Can you feel it? Like thousands of ants running down your skin Like hot oil pushing through your veins Like swallowing concrete
By Trinity H2 years ago in Poets
Sighs of relief from holding your breath can remind you why she kept you quiet There's a time to keep it down low, once it surfaces there's no going back
By Mason Darnielle2 years ago in Poets
A few years ago, I did something that had you asked when I was young if I was capable of doing that, I would have argued that no, I was not
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
your heart is a forest that's long overgrown. your goals and ambitions, uneven in tone. trying so hard, still coming up short.
By Merrie Sanders2 years ago in Poets
he told me about how he got high for the first time on New Years Eve which was why he stopped responding to my texts at 11 pm
By Huan Huan 2 years ago in Poets
Sometimes I wonder if people crave religion the way I do. I also wonder if people feel the need to run away like I do. Have they also found silence on the other end of their prayers and still see their own vacant eyes on the otherside of the world. What am I looking for? What have I always been looking for? Comfort? Stability? Have I damned myself in youth, filling my mind with my own utterings? I wonder if its the same force within me that hasn't let me sleep. You cannot be vulnerable with sleep. You cannot be vulnerable with belief. You cannot be vulnerable with others. You cannot be vulnerable in body. It feels like its been a war since the day I was born. But thunder still cracks and I still jump. How long will I pretend I'm not scared? How long will I be looking for something I won't let myself find? One day I hope my writing won't be so full of questions. Is it a night terror or a spirit? Will I ever know?
Do my words mean anything? They lack the beauty of poetry, they lack the consistency of stories. I'm held at gun point to produce something palatable. I'm a
You left the door open after three days, a slight chill a cool breeze that bit my skin. * After a month, snow flurries covered the entrance,
By Natasha Collazo2 years ago in Poets
A babbling brook careening down every
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
Why do you write the things you do? Because it's who I am. Who do you write these stories for? Myself, to distract from the world around me.
By Thomas James2 years ago in Poets
Inspiration comes from the strangest places. Often flowing from where least expected. None can tell when it comes. It simply does.
(Inspired by the song Trauma Factory by: Nothing,Nowhere) It all started 11 years ago. The day I locked myself in this box. And it's been six months since the knocking first began.
