Stream of Consciousness

The Incessant Sound Of Time
i hear the clock call: tick, tick, tick indicating that i am running late tick paying, deciding and showing up late tick, tick
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 years ago in Poets
A Smile Forever Mine
You wear the sun upon your face, A light that time could never trace. In every glance, in every line, I see a beauty so divine.
By Shwet Prabha Baiswar2 years ago in Poets
Impasse
I’m doing that thing again… You know the one… The thing where I’ve started 20 different drafts over the course of the past hour…
By BrettNotGreg2 years ago in Poets
Seasonal
The iridescent light in my periphery is a little uncomfortable. It is reminiscent, however, of an all-too-familiar presence that inevitably exists this time of year.
By BrettNotGreg2 years ago in Poets
The Fortress Within
In silence, there’s a fortress strong, Where words don’t spill, and hearts belong. The open ones, who freely share, Invite the world to strip them bare.
By Shwet Prabha Baiswar2 years ago in Poets
Love's Brief Illusion
They say love is for the aimless souls, A fleeting high, where passion rolls. But those with fire, with dreams that soar,
By Shwet Prabha Baiswar2 years ago in Poets
ADHD BRAIN CONVERSATION
Don't touch that! Oops... already did. Put it back! Put it back! sure.... in another... hey there's two! let's see... which one is...
By T. Licht2 years ago in Poets
My Sweet Black SUV
So, the government gave me a black SUV. Yeah, just handed me the keys, like, “Congrats, you’re in!” No paperwork, no fine print—
By Wolf Lancaster2 years ago in Poets
C H A I N S
There are chains around my neck, Clean, polished metal kissing vulnerable skin. I cannot recall who placed it there or if it was my own hands
By Silver Daux2 years ago in Poets
Ripped Ass-Under (For Art?)
Push... Push... Push... ---------Pull... Push... Push... Push... ------------------Pull... R i p T e a r S h r e d Push... Pull... R i p T e a r S h r e d Me
By Paul Stewart2 years ago in Poets
The Webs We Weave
Does she grow weary, I wonder, with the constant task of repair. Is there ever a time she would rather leave the destruction for someone else to fix. If we listened, would we hear her cry out, in the quiet, cursing the sky for the existence she has been tasked with. Does she ever regret her circumstance? Or does she lovingly spin and weave these delicate masterpieces, gracefully content?
By Kelli Sheckler-Amsden2 years ago in Poets
Unsettled
Spirit been on E lately Low and unfed Hunger and longing my soul cried out Ignoring the cry makes my body frozen in bed My brain wonders into unproductive spaces
By L.I.E2 years ago in Poets