humor
When Horror Came to Speak
He came with tales like coiling smoke,With fingers long as funeral notes.His eyes, two bottomless pits of dread,Where lost men fall and never tread.He sat by me — not near, but in,The horror of him not on his skin —But in his breath, in every sound,That reached my soul and spun it 'round.He whispered once, he whispered twice,Each word a wound, each tone like ice.He told of screams that no one hears,Of children born to silent fears.Of mirrors cracked not by the hand,But by the soul that could not standIts own reflection through the years —He showed me death, and called it peers.But I, a writer bold and bare,Have seen the ghosts that men can't bear.My pen is not a sword or wand —It is a mirror, cold and fond.It does not lie, it does not break,Though trembles in the quake of ache.I did not flinch; I did not kneel.I drank the dark and made it feel.For I have watched as others fell —Not into graves, but deeper hells:The hells of guilt, regret, and pride,Where laughter runs away to hide.I’ve seen men paint their love with lies,And call their truths a grand disguise.They bow to flesh, and mock the soul —And call the broken-hearted whole.The horror-man, he laughed at me,A hiss that echoed endlessly."You do not fear me — you are cursed,To see me clear, and feel me first.The ones who scream are not the doomed —It’s those who hear but still resumeTheir daily play of light and sin,That bear the rot that lies within.”Oh yes, I heard him. Loud and deep.He crawled inside the halls of sleep.But he found there a place too bright —My dreams are drawn in sacred light.For though I walk with death and pain,I do not dance within the chain.I see — I write — I bleed — I feel.But I do not pretend what’s real.He told me how the hearers change,How horror makes their logic strange.They build their houses out of dread,They wash with guilt, they dream of red.They stop to speak, to think, to try —And slowly let their moments die.Fear, he said, is not to scream.It is the theft of hope and dream.He told me of a girl who sleptWith every sorrow that she kept.Who looked into a cracked old glassAnd prayed her childhood wouldn’t pass.He told me of a mother tornBetween the man she loved and scorned.He told me of a priest who criedAt every “Amen” he denied.He gave me hell in every tale —And yet I stood, both firm and pale.He asked, “What makes you stand so still,While others break and flee my will?”I said, “You feed on minds unlit,On souls that hide, on hearts that quit.But I am not the one you seek —My strength was forged when I was weak.”He recoiled not in hate — but awe.As if a thing he couldn’t draw.I saw in him not hate, but need —To be believed, to be decreed.For horror has its own desire —To show the soul its secret fire.But I, the writer, did not burn —I wrote instead, and let it turn.And then he vanished like a sigh,Not with a bang, but soft goodbye.No claps of thunder marked the end,No screaming wind, no broken bend.But in my heart, he left a song —Of those who hear and yet stay strong.He cursed me once, then blessed me thrice —For hearing him — and not think twice.Let me speak now, to you, the Hearer:Do not think fear is just a face,It has a home in every place.In laughter, in a lover’s kiss,In every sacred thing you miss.It walks with you, it speaks in doubt,It lights your dreams and snuffs them out.But still — you choose what you obey,And what you write at end of day.I chose the ink, not blade or bell.I chose to know and not to dwell.To gather horror in my hand,And make it part of where I stand.For men are weak, and men are brave —And both are buried in one grave.It matters not if you are scared —But if you write while you are bared.And now, some truths for you to keep:The beauty man forgets in hasteIs always etched in what he faced.The faith he trades for fleeting gainReturns in dreams, with ghostly pain.The lies he tells to feel aliveBecome the tombs where truths don’t thrive.The love he gives, then takes away,Still waits for him — on judgment day.I have no fear of ghost or ghoul.I fear the heart that plays the fool.The man who loves and yet betrays.The child who learns the crooked ways.The preacher who forgets to pray.The artist who won’t walk the gray.The friend who speaks with hollow breath.The soul who’s lost the fear of death.He came again last night in dream,No longer dark, but silver gleam.He sat, not as a beast or bane,But like a storm that knows the rain.And I — I asked him, soft and clear,“What is it that you want from hearers?”He said, “Just this — to be believed.To show the wounds that man’s conceived.Not every ghost is dead and gone.Some live in flesh, in dusk and dawn.And if your pen can mark them true,Then horror’s task is done through you.”And so I write — with fire, not fright.To speak the dark and birth the light.I walk with horror not in chain,But as a shadow to explain.For every man must one day choose —To dance with death, or death refuse.And when the tale is writ and done,I’ll stand — the hearer who did not run.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
