Prose

The Selfish Soul
I protect nothing else but ‘I’. My values, my virtues spring forth from my mind. I am selfish. I guard myself and those I value with beloved strictness. The power of the self envelopes me and holds me in the bosom of egoism. I relish the fact I am one of one, none before me, none to come. My soul is cast to the fire of the eternal glow of freedom. It manifests as the living and breathing agent of the sole figure guiding my path. I trust my discernment and my decisions. With selfishness, I am able to rescue the day from all peril. By being an individualist, I know that I am covered not by blood, but by rational self-interest. I stand alone amongst all other subjects and only welcome trade when it is mutual and beneficial to both parties. I am the purveyor of the highest thoughts as they issue from my mind. No two brains are alike and you can’t transplant them. This is the might of a true individual person. The hallmark of all advancements and innovations is the selfish soul. It’s impossible to create anything without first originating in the mind of a lone man or woman. It is the selfish soul that grabs life and colors it with the palette of thinking and truth.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Poets
The Fighter’s Spirit
I bleed bullets and snort bombs. I’m a heat-seeking or laser-guided sidewinder missile with a bad attitude. I eat torpedoes and vomit rockets. I shelter my compatriots with wings of war. My brain is attuned to the mission of no mercy. I sleep with pistols and wake up with rifles. I engage with the enemy and never stop until scorched earth surrounds the place of battle. I pray only to the gun and worship the belch of the cannon. I am a warrior of honor who knows that I never start force, but use it to end war. I am the fighter’s spirit.
By Skyler Saundersabout a year ago in Poets
Nowhere, But you
I could travel to a million places See the views and endless faces But nowhere holds me I'm just passing through For where else can love be?
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsdenabout a year ago in Poets
2:13 a.m.
I miss you. Well. Not you. I miss you wanting me. I miss the way I’d get excited when I’d see your name light up on my phone.
By Sandor Szaboabout a year ago in Poets
Permission
Must I ask to breathe? Must I ask to be left alone, in my own space? In my own silence, in my own stillness? Why does love feel like war? Like I have to defend my peace, From the very person who claimed to bring it. Why does affection feel like obligation, wrapped in guilt? No…… I do not need permission to stay home, I do not need permission to say no, I do not need permission to protect my peace, To guard my energy, To draw a line between myself and what drains me. Do I need your approval to feel overwhelmed? To say I’m tired? To stop compromising myself for your comfort? No….. I do not need permission to be alone. To enjoy my own company, To choose myself first, again and again. I have bent, I have yielded, I have stayed when I wanted to go, I have smiled when I wanted to cry, Said yes, when every part of me screamed “NO” But now……. I choose me I choose peace over presence Silence over shouting matches disguised as love Boundaries over begging to be heard. Do I need permission to “NOT LOVE?” No…. Because love without consent is not love. Love without freedom is a cage, Love that trespasses, that demands, That gaslights and is selfish, is not love. You make demands like I owe you obedience, Like I’m a project that needs fixing, A puzzle piece that will fit, Only if I twist and turn, Stay longer, let you in deeper You said your love was real, But if love leaves bruises on my peace, If love feels like invasion, If I have to beg for room to breathe, Then that isn’t love, its Bondage. So don’t ask me why I changed, Ask yourself why I had to, Change is constant after all. And I do not need permission, To reclaim my voice, To draw my lines, To walk away.
By Peace Oputaabout a year ago in Poets
5/1/25
I sit here hugging the ocean And yet I hold nothing Choking on tears of fear Of futures lost Was it just a stepping stone
By Atomic Historianabout a year ago in Poets
Omer 17 - snapdragon
Questions compound as experiences expound; forgetting, as we traverse down the stalk, what we are made for, what we search for.
By Chaia Leviabout a year ago in Poets
What Grief Sounds Like.
Grief isn't polite. It doesn't call and let you know it'll be dropping by. It doesn't knock when it shows up. But music-music opens the door and allows it in. My grief playlist isn't beautiful. It's not polished or uplifting. It's raw and tears at the wounds. It helps me to the one thing I'm always afraid to do: feel the grief.
By April Kirby.about a year ago in Poets
A love letter to everything I have survived
Darkness in its deepest sonder, desolation in its truest bareness, all embraced my shattered skin, Enclothed in the tightness of survival, the light that belied in its invisibility propelled me to keep my hope akin.
By Hridya Sharmaabout a year ago in Poets
The Fall Of Gareth
And so it came to pass ordained by fate, begun in such glory, that the acts of one altered the course of great Britannia. Gareth, clad in cloak of red torn from foe by his brother Gawain, from Orkney southward in silent excite, they journeyed.
By Matthew J. Frommabout a year ago in Poets
Forty years old
Standing at the threshold of forty and looking back, all the stumbles and falls of the past have turned into the rings of life. Looking forward, the road ahead is still full of infinite possibilities. Forty is not the end of youth, but the beginning of another kind of youth.
By Lunaabout a year ago in Poets
Cigarette
Is this smoke? This isn't smoke! This is a solace for exhaustion, a refuge under pressure, the quiet early morning when night falls, the only spark that lights up in the dead of night, the past that can be recalled, the orchid blooming in nicotine.
By Lunaabout a year ago in Poets