So this is how it begins... The fall of freedom. The end of the freedom we fought years to have. Hatred has established roots in the highest bases.
By Luna Verity2 years ago in Poets
"I detest the faults beyond measure which nature has given to women," he admits to the alabaster in his arms, his upper lip peeling as he traces her clavicle with his bared teeth. "But you, my ivory girl, will be perfect."
By Wen Xiaosheng2 years ago in Poets
Impaled I inhale the pain Watch the blood rain As I pull your knife from my back For the heresy But now they listen to me
By Atomic Historian2 years ago in Poets
It is always here. Burdening my shoulders. It is always here. Burdening my body. It is always here. Burdening my soul.
If I am to die, then let me do so, dagger in hand, twisting the blade between your ribs. Smiling as the blood rushes through my fingers, watching your face grow cold.
By H. J. Levon2 years ago in Poets
For the longest time since I could understand the concept of “love” and what it entails, I’ve fantasized a lot about finding the right one and beyond
By Guillermo2 years ago in Poets
What would happen, if I lit a match, and blew on the kindling, and stoke the sparks of the flames. would it smolder and smoke
By Ellie Hoovs2 years ago in Poets
Through short lived days and moonlit skies,In stolen looks and mollified sighs,A fire was ignited, unfaltering and true,An ash gleaming, shinning as unused.
By Mr Ali2 years ago in Poets
Absently, I draw A picture Etched in my mind A doodle here A line there Shade this line darker Color in the shapes With each stroke
By Mother Combs2 years ago in Poets
Life tosses you in doesn't care if you can swim doesn't care if it's cold or it's not When you sink to the bottom the light is forgotten
in the time it took so many things could have did happen and did not occur when he was here X marks the approximate teaching is frivolous
By ⸘jason alan‽2 years ago in Poets
The Frame Narrative The story begins with a prologue in which Chaucer introduces the setting: a group of 29 pilgrims gather at the Tabard Inn in Southwark, near London, preparing for their pilgrimage to Canterbury. The host of the inn, Harry Bailey, suggests that to pass the time, each pilgrim should tell two tales on the way to Canterbury and two on the way back. The best storyteller will receive a free meal upon their return, paid for by the other pilgrims.