The AM Attack
Every morning, next ... next to an AM. A werewolf... tv stuff. Making forgetters... in no trouble It hollers very, very fine ... Making a forgettter With a mate, Wakes! Next to an AM ... tv stuff. An ambush! Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts. Please leave a comment. Copyright 2025 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smithabout a year ago in Poets
Plastic Hearts in Concrete Gardens
I passed a tree today—Or was it a lamppost shaped like one?Its leaves made of solar panels,Photosynthesizing data instead of sun.A man stood beside it,Scrolling through the void,Searching for meaningIn an algorithm’s ploy.He wore ambition like perfume—Sprayed thick in the morning,Faded by dusk.His dreams stored in spreadsheets,His laughter in drafts.He had no time for sunsets,No language for stars.Only meetings and deadlines,And invisible scars.O modern man!You builder of towers,Drinker of lies,How you have bartered the skyFor a fluorescent flicker,The fragrance of soilFor a silicon whisper.You speak in emojis,But feel nothing inside.A thousand “likes”—And still your soul cries.Once, men wept at poetry.Now they scroll past itTo watch a cat dance.Once, love was inked on parchment.Now it’s swiped left—Or worse, left unseen.You—yes, you—Who once painted myths on cave wallsNow snap selfies before mirror malls.Your gods wear brands,Your prophets post reels,You bow not in templesBut before touchscreens of steel.Tell me, O child of machine,When did silence become awkward?When did the wind lose its voice?When did you trade the forest’s sighFor the ringtone of shallow choice?You walk through gardensBut see no bloom—Only Wi-Fi signals,And digital gloom.The bee hums its sermon,The river chants psalms,Yet you answer onlyTo vibrating alarms.Nature waits—Patient as a forgotten mother.She sends butterfliesAs handwritten notes.She weaves clouds like poemsAcross the morning’s throat.But you read none.Your eyes—barcoded.Your heart—remoted.Your soul—overloaded.Where is your affection?Where is your awe?Your sense of beautyNow obeys the lawOf viral trendsAnd sponsored ads,Of flawless filtersAnd grinning fads.O man of concrete dreams,Have you not tiredOf conquering machines?Have you not hungeredFor a touch unscanned,A whisper that needsNo broadband?Your gods once asked for prayers,Now they ask for data.Your spirit once bloomed like spring,Now it ticks like beta.And still you pretend—Pretend that this is progress.Pretend that your emptinessIs just success in process.You laugh in pixels,Cry in memes,But feel no fire,No depth, no dreams.How many friends do you needBefore one listens?How many photosBefore one captures your soul?How many roads pavedBefore you noticeYou’ve buried the meadow whole?You’ve mastered space,But lost your place.You’ve mined the stars,But missed the graceOf holding handsWithout a screen.Of hearing “I love you”Without a machine.There is no poetry in your breath,Only caffeine and carbon.There is no stillness in your step,Only errands and burden.You boast of freedomsWhile wearing chainsOf finance, fear,And fabricated gains.O modern man—How much more shall you forget?Your childhood laughter,Your grandmother’s gaze,The taste of rainIn simpler days?You bury the moonBeneath neon lights,Replace lullabiesWith podcasts at nights.You know the priceOf everything you own,But not the costOf a rose fully grown.Listen!For the sparrow still sings,Though you deafened your earsWith wireless things.The earth still breathesBeneath your wheels.The sky still dreamsDespite your deals.Return.Not to the cave,But to the cave of heart.Not to the past,But to the partOf you untouched by code.Unlabeled, unread,But very much alive—Though nearly dead.Seek not the noiseBut the hymn behind it.Touch the grassAnd truly find it.Let not your legacyBe chrome and cement,But the echo of a manWho finally went—Back to his soul,To truth and trees,To mystery, love,And deeper seas.So here’s a mirrorIn words I write:Not to shame you,But reigniteThe fire you leftIn a forest, forgotten—Where truth still growsAnd man is not rotten.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
The First Time We Forgot to Feel
