Prose

Old Worn Denim
This old worn out denim tells of the life I've live in them from the stains to the rips in the knees Where we rolled in the grass
By Ellie Hoovs11 months ago in Poets
Unattractive
I get lonely sometimes. I want to talk, see people, laugh with them. Thus I looked at photographs of myself today. Not just my face.
By Shequinah Nanshanapa11 months ago in Poets
building the mid-20s lexicon
by wearing a hair clip, going to the movies for the first time in six years -- with an ex, no less; the one who liked degrading sex; mess; he keeps his hand in agitated rest, icy on my left thigh -- by drinking beet juice (within five days of opening) because I feel particularly earth-bound, because it smells like the bottom of a well (near-empty), by leaning into the short haircut, which feels both manageable and unruly and, at last, aged instead of juvenile (the movie theater bathroom mirror is so piercing and portal-esque I wonder how long I can keep up this confident mien), by lamenting about meal planning and blepharitis with my cousin, by breaking in a posture brace, by inching toward a 1000-day Duolingo streak, by considering using Afterpay for a 1.7 fl. oz. face cream, by running out of shelf space, by developing a halcyon attachment to the squirrel that's made a home under the solar panels, takes a routine jaunt across the porch to eat ice chips, by throwing out anything with underwire, by treating each errand as sacrosant, by building World Market wishlists, by staring at my hands a lot, by Mary Oliver's locution, by rereading, by radically championing how my face splits in half, by sending love to the tip of my skull, by seeing what builds up under my nails.
By Erin Latham Shea11 months ago in Poets
Poets and Writers Lament
A poet begins struck by a muse holding the ink tightly, not loose ---- the lovers enjoy, some offer critique the poet continues to bleed mystique.
By Shanon Angermeyer Norman11 months ago in Poets
To My Apartment
To my own apartment, I cannot wait to experience the abundant privacy and the luxury of having my own place for solitary peace
By Guillermo11 months ago in Poets
Written in Gas Station Bathrooms
Who were you? Why were you here? Were you just passing through or is this your home town? Did you scrawl your name here
By Ellie Hoovs11 months ago in Poets
Ode to the Rebels
You are not the heroes this world craves but the warriors she needs You paved paths of gold over uncharted waste lands
By Ellie Hoovs11 months ago in Poets
A Brief New Legend of Muses and Musings
There once was a goddess, whose responsibility it was to make the artists on Earth productive and exciting. In an era of decay and corruption, her favorite musician lost his love and fell into a spiral of depression and lethargy. He rarely wrote or created or sang. She lamented his abstention, and searched for ways to rekindle his heart.
By A. S. Lawrence11 months ago in Poets
"MS. MIRIBELA PEREZ". Content Warning.
This is a fairy tale of sorts. This is a fictional story created my brain from a dream I had the other night. All characters are fictional, and the content is fictional as I have vivid dreams. I decided to share this dream. IT IS NOT ABOUT ME OR ANYONE YOU KNOW OR I KNOW.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 11 months ago in Poets
Sail Away
As you lay your head upon your berth Tossing and turning in your bunk Your body fighting off blessed slumber Clear your mind from the day’s stress
By Mother Combs11 months ago in Poets
The passage of time, nostalgia
The ticking hands, they never pause, Etching lines with inconspicuous claws. A childhood giggle, a transitory glance, Lost inside the waltz of chance.
By Mr Ali11 months ago in Poets
The Vacant Room
I revisit this vacant room, shrouding the memories of provocative correspondence. But only periodically. Not for any significant reason other than the fact that these memories in a way seem to help me cope with the loss.
By Myxl Dove11 months ago in Poets