Prose

Quiet
You ever have something happen to you and you survive it, but as you continue on with your life you find it has rendered you quiet? People see you as the same friendly face; they like your mask, and they would never guess in a million years all the things hiding behind it. They ask, "Hey, why don't you sing anymore?" What they don't know is how hard you work every day to breathe, and still fight it. You ever have something happen to you and you survive it, but as you continue on with your life you find it has rendered you quiet? It happened to me. I am still breathing, but it has rendered me quiet.
By Sara Wynna day ago in Poets
Before The Answer
“Why do you say don’t talk to strangers, Mammy, when you said good morning to that lady? Do we know her? Is she our family?”
By Laura Jane2 days ago in Poets
The Thing With Feathers
There’s something screaming inside hidden within walls that it cannot abide - adrift in darkness, afraid to die. _ It’s stuck in a deep, dark pit
By Amanda Starks3 days ago in Poets
Apology without action isn't enough
Frustrating when you get a bunch of "sorry" from someone who just says it to deflect from not actually caring. When people say they will, do something and not back it up is frustrating. They can say they were trying to make something work when they don't actually. The lack of tying your string to their boat in guidance shows it all. Be actually helpful or don't keep the other person in your regular visits or calls. The fake voice of pretend concern is strange. All just disturbing to hear those undertones of actual contempt. Don't want your fake apology without showing true patching of a situation. Stop telling people you apologized when you at the heart of it all really didn't. I don't accept fake apologies. Mean it or you are just saying the word sorry to get by, I don't fake apologize to people when I don't mean it. If I don't feel that way I will say why. I am not giving anyone a bullshit reply. Let me know you don't actually give a fuck much!
By Seashell Harpspring 5 days ago in Poets
enter only do not enter
a forest can take centuries to grow and only a few days to burn if you notice or if you don't see the smoke enter only do not enter
By ⸘jason alan‽7 days ago in Poets
Java Script
There’s a chill in the air ☕ Raising the hairs on my arms ☕ In goosebumps, bringing about a shiver ☕ My hands grasp and hold warmth
By Mother Combs7 days ago in Poets
Monster
You will always be capable of being a monster. It is what you have chosen over and over again. - You will
By Sara Wynn9 days ago in Poets
Played Out
Two acrylic circles and a string wrapped tight, hard against a firm thigh, waiting in a pocket, the white butterfly’s wings frozen,
By Harper Lewis 9 days ago in Poets
Not All Losses
Where I could be but I've held back where the sun was but now, it's black. - Not all losses are bad. Look at what I could be,
By Sara Wynn9 days ago in Poets
Iambic Pentameter
Running, I don’t think of writing as other writers claim to do. Does this make me selfish? Why must I always? Or is it just guilt for wanting deep immersion? I don’t want to be a fast old man I'm wanting to be the fastest old man thinking only, running only, pacing only, breathing only, symmetry only, da-Dum da-Dum da-Dum da-Dum da-Dum until the Red Winged Blackbird upon a wires threatening call follows from pole to pole to pole swooping occasionally overtop with brazen dives. I can feel his wings beat close, has he ever aspired to be something other than scion to his progeny?
By Gerry Thibeault9 days ago in Poets
A Reaping
Those arms never felt like home. Like a bird in a locked cage that can no longer sing. Foreign, familiar hands. I lay next to a stranger at night.
By Zana 10 days ago in Poets
Drowning
Drowning I watch him drown in wood and paper, a slow suffocation I am forced to contain. He plugs my corners with cardboard and laces my skirtings with copper veins begging me to hold the noise he cannot generate. I let joists groan under the weight of terror. I let unread novels accumulate like dust with an army of paper soldiers stationed to keep my silence from bleeding through walls. He calls it curation but he only builds a dam against the quiet.
By Alyson Smith 11 days ago in Poets