Prose

List Of Stolen Poems
This is the last list I am making even if there is more poems stolen, there is more than enough evidence to remove this account. Some of the poems they posted twice. Special thanks to Mother Combs for keeping me calm and helping me getting this problem resolved. And that you all who had reported, this person and commented on stories about this account. Really feeling the love from my vocal family.
By L.I.E2 years ago in Poets
Alphabet Soup
At the intersection of PTSD and ADHD is crawling in my thin unrecognizable skin. Running from pointless unfinished chore to pointless unfinished chore. Filling every waking moment with sedating noise to overwhelm the screaming sound of my overheating brain. Panicked twirling in confusing circles, loading task after task, unable to begin until all have filled in. Tools disappear as I put them to use. Nervously checking windows, doors, and corners even while I'm unaccompanied. It's locking the bathroom and bedroom doors when only my husband is home with me. Feeling a spider descend on the room, while I walk over a piece of trash until it drags me to the floor. Windows all blinded and draped, lamps turned down, barely illuminating my face. With nothing to eat because it has all gone bad. Dishes pile up in the sink, all washed in one day, just to click on rinse and repeat. A clattering clash of magnificent thought, ready to be enacted, but motivation dies the second there's a bump. One fleeting look of disapproval ends in relationship upheaval. Fleeing to the only perceived home base. It seems to be a cyclic race. Starting out with tears of pain, easily racing the ladder to joy again. Don't dare ask me to come down. You know I'll leap, no second look. Delve into a project I have never tried before. Get three-quarters of the way before running out of the steam to go on. Just toss it on the pile, they make great kindling for the fire.
By K.B. Silver 2 years ago in Poets
One Day I…
The sun sat low in the sky, spilling its last warmth over the land. The air was still, yet my chest held a storm. I sat alone on a flat rock, toes digging into the dry earth, watching shadows stretch long across the savanna. This moment—this endless stretch of quiet—should have been enough. But I wasn’t here.
By Elsa Rose N. Cheping2 years ago in Poets
List Of Stolen Work
This is a list of poems stolen from me by the same account. Unfortunately there is a lot more and these are poems she just recently posted so I haven’t reported them yet. If you will like to help and report them for me that will be great. And I may or may not post another list later. Anyways, thanks you all for your support and encouraging words during this difficult time. It doesn't feel great getting your work stolen, especially to this magnitude. It’s very obsessive. And starting to feel like a personal attack, I know they stolen others, but I don't think as many as mines.
By L.I.E2 years ago in Poets
He Loved Me First
I found love first in silence— not in a voice, but in presence. God met me where loneliness tried to make a home. And that’s when I learned love doesn't need touch to hold you. From that well, I drank enough to recognize the eyes of a man who didn’t try to fix me— just stayed. Romantic love followed like dawn follows prayer— soft, certain, warm without demanding warmth back. He held the echoes of the divine without trying to replace it. Then came the third. A heartbeat placed in my arms, a name that called me “home” before she could speak. And I knew — love completes itself when it multiplies. The world says start with romance, chase the high. But I found the order matters. Without God, you mistake infatuation for fate. You raise children with half a heart. But with God— every kind of love becomes whole.
By Carolina Borges2 years ago in Poets
The Tenant
The tenant in the room of my skull is not a burden, but a revelation, but an aspiring birdwatcher in a plaid, body-scented shirt, and high pants, walking with a notched cherrywood cane toward the room’s only window. (The room’s only window is only a window from the outside-looking-in. From the inside-looking-out, it is a mirror.) (And if every story ever told is true, then someday the mirror will become a window. And the window will become a door. And then that door will open.)
By Ellis Cahill2 years ago in Poets
A poem about your first diary in which you wrote your first poem
Darkness was impaired in its transgression as hope seemed to find its way, A startling realisation, a sight to behold, one might deem to say.
By Hridya Sharma2 years ago in Poets
I Wonder What Mary Felt
I wonder what Mary felt. Not the saint in stained glass— but the mother. The woman. The girl who said yes before she even knew what that yes would cost her. I wonder if she remembered the way He kicked inside her womb. If she thought about tiny toes now pierced through and the soft coos now replaced by labored breaths. I wonder if she screamed. Not just cried— but screamed the way only a mother can when the world dares to take her child. They called Him Savior. But she called Him Son. Before the miracles, before the crowds, before the cross— He was hers. And I wonder, as she watched them strip Him of dignity, of breath, of life, if she whispered, “I would trade places.” Because isn’t that what mothers do? I wonder if she saw the boy who once brought her pebbles like treasures, the boy who asked big questions about stars and God and why people hurt. I wonder if she questioned God back. I wonder if she still believed— not in the promise of resurrection, but in the ache of the now. The cross was prophecy fulfilled— but also a mother’s worst nightmare. And maybe that’s the mystery— that God so loved the world, He gave us His Son. But first— a woman had to give us hers.
By Carolina Borges2 years ago in Poets
Growing Hope
The resisting fascism workshop was full of white people afraid of Trump. I don't know what I was expecting. Not that. What it facilitated, though,
By kp2 years ago in Poets
Allama Iqbal – The No.1 Poet of Pakistan
Early Life and Education Born on November 9, 1877, in Sialkot, Punjab (then part of British India), Allama Iqbal belonged to a devout Muslim family. He showed early signs of intellectual brilliance and poetic talent. He received his initial education in Sialkot and then moved to Lahore, where he attended Government College. Under the mentorship of Sir Thomas Arnold, Iqbal developed a deep interest in Western philosophy.
By Mr Ali2 years ago in Poets
Memory's Grove
The leaves don’t fall the way we think not all at once, nor always gold. Some drop without a sound or blink, and some hang on against the cold. I’ve walked among the thoughts I kept, like windfalls soft beneath the pine- some bruised with time, some sweetly slept, and none of them were wholly mine. A voice, a face, a half-worn coat once hanging by the cellar stair. They rise like smoke within the throat, to vanish in the thinning air. There’s peace, perhaps, in letting go, though bitterness keeps closer still. We lose the words we never caught- they echo, then they never will. No grave for thought, no stone for ache- just snowlight on a window frame. The past is not a path we take, but one that follows just the same.
By Adam Z2 years ago in Poets
Unforgivable Stitches
April 2025 11:24pm To be a dreamer is foolish, taught to us in shadows of expression, fools approach me more than a decent living nowadays, and do you think you can go on living? Do you think you can string it together, make a pretty picture on a cork board, and we’ll all forget that you can’t tell up from down? That you were born all twisted up and unforgiving? Fools don’t approach you anymore, you carved yourself a chasm in bedrock but it’s really made of the same cushions your ancestors stitched together, and what does string have to do with lessons learned? To be a dreamer means criss-crossing plays an essential role, to be a fool means you have already been assigned a part, and to be me or to be you means a decent living is nothing to be taught, nothing to be learned, but to be recognized. We can go on living because what else is there to do, other than break apart the puzzle and stick the box in the closet to be well rested for our children. It’s upside down, so mind your head in thirty years, and if a missing piece falls beneath wood, then it’s time to dig. The clock is ticking. Dreams won’t satisfy anyone. Teach them of light source and make sure you get the thick strands from the store down the road, it’s worth it in the end.
By Olivia Dodge2 years ago in Poets