#Freeverse

[cornerstoner13]

the moon - a poem

I could travel outer space and soar far away from the sun just to bring you back the moon But all you'd say is that you yearned for the stars.

✰ - k.

[thecloudyheart]

Light Is Lost

I hear your heart beating in my chest. I feel your touch scratching my soul so that it becomes richer for a new tomorrow.

I accuse longing of returning, although fear said the last sentence. I blame time for beginning, as usual, at an inappropriate time.

Today, when you are gone, a mist grows from me - black as lost words, an embodied regret that what is most beautiful is not always right.

Today, when you have freed yourself from the future, when tenderness has lost its value - my tears seem old, an old sob that no one will ever hear.

The hour is angry when I do not believe in my own heart; an ungraspable second when sadness takes hold of my clasped hands.

Powerless memory, finally abandon the pretense of happiness! Find fantasy in me, see the unnamed - what is nearby does not always have to be present.

The fertility of dreams makes the world worth a single sigh. The power of desire makes it worth waiting out the storm until the last glimmer of light is lost, poetry turns out to be a curse.

[fireyicexo]

I used to love you

You were my little happy thought, my whole wide world

I would get lost like a balloon gets lost in the sky

Smoking cigarettes

Thinking of you

But

Your sun turned off

I am slowly drifting away

I do not love you anymore as I used to do

I touch your hands

Mine are cold.

I don’t believe you when you say you love me and

We don’t say it anymore like we used to do.

I break in pieces.

Null and empty.

I still love you with all my heart.

You played me and flew away.

I want more than a love like this.

[amor-saca-amor]

frankly...

[lorienfae]

Dust infiltrates the crevices between hours when every minute turns to century, a sprawling tundra;

scraping of fingernails against the window glass in a billow of pensiveness —

the eyes that linger, the eyes I recall, piercing in their storm —

rain traces skin, tells me hunger is anything we'd paint it,

and I let the oxidation of thoughts wash away with the water, wash away into the serene serein.

© Anna S. 2024

[laketoriver]

the three musketeers clash timelines but feetman isn’t physically feetman y’know.. so he just wayne. seemingly random twitch streamer in a completely seperate universe with video game characters who has convinced himself that this is some weird dream at worst.

freemind does what he does best (nitpicking and arguing)

P1 (here) , P2

[zaneshoe01]

Indecisive

Hours pass by Don’t know what to do, so I do nothing Waste my god damn time away Guess I’m in no hurry Of course it’s got me itching Got me thinking overtime What the fuck do I do? Tryna be a poet baby, gotta live that poets life Of sitting in empty rooms wondering what to do Or gritting my teeth anytime I gotta do anything at all Professional bum with the excuse of being a writer Take…

[visionsofaselfmademan]

"Your worst sin is that you have destroyed and betrayed yourself for nothing." —Fyodor Dostoevsky

This poem reflects a deeply personal journey I’ve been through over the past year, when I tried to fit into a version of "normal" that others expected from me. I thought maybe, just maybe, if I de-transitioned and played the part they wanted, I’d be more accepted, more loved. But in trying to conform, I felt like I was betraying the core of who I am—betraying myself. It’s a weight no one should have to carry, pretending to be someone they aren’t for the sake of approval. 

I’ve come to realize that if being true to myself makes others uncomfortable, those people aren’t worth my time or energy. I won’t live in the gilded cage of their expectations anymore. I will not betray who I am to make others happy. Being alone is far better than living in a world that demands I shrink to fit into their mold. I am who I am, and the people who love and respect me will accept that truth.

[viscera-doodles]

[ragewrites]

February 21, Lianna Schreiber 21 / 02 / 2023

[inkandpins]

THE WAITING GAME

I've been diagnosed with a sore lump in my throat a homesickness, a lovesickness.

As the long summer days melt— I still dream of the fading wings of cicadas clinging to the boughs, seeking recognition.

But first, first, first, first— love me. For this month, I gave seventeen years Snouting through the darkness—

enrobed in that second skin [hot and close] of silence, but for the urgent clutch and scramble for Longing.

The city nights will fall quiet again as wrinkled shells drop from the branches in straight lines— are these seed pods? or dead cicadas.

We've been convinced somehow to mature in isolation. To grow alone, sing in droves, die in droves. After seventeen years—

I think I've come to terms with the fact that there will always be a ribbon of loneliness running through who I am.

Seated among friends, crying with laughter, I catch myself balancing grief—the weight

that bends the spine, with sturdy celebration. I've been coiling, writhing tight to survive the lengthening nights. The Dream is a guiltless spring.

When is it time? to wriggle out underfoot, depart the frigid dirt-womb and learn lightness. The cicadas sift the loam— knowing what they know.

It is August.

My life is going to change. I feel it.

