#word poetry

[stainedpoetry]

The voices in my head aren't poetic anymore. they don't recite me poems on loneliness or anxiety while I lie on the floor staring at the ceiling thinking about the sins I own.

The voices in my head aren't my enemies anymore. They have become my friends. And for them I ignore the whole world, shutting the door from percluding anyone to meet the friends I admire and adore.

The voices in my head don't speak anymore they just scream, scream at the highest possible pitch they could. They are as loud as the waves of the ocean no matter how much far I stand from the shore but I can still hear the noise they make.

The voices in my head are killing me yet I don't feel any pain because all the emotions, all the human emotions are very long gone. All that resides here is silence, numbness and emptiness.

The voices in my head aren't anyone else but me, I'm the voices in my head. Standing midst of a graveyard infront of the corpse that's been burned to ashes, ashes consisting of parts of me and my shattered dreams. ~ dishaa

[ktwilight]

I am tangled with the sweetness of your scent; I wish to be embraced by you, as if the world were to end tomorrow; And you leave me not, because I am yours, and you are mine- So we hold our hearts into oblivion, until we transform into stardust once again. I lean into death well knowing nothing would stop our souls from reaching one another. For, I will crawl eternity for yours.

[poetdreams16]

[carvingcanvas]

Being real to yourself about how

you feel is both bold and treacherous.

yet, healing.

- CarvingCanvas

[christiashadows]

Here's some to the point tips for writing poetry that I've collected from my 7 years of writing

Give it a read !

[softibbies]

“Some day I will write poems about this. But first I must survive it.”

- Laura Mathis (via Pinterest)

[peternoahthomas]

More Than Mere Trees

In the depths of verdant woods, whispers dwell, Ancient trees stand tall, with stories to tell. A tapestry woven with secrets untold, The forest, a sanctuary for spirits of old.

Through dappled sunlight, gentle breezes stir, As melodies of nature softly purr. Moss-clad stones, witnesses of ages gone by, Guarding the wisdom that time can't deny.

In the heart of the forest, silence is alive, A hallowed hush, where wild creatures thrive. The subtle rustle of leaves, a sacred hymn, Echoing the harmony of nature's eternal whim.

Amidst towering pines and canopies above, A place where the spirit finds solace and love. The sunbeams, like leaves, gently cascade, Inviting us to wander through nature, unafraid.

In the footsteps of our ancestors, we tread with care, Respecting the balance, the fragile and rare. For the forest is more than a mere collection of trees, It's a sanctuary, a refuge, where the soul finds ease.

So let us venture forth, guided by poetic light, Into the embrace of the forest, an ancient rite. May we find inspiration in nature's embrace, And honor its beauty, while we leave no trace.

[wordsmithana]

Somewhere, someone is also going through a similar heartbreak as you are. How comforting it is to know that someone else's brokenness resembles yours. You're not alone.

[lovepleasedrownme]

I could...talk about love, but last night when i tried to sleep, i thought of you instead. Maybe once i get to see ten sunsets and drink and dance and talk to my friends for ours without mentioning your name maybe...maybe then. I will talk about love.

_eirual_

/for the lover whom i belong to secretly

The full poem👇

[dankdandelion]

//

you know how some things are good from a distance.

the sea at night, it looks so appealing, it invites me closer, with each minute i look at it, but i stay away, enough to protect my body from being consumed by it. the fire, it screams my name, it calls for me, it ignites for me, and it yearns for me to be a part of it, but all i do, is look at it, burning for me. the edge of a cliff, oh the wind there, it wants me to sway away with it, i can hear it whispering my name, and eventually, it echoes all around, but i stand there,numb, right at the edge, not getting an inch closer to its core.

what i’ve been feeling lately is, love doesn’t hold much difference for me. it wants to incapsulate me, bind me in the depth of it, drench me in the essence of it.

but when did this happen, because the last time i heard about love, it was supposed to be freeing, liberating; when did it become enslaving.

how do i keep my distance, or how do i break through? it’s like trying to solve a maze, which has no entry, and no exit. you know why, cause it’s you trying to escape yourself, and how can that ever work. you are an embodiment of love, now try to take it on from here.

“ i love you”, at one point, single handedly had the power to make me gasp for air, make me high on passion, make my heart grow fonder;

the words remain the same now, but they’re just words now, and that’s what the controversy is.

i hope not to hear them, they haunt me inside out. i want to hold your hands, caress them for you, but they feel like handcuffs now. i want to hug you, and make you feel safe, but your arms feel like they could crush me any moment. your body is a temple, and i feel i’ll be banished if i try becoming a worshipper.

it’s like i’ve become a pleasure providing body, without a charging port, and what the biggest problem is, i don’t have a charging port; and the only way im aware of, to charge, it’s not working. and i’m supposed to keep the battery full at all times, cause you never know when the user might need it, and im supposed to provide, right, that’s what an object it supposed to do, that’s the reason it is called an object, to serve its purpose, to work for the user, even when a breathing body fails to. an object is supposed to take it all; appreciation, apprehension, admiration, abandonment, all of it. like come on, that’s what it is for, duh.

but do you know when does the problem start, when you succumb to your object, you rely on it, to prove to you its worth, every time you desire, or else why did you even regard it, trust it, depend on it to make life easier for you. an object, it’s not supposed to have a life of its own. it’s supposed to devote, to its owner, to its chief, to its ruler.

i’m looking for ways to charge the battery, there are no ports to be found, no ports found to be working, all there is, is some saved up battery from the past, the one used in case of emergencies, guess i do have an emergency, it being me, it me being an object.

and you know what makes me cackle, it is the fact, that i always have the choice to walk on the beach in the dark, look at the fire growl at me, and even let my hair sway standing on the cliff; but i can never flee from love, there’s no distance, because for distance you need space, but love is something inside me, around me, right here; deceiving me, beckoning me; and i’m here, standing, cause i don’t trust google maps.

~ ks//

[stainedpoetry]

Poets are the people who wanted to be a poem but life had different plans for them and they became the ones writing them.

[octoberloved]

[poetdreams16]

a micro poem today

[lotrmusical]

never let anyone tell you that trawling through mediocre victorian poetry isn't worth it. we just happened upon an absolute BANGER of a worm poem. go read it or else 🪱🪱🪱

[lucidloving]

@roach-works // Melissa Broder, "Problem Area" // Mary Oliver, "The Return" // @annavonsyfert // Koyoharu Gotouge, Demon Slayer // Haruki Murakami, Dance Dance Dance // David Levithan, How They Met and Other Stories // Tennessee Williams, Notebooks

[becomingvecna]

— David Cronenberg, Consumed