Prose

The Woman Who Spoke To The Moon
The Woman Who Spoke To The Moon She sat beneath the moon, With secrets in her eyes, She spoke about her pain, To stars across the skies.
By ♿ V+ Marie381Uk 3 months ago in Poets
How did you Sleep?
May you lose sleep until I find peace. May you be haunted by me in your dreams. May your every path bring you back to me
By Sara Wynn3 months ago in Poets
Waiting on My Son
I Waiting and waiting. Pacing and pacing. Time for the show to end, but the worries don’t stop. II First time my son is out of sight.
By Dean Traylor3 months ago in Poets
the bipolar person
the bipolar person was lonely most of the time and alone when they weren’t. "lonely" was a symptom of mania; surrounded by friends, but connecting with none. "alone" belonged to depression. isolating and ignoring others' efforts to reach out. alone was once the preferred way of being for the bipolar person, but the bipolar person had not felt at ease while alone for many years; they needed music, drugs, or the distraction of friends. for many years they had not felt the security that comes from having spent a necessary day of engagement with the world and its people, looking them in the eye many times, laughing and reacting, noticing things of light and color and volume, and thoroughly exhausting themself in full health as a social animal only then to return home and expand in the silence of their moderately sized one-bedroom apartment to restore. firstly, the bipolar person didn’t live alone anymore, so lately, this restoration was so fraught with overthinking that they wondered if they could still do it right. secondly, the moderately sized one-bedroom apartment had become a small—bordering on efficiency—two-bedroom. the bipolar person shared this small—bordering on efficiency—two-bedroom, complete with a homemade murphy hammock and washer/dryer in the [flexion of two upright fingers] kitchen , with their ex’s best friend. this roommate had quickly become the bipolar person’s friend, muddying the situation further as the breakup between the bipolar person and their ex soured. rituals and routines lost their profundity. they became obligatory and sad. for example, the [finger flexion] kitchen had been a sacred place for the three of them—the bipolar person, the ex, and the roommate who happened to be the ex’s best friend. they made the most incredible things in that [f.f.] kitchen . now the bipolar person agonized over remembering the meals made and eaten together: the curries, the soups, the risotto, the miso eggs, the apples and peanut butter, the skillets, the mochi. love was shared in the [f.f.] kitchen . now the bipolar person struggled to fry an egg, let alone prepare a complete meal for themself. there was little to be done for the wave of depression settling over the bipolar person except to wait out the lease. medications weren't used due to the adverse effects of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) on their mood. without fail, SSRIs sent the bipolar person into fits of mania that usually ended with them balled into the fetal position at the end of their bed, in hysterical fits of laughter and tears, and attempting to open their flesh with a knife or scissors or a stapler or anything, as if the skin itself were diseased and requiring removal. these breaks would come at the end of an extended episode where the bipolar person felt a great static rippling through their body, as though tiny spiders had laid eggs in their skin while they slept, and now those eggs were beginning to hatch. at times, the sensation was so intense the bipolar person swore they could see as deep as the dermis move; this movement extended from their flesh into the darkened corners of their room so ambient light and shadow would climb and dance, taunting an inner child still terrified of the dark. this inner child bared itself to the ex and roommate on more than one occasion, and the bipolar person considered death to end the shame. but ultimately, death was not an option. so the small—bordering on efficiency—two-bedroom apartment, complete with homemade murphy hammock and washer/dryer in the [f.f.] kitchen, shrank even more under the weight of self-hate, blame, and resentment.
By kp3 months ago in Poets
Decadent
I want to create long, luxurious strings of words to tantalize your mind like jellyfish tentacles drifting electric color through silky, rippling water to soothe you into my dream. Myriad ribbons of syllables candy-flossing your lips and ears as I seduce you into reading aloud, sound slipping over your lips into soft summer air, an ellipsis of spirit-soaring elongated labyrinths to lose yourself completely.
By Harper Lewis 3 months ago in Poets
punctuated with
i do not need to know his ways nor agree on anything. as long as we can talk about those differences. as long as it does not descend to chaos
By ⸘jason alan‽3 months ago in Poets
feed. Runner-Up in Static Challenge.
