#EmotionalWriting

[shannyhere]

pockets are empty, dreams on hold

bills stack high, and the nights feel cold i chase the hours, but they slip away working for pennies, day after day

i need the money, it’s all i can see freedom’s a price that’s too high for me counting the minutes, waiting for more but the struggle’s the same as the day before

[uncle-keg]

Untitled Love Poem

Pulling you closer to me, as we melt away in each other's arms; where I could spend– all day.

You make me feel so at rest with your hands caressing my chest...

Looking up into those eyes of rich dark chocolate, puts me in a trance– making me love being alive.

My smile in their reflection never seemed so radiant, credited all to your affection.

[elysianwing]

The whites of my eyes stained by all they have seen. Even when I close them the crimson red and abysmal blacks won't fade for a second. Dreams, my only escape from my dry tears and sighs. Blink once, twice, three times whilst my lids are shut. R.E.M...is as deep a sleep I journey. I'm not awake...until I drift away. The realities my subconscious manufactures are more warm, more inviting than ten lifetimes like this could be. When the breathing slows, and the pulse drops down I feel that fleeting euphoria. It tastes more sour each and every time, I open my eyes to the harsh "actuality" termed my life. Yet, in these restless nights, when insomnia comforts me without request; an annoying "ally" sparing me that bitter flavor... my thoughts toss and turn more than my body. Wrap themselves in blankets thick with anxiety...urging me to converse with them. Heating my brain... where no beads of sweat can quench that thirst, yet flow down my brow steady and unwavering. I'm made Nocturnal, with no say on my own behalf. thoughts most active when activity is in the midst of slumber.   By Alexander Learmont

Posted 6/14/2003 at 4:11 AM 2024 rewrite available @ https://www.patreon.com/Elysianwing

[jubz0]

Embers at First Light:  A Child’s Rage

Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ “Do not go gentle into that good night”Personal adaptation of Dembe Zuma’s Final Monologue

A shared destiny. With silent certainty, death awaits us all. Death’s significance is inherently dissolved by the inevitability of fate’s call. What truly matters? Our relentless search; what we pursue, what we discover. how to heal, how to love, how to grow.   How we Live. We cherish these children, more than anyone will ever know. Their remarkable refusal to go quietly into that good night. Their  fight  for  life. A  fight  in  spite. Imposed by dusk in countless ways, yet fiercely committed to the day’s embrace. When confronted by the silence of twilight, they defy in rage.  The  rage  of  life, To rage against the dying of the light. A blaze to capture moments of peace, play, and joy. Their journey—an innocent and curious endeavour to explore life with an unwavering passion—is perhaps the most profound path one can take. Inconceivable that their spark would fade—freed of wake, into that good night. Our time with them, our time together, is never about an ending. It is always about the odyssey, about discovery, about a child’s everlasting reminder—showing us, imploring us; to rage. Do  not  play  gentle  in  this  fight. Rage. Tend  the  embers  of  their  bright  light. Rage,  rage  and  ignite—

[gramnyesnotes]

[shadowsfromtheheart]

Abyssal Descent

Beneath the water’s veil, I am trapped,

A prisoner of an unseen force,

Grasping my throat with spectral hands,

Choking, silencing my breaths.

I am engulfed in a paradox,

Feeling nothing yet everything at once,

Sinking in a weightless realm,

Where limbs turn leaden,

And vitality ebbs to shadows.

A primal awareness stirs within,

Instincts whispering of the dire need for air.

Eyes flutter open, limbs begin their desperate dance,

Legs thrashing like rudderless sails,

Arms flapping in futile mimicry of flight.

I grasp for the surface,

Yet each thrash pulls me deeper,

A relentless tug of gravity’s embrace.

My chest tightens,

Breathe a fading whisper,

Water seizing my mouth and lungs in a cold embrace.

Pressure mounts, a vice on my heart,

My screams emerge as mere whispers,

Lost in the watery abyss,

Strangled by the unseen chokehold.

My final cries for help dissolve

Into the crushing silence,

A fight against the deep,

Heard by none.

I am submerged,

A soul trapped beneath the waves.

[sunnyanddumb98]

"As I clean out the dead butterflies of Valentina's heartbreak, I recall the first time I heard the myth. I never thought it was real—butterflies that live in the stomach and flap their wings when a person feels emotions such as love, fear, or anticipation—butterflies that you can lose if you're not careful even bleed them out. Nonsense"

Quote From the book I'm currently writing

[mumbled-tea]

Poetry of my heart

Where did it come from? A side road to my roadway. It started with conversations, everything from hilarious to deep. We got to know each other better.

We are holding back for true time. Although, everyone is a stranger. Aren't you a stranger? she questioned. Use me to express what you feel, lead me to an innocuous way, he said.

Building the unconditional support, and wanting to stick together, we developed the amiability. Providing the guidance altogether, we believed in glowing up together.

He trusted me heartily, and how not? At least I have someone right? he queried. I gave a silly grin and replied, Why won't you? I am here. I don't know for how long, but I am.

[aloneinthedarkpath]

Kagazi Ishq.... This paper love savors winter’s icy touch and summer’s sultry heat, indulges in the rain’s tantalizing kiss and autumn’s rustle. It craves only the sensual caress of a pen, thriving on the allure of ink, where each stroke of the nib feels like a whispered secret, and memories become an intoxicating embrace.

[m-books-ideas]

Love Letters to Dad

Hello everyone,

I hope this message finds you well. My name is M, and I'm currently working on a heartfelt and introspective book that I believe will resonate with many. The book is a collection of letters written in the first person, addressed to a father, capturing the spectrum of emotions and experiences that define this pivotal relationship.

