Prose

LIGHT VERSUS DARK. Content Warning.
Written, created, edited, produced into a story directly from my brain adventures of dreams and living in a paint bucket amidst a tortured economy and chaotic political climate in 2025.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 9 months ago in Poets
List Of Stolen Poems
This is the last list I am making even if there is more poems stolen, there is more than enough evidence to remove this account. Some of the poems they posted twice. Special thanks to Mother Combs for keeping me calm and helping me getting this problem resolved. And that you all who had reported, this person and commented on stories about this account. Really feeling the love from my vocal family.
By L.I.E9 months ago in Poets
Alphabet Soup
At the intersection of PTSD and ADHD is crawling in my thin unrecognizable skin. Running from pointless unfinished chore to pointless unfinished chore. Filling every waking moment with sedating noise to overwhelm the screaming sound of my overheating brain. Panicked twirling in confusing circles, loading task after task, unable to begin until all have filled in. Tools disappear as I put them to use. Nervously checking windows, doors, and corners even while I'm unaccompanied. It's locking the bathroom and bedroom doors when only my husband is home with me. Feeling a spider descend on the room, while I walk over a piece of trash until it drags me to the floor. Windows all blinded and draped, lamps turned down, barely illuminating my face. With nothing to eat because it has all gone bad. Dishes pile up in the sink, all washed in one day, just to click on rinse and repeat. A clattering clash of magnificent thought, ready to be enacted, but motivation dies the second there's a bump. One fleeting look of disapproval ends in relationship upheaval. Fleeing to the only perceived home base. It seems to be a cyclic race. Starting out with tears of pain, easily racing the ladder to joy again. Don't dare ask me to come down. You know I'll leap, no second look. Delve into a project I have never tried before. Get three-quarters of the way before running out of the steam to go on. Just toss it on the pile, they make great kindling for the fire.
By K.B. Silver 9 months ago in Poets
One Day I…
The sun sat low in the sky, spilling its last warmth over the land. The air was still, yet my chest held a storm. I sat alone on a flat rock, toes digging into the dry earth, watching shadows stretch long across the savanna. This moment—this endless stretch of quiet—should have been enough. But I wasn’t here.
By Elsa Rose N. Cheping9 months ago in Poets
List Of Stolen Work
This is a list of poems stolen from me by the same account. Unfortunately there is a lot more and these are poems she just recently posted so I haven’t reported them yet. If you will like to help and report them for me that will be great. And I may or may not post another list later. Anyways, thanks you all for your support and encouraging words during this difficult time. It doesn't feel great getting your work stolen, especially to this magnitude. It’s very obsessive. And starting to feel like a personal attack, I know they stolen others, but I don't think as many as mines.
By L.I.E9 months ago in Poets
He Loved Me First
I found love first in silence— not in a voice, but in presence. God met me where loneliness tried to make a home. And that’s when I learned love doesn't need touch to hold you.
By Carolina Borges9 months ago in Poets
The Tenant
The tenant in the room of my skull is not a burden, but a revelation, but an aspiring birdwatcher in a plaid, body-scented shirt, and high pants, walking with a notched cherrywood cane toward the room’s only window. (The room’s only window is only a window from the outside-looking-in. From the inside-looking-out, it is a mirror.) (And if every story ever told is true, then someday the mirror will become a window. And the window will become a door. And then that door will open.)
By Ellis Cahill9 months ago in Poets
A poem about your first diary in which you wrote your first poem
Darkness was impaired in its transgression as hope seemed to find its way, A startling realisation, a sight to behold, one might deem to say.
By Hridya Sharma9 months ago in Poets
I Wonder What Mary Felt
I wonder what Mary felt. Not the saint in stained glass— but the mother. The woman. The girl who said yes before she even knew what that yes would cost her.
By Carolina Borges9 months ago in Poets
Growing Hope
The resisting fascism workshop was full of white people afraid of Trump. I don't know what I was expecting. Not that. What it facilitated, though,
By kp9 months ago in Poets
Allama Iqbal – The No.1 Poet of Pakistan
Early Life and Education Born on November 9, 1877, in Sialkot, Punjab (then part of British India), Allama Iqbal belonged to a devout Muslim family. He showed early signs of intellectual brilliance and poetic talent. He received his initial education in Sialkot and then moved to Lahore, where he attended Government College. Under the mentorship of Sir Thomas Arnold, Iqbal developed a deep interest in Western philosophy.
By Mr Ali9 months ago in Poets
Memory's Grove
The leaves don’t fall the way we think not all at once, nor always gold. Some drop without a sound or blink, and some hang on against the cold.
By Adam Z10 months ago in Poets