Prose
Angels Walk Among Us
Celestial being made from stardust and moonlight. They move among us, disguised as mortals. Blurring the lines between heaven and earth.
The Bear, The Man, and The Woods
Sunlight bleeds through the pines There’s a bear on the path before me A strange man approaches from the rear I run towards the bear
Atomic HistorianPublished about 6 hours ago in PoetsThe Strong One
I am the strong one. The one who worries and plans For everyone else’s care. The phone rings sounding the alarm
Cynthia FieldsPublished about 8 hours ago in PoetsI CHOOSE THE MAN
I choose the man I choose the man, because every time I do not, I harm my father I choose the man, because every time I
Catherine NyomendaPublished about 15 hours ago in Poetsnight writer
pen knifed by night I stir, removing myself from the warm curl of your snore risking wrestling your dream soldiers to answer
Christy MunsonPublished a day ago in PoetsMOTHERS
Mothers We bear the burden, take the blame and get none of the credit. We lose sleep, worry and wear the wrinkles.
Cynthia FieldsPublished a day ago in PoetsWalkin' On...
Delusion has a distinct clarity, which psychosis lacks. The road of delusion is crystal, transparent, and nearly unidentifiable. Psychosis, on the other hand, is warped and cracked and refracts light at its impurities, making it much easier to spot. To tread, both require trust, albeit not in Truth but in the source of the delusion or psychosis. Sometimes, that is only our Self. However, it is often much bigger, more calculated, and nefarious than that. A sociopolitically cultivated and premature dotage is an intentional plan. It is less of a stroll and more of a foxtrot. It is a complex dance intricately weaving legwork and controlled body flight into a rapid but seamless display of performative force. It holds our gaze and says, ‘Keep it moving; there’s nothing to see here,’ as we trip and sashay away from the suffering and trials of our fellow humans. It lifts our chin and says, ‘Play the game; you will be fine,’ as we close our eyes and pirouette through the pain. The reality of our shared struggles and the true intractability of our lives exists just beneath that pellucid path if only we would look down. If only we would regard others as we might ourselves. If only.
If You See Me Through Their Eyes
A once unbreakable bond, forged through trials and tribulations, now lies shattered, torn apart by misunderstandings and false narratives.
Be where your feet are
Be where your feet are We often find ourselves either guilt-tripping in the past or ruminating about the future. The present is all that we have in our hands yet we tend to often forget the importance of living in the moment. In a world that constantly holds our attention, it becomes difficult for us to catch a moment of what our primary requirements are in the present, to catch a glimpse of what it is that we truly want for ourselves. Everything that you have ever dreamed of, wanted and will ever need, all of it stems from the present moment.
Hridya SharmaPublished 2 days ago in PoetsA Modern Dating Tale
In the period of swiping left or right and computerized romance, it's not difficult to accept that certifiable associations are more enthusiastically to drop by. However, once in a while, a dating story arises that revives our confidence in luck and the wizardry of human association. Such is the situation with the wonderful experience of Emily and James, a story that advises us that affection frequently tracks down us in the most startling of spots.
Kazi Hasebul Hasan NaimePublished 2 days ago in PoetsMy Black Parade
As I march through the ashen halls of my mind Many things I do find Things that hurt Things that bite Things that got me through the night
Yew Wood Doors
Before my eyes, a door is arranged from shadows—crafted of rich yew wood, inviting yet pressuring simultaneously—and I am hesitant to make contact with the brass knob and fall through to new shadows. I never do know if I can stomach mysteries that approach with such ease. Although I have to know what's there and when I look behind me, no candle beckons. I may hope the door will lock behind me. I know I have no key to return but perhaps one will glisten in the fog for me and I'll be allowed to open more yew wood doors on the other side.
Andi LeighPublished 3 days ago in Poets