The Dawn of Change
Finding beauty in the moments when life feels stuck.
Sometimes we all feel stuck,
Trapped in a place with no exit,
A realm where it’s just you,
Where your voice goes unheard.
It’s a vacuum of complete disharmony,
A chaotic land of tangled thoughts,
Where everything seems like a mirage,
A utopian land with a tinge of darkness.
Feels like walking without a destination,
Trying our best to reach the zenith,
Our eyes searching for just anyone,
So that we can be assured of our existence.
We all move, feeling lost sometimes.
We all get stuck at some point,
As if time has become stagnant,
We all feel stuck, and that’s normal.
About the Creator
Gargie S Anand
Gargie is a graduate in Economics and English. She loves to write about tiny things happening around. She tries to capture every moment of life through her writing. A soul who believes her powers lie within the pen and a paper.
Keep reading
More stories from Gargie S Anand and writers in Poets and other communities.
At the Sheltering Doors
The doors, they always scrambled for the doors first. When they arrive and always by night it was a race to desperately bar the creatures entry to the house in the slow crawl of numb feet that the dream would impose upon him. He never seemed fast enough and the creatures uninhibited by the same constraints always made the doors first. The houses in his dream-scapes vary night to night - Some are mansions, others shacks and some are distorted contortions of his childhood home which burned down when he was ten. But the doors are always the same – frail, loose hinged and never could be fully shut. The creatures too vary – twisted and corrupted forms of animals and people familiar to him: family dogs preternaturally swollen to twice their size with rotting coats of mange and slicked damp with dark liquids of decay. The people too were bloated vestiges of ones vaguely familiar to him but whose names escape him. Their eyes gorged wide with dark blood which streaked their mottled faces in crusted trails like lost rivers which hung from their chins swinging in ropy columns beneath paling yellowed teeth. To let them break through would mean death. This he knew with grave certainty. At the door was desperation and panic as their stench emanated forth, sickly and pungent like vomit and mold and ending in a gruesome exhalation like cancer, the stench sticky and clinging invading his nostrils and lungs never to be expunged. Then in the sudden waking he never knew if he repelled them or not.
By Kevin Rolly4 days ago in Horror
Comments (1)
I really liked your poem. “ We all get stuck at some point, As if time has become stagnant, We all feel stuck, and that’s normal.” Well put.