Prose
THUNDER....
š- Lyrically sign, atone / atom / Adam a cracked apple bleeds its proof: sweetness first, then the settling truth. If it was ever worth the devil, stand and wrestle. When the storm remembers you, I arrive as thunder each letter a black sheet slowly settling.Heavy strike a divine edge through time you divide in a minute.After what remains of you learns the shape of absence. I define nothing.If I were something, I would speak once zip the one, and force it into None. None / All the pillar stands.
By LUCCIAN LAYTH5 months ago in Poets
SITTIN' IN MY BLUE ROOM . Top Story - June 2026. Content Warning.
SITTIN IN MY BLUE ROOM 1967 This is a 1967 poem from my archives. The world in the 60s was a different place. Girls were 2nd class citizens. Boys were perfect in every way. I am sharing these poems to focus on staying in 2026. I believe in equality for all. Letās learn to love not to hate. Girls need college and careers not top to just rattle pots and pans.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 5 months ago in Poets
June Tomorrow
November. December now. June tomorrow. Like it means anything for the sun to circle around me as tiny bodies in a horse tankā whipping us with as much force as we can makeā watch for the sharp edgesā itāll cut you. Soon itās August and I have a little more color and I cry a little less. Iām wearing the jeans my friend gave me at her birthday party three years ago and I like the way Iāve filled them out since. (Weāre back in pre-June now). I like the way I look to strangers. Iām not sure if that includes me. Anyway itās Halloween next week. Christmas is in a few hours. February comes and goes while Iām asleep and I donāt feel its hand on my shoulder. I pack my things in April. Weāll have to donate the memories. There isnāt enough room anymore and the sun is coming up on the kitchen walls. Itās June tomorrow.
By Olivia Dodge5 months ago in Poets
Couch, Draft
11/7/25 Iāll sit on our thousand-pound plaid couch and listen to you tell me how your family wishes me well, misses me, is worried about me, and Iāll stare at a spot on the tv screen that looks like the hole I dug out back when I was still on Sheridan street, and Iāll nod along to your kind-intentioned words because you donāt know that itās twisting my heart and leaving streaks of soap on the rug, and Iāll tell my family itās a shame you never met them and I wonāt be able to sleep at all because I donāt think I ever will, and Iāll sit on the couch and drink from your beer and listen to you tell me how itās all okay now, itās good now, itās normal now, and Iāll understand because I always will, and Iāll keep my words in a sealed box and shove it as high up as it can go, and Iāll leave it here when weāre gone, and Iāll leave everything I ever felt in these rooms because itās not going to make it any better to stick it on a dolly and decorate my next closet, and Iāll tell you I would love to see your family because I really truly would, but Iāll keep the rest of it sealed, and Iāll put another layer of tape every time I want to open it, and Iāll cry when this couch is gone, and Iāll cry when this house is a memory, and Iāll dig a hole in the backyard and put my shoes at the bottom and Iāll bury them there, and Iāll throw the box on top and Iāll keep track of how long it takes to decompose, and Iāll let you finish what youāre saying but I wonāt say anything back because my feet are getting sticky from the mud and I have a few more lives ahead of me that havenāt been dealt, and Iāll retire for the night and Iāll retire forever, and Iāll sit up against the wall and wonder if my eyes are burning for any particular reason or if this is just how they feel now, with plaid thread and well wishes stuck in the tearducts and nothing but my own feet at the end of the bed.
By Olivia Dodge5 months ago in Poets
