humor

What Are You Afraid Of
the secrets we hide always come back to haunt us Those damn closet doors
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden3 months ago in Poets
Haunted
The ghosts just spooked me- Witches and the pumpkins screamed! Haunted--be Afraid!
By Meghan LeVaughn 3 months ago in Poets
The Reflective Mirror
Each word I write remakes my face— a thousand selves in shifting glass. The page becomes a mirrored place where every truth must learn to pass.
By Rebecca A Hyde Gonzales3 months ago in Poets
False Fall
I imagine autumn the way the storytellers promised— air so crisp it cracks when you breathe, smoke curling from chimneys,
By Brie Boleyn3 months ago in Poets
The Dress that shone
Long ago, in the age of angels, magic, fairies, witches, goblins and ghouls, there lived four royal children. In the year that they turned thirteen, a royal ball was held in their honor. This year, the youngest, who shone like a brightly lit lantern...was the center of attention with her coming of age celebration.
By Antoni De'Leon3 months ago in Poets
Thinking Outside the Box
I want to think outside of the box. I feel cramped, Stale. Too still. Suffocated, some days. One day, I felt shaken awake.
By Rowan Finley 3 months ago in Poets
The Bones Beneath My Smile
Every morning I iron my face flat. A crisp crease down the center, eyebrows aligned, mouth on standby. I'm not awake - I'm assembled.
By Aspen Noble3 months ago in Poets
Beneath the Surface
We wear our faces like a second skin, smooth and practiced, tucked and pinned— the careful smile, the measured word, the laughter no one knows is blurred with something harder underneath.
By AJ CRYPTO3 months ago in Poets
It's A Trap
It's the same trap I recognize it I fell in on purpose For the journey Because I'm stubborn Just love trouble The excitement of another
By L.I.E3 months ago in Poets
SOLILOQUY WHIMSY
SOLILOQUY WHIMSY 10-6-25 I want to write something.. anything.. Just make it fantastic.. sublime.. Bombastic, even!
By Victor Mendez4 months ago in Poets
I Make a Mean Mug of Meatballs!
I can make a mean mug of meatballs. Don’t be confused, the mug isn’t mean, although the pattern is mesmerizing, so it would seem.
By Rowan Finley 4 months ago in Poets
His Cross, My Quiet
His Cross, My Quiet He climbed the hill beneath the bruised sky, each step an echo of love. The crowd watched, torn between hate and awe,
By Marie381Uk 4 months ago in Poets