I am staring at a static screen at 8 am in my apartment, and it stares back at me, opening me up from the inside. I’m a week off my antidepressants today because depression, ha ha ha. Apparently pill-to-mouth is a too-complicated procedure. I just found out I have the genetic marker for increased cancer and people are clamoring to call me after my test. The word oncology makes me numb, recalls the memory of my mother's hand slipping off my shoulder for the last time, her voice a ghost caught on my answering machine. The tv is on silent, the pixellated flashing dots mesmerizing, something to get lost in. I can fully understand how those crazy people in movies can stare at this shit for hours, seeing messages that aren’t there. When you forget to mute, it’s a whole different story- a thousand tongueless mouths screaming at you with a sound that’s the inverse of sound but twice as loud. Horror movie fodder, either way. You know the scene: person wakes up in the middle of the night, sweat-slicked, pads into the room and sees the screen glowing, those salt and pepper dots racing around, the low roar of the sea in their ears, their mouth, drowning them. When I was a kid, it used to look to me like a herd of buffalo, trampling over everything in sight. But now it looks to me like the natural effect when everything that is so painstakingly, cleverly constructed is stripped away. the death of the ego. the one hand clapping. the abyss. a shriek that dives back into the throat. the longer I look, the more it wiggles and writhes like termites in rot, maggots in flesh, like worms- or simply the ultimate embodiment of pure energy, the echo of the big bang, the crackling that is behind all life. Sometimes I feel if you opened us up, you'd find nothing but this inside.
By Raistlin Allen3 months ago in Poets
old fragments #2
i sit, worried, listening to lyrics. an attempt to soothe. little simz says, "time will heal you." how odd, i think, because i once wrote a haiku, when brand new here: time will tell, they say. or, in time you will heal. but time does not serve you. i wrote it, but often write things. the question is, do i believe it? i was sad then. am i not sad now? i am. yes, and... not sad like i was some time ago. but yes, i believe it. despite the sadness, in that time, having changed in more than name alone. the grief, as i call it now, was wild once. when i was young and more certain, my grief was the decider. which is to say, my grief called the shots. my grief didn't leave room to assess, run a cost-benefit analysis, or even think more generally. my rational mind was absent, hardly at work, unless you consider the work of wild grief a rationale equivalent to the caliber of my stable and contented mind... i don't. is the work valid? yes. but reasonable or measured? hardly. what is all this grief for, you might ask? what is it that acts as tether to this potential weight? death, i suppose. to put it simply. loss, more broadly. the loss of self. the loss of loves. the loss of our planet and entire species, en masse. the loss of compassion from people and of empathy for things that don't happen directly to loved ones or us (whether complicit in their occurrence by choice or not). you know, perhaps by using time to patch all wounds, we liken ourselves to the concept. perhaps the world is so heavy, that we prefer the indifference of omnipotent measure. perhaps our hearts are opened, but lose the heat of emotionality. perhaps our minds are quieted, but lose the clarity of connection. you see, time isn't concerned with memory, or preference, or truth. you see, time isn't concerned with convenience, or perception, or linearity. you see, time isn't concerned with people, or flora or fauna, or any conception of mother earth gaia terra. you see, time isn't concerned. but i would hate for that to be me.
By kp3 months ago in Poets
Say...
I’m out. The common novel has shrunk to the novella to the novelette, and here I am, like the meth has left me next to a dumpster; this is a free-form death wish on the danger of the demon, hyperbole as I let loose on a soapbox upon a dead corner. A march, under starched for good, in the ether, and it’s getting a little cozy. Post-PUNK, Air-walking the gap-to-sloper, wall planter through the wall that turns out was formally promised declaration of a hay-day. “A dab will do, Love.” I'm not (eye roll) that special. Minx of Tartars, hear me! “…you cut out there, but I have you now. Flipping, flopping on whether I use this to prove a point to Thee INSIDE or take the dare like a child, pretending I’m only stumbling on the refresh button for the third time looking for that dreaded front button. “You meant back, right?” To say it plainly, Dane sees the biblical heaven fees, not worth the new fucking app, but if the gates of Six Flags can’t stop me…
By Willem Indigo3 months ago in Poets
The Hidden Power Of A Touch
I stumble out of bed my warm feet hitting the cold floor they crackle and they pop as I’m tiptoeing to the door messages in morse code, creating movements still unseen
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden3 months ago in Poets
me or you
should i depart early, my child, you will not have to look far to find me. i know it may seem daunting, but my absence is hardly an excuse to not go on with your day. still,
By kp3 months ago in Poets
“Tit for Tat. Splat. Fuck That.” “No More Explaining”
Some pieces aren’t written from anger, they’re written from understanding. This is one of those pieces. After a lifetime of being nudged, shaped, or boxed in by people who misunderstood empathy for weakness, I finally chose to speak with clarity instead of silence.
By Vicki Lawana Trusselli 3 months ago in Poets