Prose
poetry became—me
"Waking up, covered in sweat, aphids crawl in every crevice, dirt blocking out my vision. The little I can see is black, bleary and blurry. Where am I, what is this? There's something sniffing around my ears. Nibbling at the edges, playfully even, ticklish. Rats, mice or something. Maybe ferrets. There's that smell. Polecat, ferret smell. Worms slither in my hair. Trying to break free, can't move my arms, can't move my legs. Are they strapped down? Are they weighed down? By the dirt burying me head to toe. Does it matter? I can't move, I can't escape. Stuck in this hell, stuck in this prison. It feels like a container or box, or maybe coffin? Now I can't think of anything else but coffin, confining me. My nose is itchy, dammit. That seems unimportant but the itch is aggravating. Stuck in this hell, this prison. Who? What? Why? I could speak if I could open my lips. My jaw is sore. Even if I could vocalise what I'm feeling, how I'm reeling in terror. Maybe it's time to embrace it, give in, let it take me. Whatever it is, whoever it is. Fighting seems pointless, helpless, in vain. How can it be that it is how and also cold? There is something else... Spiders? Scorpions crawling and biting or picking at my skin and flesh. Why won't I wake up? Is this even a dream or a never-ending nightmare? I am not sure if I can tell whether I... am awake or not. Why is it getting warmer? Why is it getting darker?"
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
Embers of Unity
Chapter 1: The First Flame The wind howled through the frozen chasms of Eldenstead, gnawing at the sturdy wooden homes and slicing through the warmest cloaks like a serrated whisper. In the heart of the village square, the Hearth of Ages stood tall—a majestic brazier whose flame had danced unbroken for more than three centuries. This was no ordinary fire; it pulsed with life, a vibrant ember embodying the very spirit of Eldenstead—a watchful guardian against the creeping shadows of despair.
By GoldenSpeechabout a year ago in Poets
Winter's Bittersweet Charm
A stillness filling the air makes it difficult to drudge out into daily activities we regularly endure. But I think this stillness reminds us, to slow down, to just be. It bring rest and openness to the forefront of our mind, and though it causes chaos in our mundane routines, I'd argue that it wakes us up. Shakes us down to the core. Of course there is no way to be sure. There is only that which resonates and that which we choose to believe.
By Sady Bayne about a year ago in Poets
"A DYSTOPIAN CHRISTMAS". Content Warning.
"In this world, there is room for everyone. And the good earth is rich and can provide for everyone. The way of life can be free and beautiful, but we have lost the way. Greed has poisoned men's souls, has barricaded the world with hate, has goose-stepped us into misery and bloodshed.” as said by Charlie Chaplin
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli about a year ago in Poets
