Friendship
Beautiful out of the Ugly
More cautious and careful because I know time creeps up, and I didn’t want nobody to define me stuck, I felt something in my heart for you, walking in the dark for truth. I didn’t want nobody judging me on who I was in the before, I didn’t live for the pretenses, or a label, but rather on a search for trust. It was hard to find that, and when I found it? I was flustered. I had to start believing I was well deserving, all energy conserving, finding ways to say the good for us is all just luck, knife impressions on a ego scared up, on this planet where it all heats up, from still waters make a wave, touch a cloud and send floods, when it rains it pours, at the least it drizzles, depressed a little, undressing riddles while running, reading in between lines of what was unsaid, the cunning. You might know what it’s like growing up, even having to watch relatives suspiciously, because the drugs got the best of them but still find love intrinsically, love that doesn’t always get dealt with justly, so to give love it’s just due, I’ll make beautiful out of the ugly. Then would you love me?
By Trenton Hughleyabout a year ago in Poets
They Key Between Stranger Realms - Day Fourteen
On this dark morning, I wake with a fright. The sun has yet to rise, yet I am unburdened by the haze of dreamy sleep. The walls of the concrete abode feel more like a lie as the mornings pass, and I begin to wonder if this was the stranger realm all along. I’m not sure about time, but I know that I don’t want to waste any of it. I need to find Clovis.
By Sam Eliza Greenabout a year ago in Poets
The Window I Never Opened
There was a window in my childhood home that I never opened. It was in the corner of my bedroom, overlooking the narrow street where bicycles rattled and children shouted until the sun dipped below the roofs. The glass was always a little foggy, the frame painted thick with layers of white over the years. My mother used to say the window was stubborn, that it had been painted shut long before we moved in.
By arsalan ahmadabout a year ago in Poets
Between the Lines of Rain —
Rain has always carried a language of its own. For some, it is music, a lullaby for weary souls. For others, it is grief, the sky weeping when words are too heavy to speak. For me, rain has always been a mirror—reflecting not only the world outside but also the storms within.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Poets
The Language of Falling Leaves
Introduction: When the Trees Begin to Speak Every autumn, when the air turns crisp and the trees begin to shed their leaves, the world transforms into a living poem. Golden, crimson, and amber leaves dance through the air before resting gently on the ground. To many, it’s just a seasonal shift. But if you listen closely, you’ll hear something deeper — the language of falling leaves.
By Nadeem Shah about a year ago in Poets
