, particularly his fascination with words, their meanings, and their limitations.
By Mr Ali11 months ago in Poets
Love this Country. Content Warning.
The history of our land has not always been grand Since Christopher Columbus wrecked the land Then called it’s natives, outside of their name
By Cadma11 months ago in Poets
A Nation of Snakes
I wake to a country I barely know, Where kindness fades and hatred grows. Once built on dreams, now cracked and torn, A house divided, faith forsworn.
By Cadma11 months ago in Poets
Symphony of Silence: A Boy's Journey in 900 Words
In a quiet village nestled between rolling hills and whispering pines, there lived a boy named Eli. When Eli was born, the village elders gathered at his cradle, their faces etched with unease. A peculiar enchantment had settled over him: he would speak only 900 words in his entire lifetime. Once those words were spent, his voice would vanish forever. The elders whispered of an ancient tale—a bard who’d angered a forest spirit, cursed to lose his voice after squandering his words on lies. But Eli’s parents, farmers with calloused hands and tender hearts, refused to call it a curse. “It’s a riddle,” his father said, “and riddles have answers.”
By K. B. 11 months ago in Poets
A letter from the future
In the depths of your soul, a spark has always glowed, A knowing that you're special, even when no one else knows. Though you've hurt and abandoned me, time and time again,
By Fedora 11 months ago in Poets
The Last Storm
The wind howled through the empty streets, carrying with it the scent of rain that would never come. The sky, a dull shade of gray, loomed over the remains of a once-thriving city. Crumbling buildings stood like forgotten tombstones, their windows shattered, their walls cracked by time and neglect. The world had dried up, leaving nothing but dust and despair in its wake.
By Pranshu verma11 months ago in Poets
Walls
Walls work both ways One day you say hooray The next, you can’t stay Because walls work both ways _________________ The photo: Konrad Schumann jumping over the early Berlin Wall.
By Atomic Historian11 months ago in Poets