To make this book as rich and diverse as possible, I am reaching out to people willing to share their personal stories with their fathers. These contributions will help shape a narrative that is both intimate and universally relatable.

What I'm Looking For:

Positive Stories (Ages 3-13): I would love to hear about the warm, loving, and memorable moments you shared with your father during your early childhood years. These stories could be about moments of joy, lessons learned, or simple, cherished memories that highlight the bond between you and your dad.

Challenging Stories (Ages 12-19): Equally important are the more complex and sometimes difficult experiences from your teenage years. These stories can reflect struggles, conflicts, or moments of growth and realization. They will help portray the multifaceted nature of father-child relationships as we navigate the turbulent adolescent years.

How to Contribute:

If you're willing to share your story, please send it to Loveletterstodad@gmail.com with the subject line "Letter to a Father Submission." Your submission can be as short or as long as you feel necessary to convey your experience. Anonymity and privacy will be respected, and you can choose to share your story under a pseudonym if preferred.

Why Contribute?

By contributing, you will be part of a project that aims to touch hearts and offer solace and understanding to readers who might find their own experiences reflected in these letters. It's an opportunity to voice your journey, honor your relationship with your father, and contribute to a collective exploration of this fundamental bond.

Thank you for considering sharing your story. I am deeply appreciative of your time and openness.

Warm regards,

[shannyhere]

yearning for a touch that's cold,

a love that leaves me feeling old, your words, like poison, seep inside, yet still i crave, though tears i've cried.

i reach for warmth that isn't there, lost in dreams of tender care, but all i find is endless ache, a bond that's broken, a heart to break.

[arcanes-things]

THINGS I LEFT UNSAID-II

16.05.2024

"Sis? What is love?" My little sister sat smug as the question lingered and the void filled the atmosphere of my room with an air of gloominess.

That day I sat beneath the moonlight thinking about what love is... Since it is way out of my bounds to describe what love could be. Some described it as the secret of their success, of how beautiful it could be, and how it makes a person become the best version of themselves, and how it breaks a person into something unsaid.

Be it staring at the guy on the first bench, or staring at him when our friend group bustles with excitement, admiring how much he makes me feel at ease and yet so nervous... Or just giving my mom a big hug, appreciating what she has been through for me... Or just sitting and admiring the moon...

Even though love has brought us so many tales to tell... Still, Love can be scary... Scary enough to cause chaos.

So, do I have an answer to that lingering question? No... Since I lack the experience of love so true that even the moon is the witness to... Rest are the things I can't yet comprehend...

[uncle-keg]

ars gratia artis/ars poetica poem

Art for the sake of art-

requires vulnerability,

but I don't know if I'm able

for a part of me

to be left out on the table.

Not carefully carved

like thanksgiving turkey,

more like last night's discared dinner

not saved or cleared, out of lethargy,

and beginning to stink.

I wouldn't dare to take a bite

or try to reheat it;

attempting to give it new life.

That'd only accentuate the stench,

resurrecting the past,

and making me wretch.

Though in doing so, it may finally pass.

[elysianwing]

Rough Draft

I know this place. I know it well… It is where…when left alone, my ideas go to die. Their haggard bodies litter the ground here conceived while showering, or doing busy-work… or just before I fall asleep only to dissipate like most all dreams do. It’s only been a few days since I last wrote something new, but already I can feel the words trying to slip away from me falling between my weary fingers like grains of sand sliding through an hourglass. Taunting me as the seconds grow, one by one until they morph all at once into an endless silence, enveloping the space around me and stealing away all but the sounds of my breath as it echoes softly. Audible, yet still saying nothing like this damnable blinking cursor on my word-pad. Were it only so easy, as making this cursor move. I could let myself fall asleep and lie my head down on my keyboard spilling my dreams onto the page as the weight of my skull is cradled by the soft pillows of depressed keys. Tearing the white away one drooling, snoring, tossing and turning letter at a time. Written 9/8/2024 @ 10:12pm by Alexander Learmont https://www.patreon.com/Elysianwing

[plotscape]

Echoes of Solitude

I’m grappling with the purpose behind it all, feeling adrift despite ticking every box of what was expected of me: loyalty, education, physical health, self-improvement. Yet, amidst it all, loneliness persists. Alone when the news of her arrival greeted me, only to face abandonment when circumstances dictated her departure. Alone as the ache of her absence gnawed at me, and alone when I couldn’t…

[y2kgothicbarbie]

The knowing

You probably thought that you'd break my heart; you probably thought that you'd make me cry. But it's okay…I swear, it's okay.

Because I know everything.

Everything.  

I know everything.

Everything. 

I think of our sister of sorrow, the keeper of pain and betrayal. She holds this pain with grace and beauty. She takes wound after wound, dagger after dagger. She delights in the pain because she understands that it makes her stronger. She is silently aware of all their wrongdoings. She allows it to exist in her space, a heavy blanket of darkness cast behind the horizon of her gaze. A single tear falls from her eye – a moment of weakness. She is overwhelmed by this sensation. It haunts her. The knowing haunts her. To pick from the tree of knowledge is to subject yourself to a life of torment and suffering. But what happens when we spot the fruit we must bear and do nothing? You let it fester and ferment until it rots and plunks down to your feet. Its rotted juices seep into your shoes and stick to your skin. Though you walk away committed to your ignorance, the juices of truth stick to you and the steps you take. These juices leave a trail in the dirt, showing others where you go to hide. You can’t hide now. You know, and now they know.