The first time I cried,I was a breath wrapped in silence,not shame.A mother’s lap—a temple.A father’s palm—a planet.Even pain had poetry back then.They say, the first time is divine.Unrepeatable.Like the first fire we touched,and learned: it burns.But modern man,he walks through fireand calls it home.I remember the first time I lied—it wasn’t for greed,nor to gain.It was fear—a soft, trembling beastasking me to survive.But the first time we lied and felt nothing—Ah, that was modern.That was industrial.That was branded in chrome and Wi-Fi,and no one wept.The first time we loved—yes, I recall it clearly.Love wore no labels,spoke in clumsy, sacred stutters,hands sweating truthlike a prophet too young to preach.But now,Love comes with terms and conditions.It expires in inboxes,like spam in the soul.We match. We swipe. We ghost.We call this progress.The first time we touched art—do you remember?Finger-painting the chaos of our hearton grandmother’s wall,and calling it masterpiece?She smiled. She knew.But now,Art is a code,filtered in aesthetics,algorithm-approved beautywithout blood.We don’t make art—we manufacture content.The first time we questioned God,He didn’t burn us.He listened.He waited.But the first time we replaced Himwith trends and influencers,He vanished from our eyeslike a lost bookmarkin the holy textwe never finished.And now,we mock what we once bowed to.We drown in debatesand stay thirsty for wisdom.The first time I stood against injustice—I trembled,but my spine remembered Eden.My voice was untrained,but it struck like thunderin the courtroom of conscience.Now?We share a post,forget by lunch,and pat ourselves for braveryfrom the comfort of the couch.The first time we saw death—it wasn't in films.It wasn’t sanitized.It smelled, it wept, it cracked something holy in us.We asked: What lies beyond?Now we ask: How many likes did their tribute get?The first time we kissed—it wasn’t perfect.Teeth clashed, breath battled,but our souls danced barefooton the edge of forever.Now,We kiss like rehearsed lines.We love like we're waiting to leave.We marry contracts,not hearts.I recall the first time I saw the starsand believed they were watching me.I prayed without words.My faith wasn’t a religion—it was awe.But now,We mock mystery.We dissect meaning.We laugh at wonder.Our telescope grows sharperas our vision dims.We are the sons of prophetsand daughters of poets,but we walk like orphansabandoned by meaning.The first time I read a book—not for school,but to escape,to bleed into the inkand come out wiser—I met myself between the margins.Now,We scroll.We skim.We forget.The first time we failed—we cried.But we learned.Oh, how deeply we learned!Failure was a teacherdressed in ashes.Now,Failure is a meme.We don’t fail.We “rebrand.”The first time we heard music—not noise,but soul,something that made the bones weep—we knew we were not machines.But now,Beats without depth.Noise without nuance.Songs with no sadness.And hearts with no echo.The first time we lost someone—it was not just a person.It was a universe gone.We remembered every breath,every laugh,every unfinished sentence.Now?We archive them.Filter them.Forget them.We let death trend and die again.The first time I prayed—I wasn’t told how.I just fell inward.There was silenceso loud,even angels paused.But modern man—he prays for Wi-Fi.For views.For viral resurrection.We traded altars for screens.Sincerity for sarcasm.Soul for sale.The first time I apologized—I meant it.I bled it.It was more than a word;it was humility singing in the ribs.Now?We type: "Sorry if you were hurt."And call it closure.The first time I was alone—I wasn't lonely.Silence was a symphony.I met the stranger insideand he spoke truthsthe world had forgotten.But now,Solitude terrifies us.We fear our own thoughts,so we bury themunder noise and narcissism.The first time I held a child—I trembled again.Life was reborn in my arms.That small weightheld every answer I ever sought.But we raise childrenwith screens,with fear,with deadlines,not lullabies.We are men of ambition,but not of purpose.Women of brilliance,but not of peace.We do everythingfaster.Sharper.Cheaper.But never first—like it matters.Because the first time we feelis the last time we’re human.And I ask you now,dear reader,have you rememberedyour firsts?Or have you edited themout of memory?The child in you still weepsfor the first snow,the first “I love you,”the first time you meant itwhen you said:“I’m afraid.”But we have become menwho wear armor of ironyand womenwho bury love in logic.We are the speciesthat forgot to feel.The generationthat laughs at depth.The civilizationthat celebrates the hollowand shuns the whole.And yet,the first time I wrote this poem—I felt something again.I remembered.So maybe,maybe you will too.
By Muhammad Abdullahabout a year ago in Poets
Be Leaf for Me... A Show
be a leaf for me dos, do nots, dids, doings didn'ts, dones, don'ts, disses, then drop! be a leaf for me. Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts. Please leave a comment. Copyright 2025 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smithabout a year ago in Poets
Child Education
Early vacations, funny sleeping images of a child at noses and stations. A child education whose hand prys my eyes closed... examinations. The doctor is out cold and feeling is the child's education. Like my face? Thank you for reading! Which part of the poem resonates with you? Share your thoughts. Please leave a comment. Copyright 2025 K.A. Smith
By K.A. Smithabout a year ago in Poets