N.C.Y. Office, August 2024

[cornerstoner13]

on the mend - a poem

All I ask is that you don’t  break me again while you are trying to build yourself up and you're on the mend

✰ - k.

[thecloudyheart]

The Same Mask

I come, though your words have no meaning. I return, though the light contained in thoughts does not allow for a peaceful birth.

I seek you among uncreated meadows, between the lines of an unfinished poem. Shapeless solitude, silence cursed at the end of this intricate fairy tale, do you recognize the taste of my blood?

Do you hear me turning into timelessness, entangled in my own tears? I can feel your presence on my taut, white skin. I understand time that stopped in the middle of a dream.

Why is my heart still forced to wade against the tide of its own shadow? I try on the same mask over and over. I unite myself with stupidity that has an unnecessary name.

[thepathetickind]

in fact, I know nothing about you, but every time I see you I become silently sad and hope the very best for you. When we see each from time to time, just because of another coincidence, I hope your dreams come true and that you're going to be happy

by laurenmaerie, maybe not a stranger

[7cfaherty]

A whisper, a slight sound, something that would show, that you feel the warmth, or the cool breeze. Silence can be tormenting when nothing dominates. Yes, the need to read, hear, or see has taken the day and its needs.

-Paradise

[panthalassaunited]

I Stepped on a Hawk

I don’t think I’m ready for this kind of commitment

Sure when things are nice, they are very nice, as soothing as the breeze through the thatch palms and slash pines,

As wondrous as the hidden secrets of the rocklands. The gentle afternoon sun set against clear blue skies radiates the heat of many good days we had.

But those hurtful things you said.

That wild and crazed look in your eyes.

I know it was an accident, I know you didn’t mean it,

But now I have to check and re-check myself, Always.

I can’t be myself, I have to dump every ounce, every fiber of my being into making sure you don’t get upset.

And yet I fail you still.

Meaningless words to me, you took them as a directed attack.

I didn’t mean anything by that tone I had.

And now you won’t speak to me.

I can’t do this anymore.

My love for you is as that of the Gardner and their prized crops.

I want nothing but the best for you, to help you to grow and thrive and be truly you…

But I don’t think, for my sake and your’s, this will work out.

Why didn’t I know sooner?

I would have never taken a step had I known I wasn’t ready.

My therapist says “it sounds like you got more than you bargained for?”,

Maybe they’re right.

And that’s when I stepped on the hawk.

Your silence cuts deep, much like the hawk did later,

My brain feels clouded, I don’t want to work anymore.

I want to lie down and rot.

I’ve failed, again.

Even when I tried as best as I could not to, I failed again.

And you withdraw yourself from me.

I’ve done you great wrong.

My mind is squeezed between great and dismal bricks looking at the Pithecellobium,

When I felt something budge under my feet.

A lightning bolt, a spark, a sound of thunder, the hairs stand on the back of your neck,

I stumbled back in horror, as I peer down to see the turned-over hawk.

A large snake, a North American Racer, perhaps four feet long, once wrapped around the downed raptor, swiftly slinks away.

Everything goes into panic.

The mind, fragile, a Robin’s eggs, grasps at burning straws, gasps, reels.

Eyes meet the eyes of the hawk, blind fear and confusion in both.

I crouch down to examine, yes they’re still alive.

Grabbing a thatch palm I gently try to flip them over, onto their feet,

When talons deftly shoot out and sink down into the meat of my palm.

It hurts, the cuts are deep, but incomparable to the weight of the sin I had committed.

The garden gloves I had don’t work either, and one is ripped off my hand in fury.

They flash their wings, beak agape in fright.

The hoodie is called for, and I quickly throw it down upon them.

Instant relaxation.

Memory turns to muscle as routines of old are dredged from the depths of the psyche.

Gently unfolding the wings, watching primaries slide against secondaries,

A complex machine, tested against the mettle of life itself, whetted against the stone of trial and tribulation,

Moves and flexes like clockwork.

No broken bones in the right wing, none in the left, the scaly legs are warm and still functional.

Retrices fan out, the patterns put all together mark this one as a juvenile Broad-winged Hawk.

Everything checks out, all is well, no damage done.

Setting them in the shade on a clear platform of limestone, the hawk stands, confused, dazed.

Eventually, folding into themselves, they give their own self-assessment.

A gentle straightening of feathers, ruffled plumes relax.

I back off quickly.

Hours later, passing by the spot I had left them, a flash of movement from the pines directs my gaze skyward.

A relief, the hawk still flies. They got themselves up to the slash pine off to the right of the rock I had set them on, and now they are soaring through the canopy.

Communication is better then.

We come to an understanding.

Things mend, I still don’t think I can do this.

But I’m glad I can help to set things right.