Stream of Consciousness
idk
I don't know what the fuck I'm feeling. I know I feel rays of sunshine as they soak into soft skin. I know I feel hope flutter in every gust of wind. I know I feel afraid when the world is unlit and imagination creates beasts in the infinite dark. I know I feel joy like electricity pulsing from heart to fingertips when my mind is blank and my hands make intuitive brushstrokes on blank canvases. I know I feel awe when I stand atop a cliff and stare down watching trees sway and a stray leaf tumble by. I know I feel pain such utter agony at the thought of others in pain and being unable to intervene. I know I feel devastation seeing trash on the sides of highways and absolute grief when a stray pet's body lies among it on the side of the road. I know I feel nothing but love, adoration, respect, surprise, excitement, anxiety, when I think about my role as a mother. I know I feel and I know that I know nothing yet I know enough at least I hope. Sometimes though I still don't even know what the fuck I'm feeling.
By Lolly Vieira23 days ago in Poets
October Is Out of the Way
October challenge: Prompt - Write a poem that makes October feel like a place you can enter. Imagine October isn't a month. It's somewhere you can go. What does it look like when you get there? Maybe the streets are covered in wet leaves and porch lights glow before dinner. Maybe there's a bonfire somewhere in the distance, a house you shouldn't knock on, or a path through the woods that wasn't there in September. Your October might be cozy, eerie, nostalgic, lonely, strange, or something else entirely. Write a poem that turns October into a place and invites the reader inside. Give it weather. Give it sounds. Give it somewhere to wander. Then see where October takes you.
By Denise E Lindquist24 days ago in Poets
The Mirror That Must Stay Covered
When a soul slips out at midnight from a house on the hill, there are things the living must do and the first one is quite still. Take the black cloth from the cupboard, take the wool from off the chair, cover every pane of glass before the spirit lingers there.
By Tim Carmichael24 days ago in Poets
The Blue Ink
We’re recording the results gained from the review of the former position holder’s playbook, so, as I recall the reasons for the last failure to human design, I’ll reiterate. I don’t fucking like sports. The swamps of oblivion’s night orbiting in the dead astral belt, exit into the desert if to choose the wrong out house. Climbed down the mountain, literature of Gaia dawned on the skin, said to tell tale of the fabled one—shit, the sequence’s widening frequency tripped the sensors. Who’s to say. The reference is too far detached; the material is appropriately throwing up question marks for more than I feel is necessary. How great is this? Stupendous without the stupefying irony. Holding free these notions of glee, excellence of this stolen land is becoming my new name, not THAT name. Or it’s meaning, coupled with the spiritual seething photos added to expert's docket Webster’s minagery, figure below says see love, mispronounced and all but what douche bag insults my native tongue? Beheading at noon?
By Willem Indigo24 days ago in Poets
