#original poems

[famoussongpeach]

"Bleed the Sky"

The sky bursts open,

not gently,

not softly,

but like a body breaking,

like something holding on for too long

finally letting go.

The first drop hits—

hot asphalt hisses,

dust rises like ghosts startled awake,

and the earth opens her mouth

like she’s starving.

There’s no beauty here.

No poetry.

Just the raw writhing of water finding cracks,

finding hunger,

finding every place that aches or crumbles or waits.

The rain doesn’t ask permission.

It doesn’t care where it falls—

forest, rooftop, desert, skin.

It pounds against leaves as if to punish them

for turning their faces away,

fills the throats of rivers

until they choke on their own rushing,

slides down windowpanes like tears

too heavy to hold back.

And it keeps going.

There is no tenderness in this.

This is not about grace.

This is about gravity and surrender,

the weight of billions of tiny impacts

stripping the world bare.

And something in you loosens—

against your will,

unraveling in the rhythm,

in the relentless pounding that reminds you of your own breaking,

of the times you couldn’t stop falling.

You stand there,

letting it hit you,

letting it drench everything you thought was safe.

Maybe this is what healing feels like:

not silent, not soft,

not clean.

But messy.

Wet hands in the dirt,

skin soaked,

blurry vision as everything spills.

The rain knows.

It always knows.

It comes to destroy,

and in the destruction

it leaves something you didn’t know you were—

raw, gasping,

and growing.

[dark-strangers-art]

“Seize everyday events

and make them

 extraordinary. “

~Dark Stranger©

[ghostlywolfbite]

i yearn

[hybriddhthepoet]

Marionette by HybridDH

Art by ghosty_entity

https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

In the darkened room, a stage unfolds,

where velvet curtains shield tales untold.

There in the dim light’s soft, faint sway,

a marionette waits, bound to obey.

Threads stretch high, veiled and taut,

puppet and shadow caught in thought.

With porcelain skin and painted smile,

she waits, unmoving, docile, beguiled.

An unseen hand pulls; she shudders awake,

a dance begins, each step to partake

in muted hums, a silent sway,

as joints align in ghostly ballet.

Her glassy gaze is fixed and wide,

unblinking, drawn from side to side,

eyes unfeeling, blank, and cold,

secrets too deep, in silence told.

The stage, her world of fabric walls,

a prison fashioned for lifeless dolls;

each step marked by the strings’ command,

a measured move, a forced demand.

She spins, she twirls with delicate grace,

her movements bound to an endless place,

and though she glides with a quiet charm,

her dance is bound, and free of calm.

There’s a murmur low, a command unclear,

whispers cold as winter’s cheer,

echoes scripted in her ear,

words that she feels, yet never hears.

Buttons for eyes, stitched mouth set wide,

she’s hollow within, though painted with pride;

the smile sewn on, the laugh confined,

a mask that cracks yet holds the line.

Around her, dolls on taut-held threads,

pinned to their parts, lifeless and led.

In faded lace, they watch and wait,

bound to their roles, resigned to fate.

One doll stands cracked, with splintered seams,

a rosewood figure, worn of dreams—

she’s cast aside, her purpose done,

no longer danced, no longer spun.

For every twirl and every bow,

she’s merely part of another’s vow;

the stage grows larger, yet so small,

a muted echo, a silent call.

And as she bends in practiced arc,

she wonders if this role left a mark—

a phantom tale, a puppet’s jest,

a marionette swayed at fate’s behest.

The strings grow taut; she cannot stray,

locked in this strange, perpetual play,

her movements guided, whispers hushed,

in satin gloves, her spirit crushed.

But under the mask, beneath the paint,

a flicker stirs, though ever faint—

a silent plea, a wordless cry,

for freedom’s hand, to sever and untie.

At last, the dance draws to a close,

she’s set back down in static repose.

And as the hands drift out of sight,

a tear escapes, frail in the light.

A single drop, a trace of grace,

a glint of life on her painted face.

[iamktb206]

“All Thats’s Left To Tell” by Clementine Von Radics, from Mouthful of Forevers.

[ash-elizabeth-art]

You can find my book of poetry here

[callherwylder]

This space is no longer mine.

It was once a quiet garden

where my thoughts grew wild.

Now I cannot plant my words without fear

they’ll wither under your gaze,

their roots tangled in judgment.

[stantheanomaly]

I looked at you, and suddenly, every heartbreak I've ever had, made sense.

- Suvrahadip Ghosh, Making Sense

[3amsr]

[laydiestardust-blog]

An outfoxed flock of angels

When the sky opens wide and the angles look down,

They may tell those who fell from the clouds’ shattered dock,

And their faces may wry as they hear for the cry,

For the mighty must fall so the foolish may mock.

So the damned gather grand few miles from holy land,

And with Heavenly stature they put on a show,

While the angels enrage as they watch from backstage,

For there’s nowhere to fall if there’s nowhere to go.

[alparslan0]

I'm just hurting

[famoussongpeach]

Silence Beneath All Things

There is a pulse beneath sound,

a language without breath,

murmuring where the roots grip rock

and the soil refuses to give itself away.

What grows here

is not for us to name,

not for our soft hands to touch

without breaking.

Raise your head.

Do you feel it?

The weight of answers

just out of reach?

They hang there, pressing softly,

like the pause in a storm's inhale.

The air is thick with a knowing,

a presence that hums

beneath the edges of time.

And yet—

we go on,

pretending the void doesn’t notice us.

Pretending the stars don't mark

every stagger,

every brief bloom of fire

that fades before it can explain itself.

What does it mean

to hold the infinite in our chest,

while we grow old

chasing the glow of questions

that cannot stop burning?

Loneliness, perhaps,

is simply the shape of being hungry

for a truth that bends

as soon as we near it.

The way a horizon retreats

the moment you give it a name.

And yet,

there is still the sound of the wind,

the aching, wordless roar of it—

filling the lungs of mountains,

finishing the cries of waves,

spilling into the soft hollows

that God left in the bones of men.

Do you hear it now?

That pulse beneath all things?

Not a rhythm,

but a waiting.

Not a song,

but a silence

deep enough to hold

everything we will never

understand.

[dark-strangers-art]

------------------------------------

I shall leave

No inch untouched   

I will brand my name

On your naked skin

I will fill you ... with me!

~Dark Stranger

----------------------------------------------

[accordingtolauren]

A Revolting Muse

I am perfectly poised upon this podium

Supple under the spotlight, lithe amongst the fabrics

that outline of a man-made sculpture, a wholly etched effigy

By designer hands with well-intentioned fingertips

That have bruised my marble and chipped this exterior of vintage charm and divinity

For once I was so pure, so unsullied in my standing

Velvet-drapped and softly shaped

As I now wilt into ruin, cracked by the weathering tides

And an unforgiving artistry

I will never fit into your golden-etched portrait

Hung upon these unutterable halls, forever

-lauren a.p

[hybriddhthepoet]

Beneath the Iron Veil

By HybridDH Art by ghosty_entity https://x.com/ghosty_entity?s=21

In the heart of night’s deepest clutch,

Where brimstone burns and hammers thrash,

I toll away ���neath the soot-black sky,

Bound to the forge where the weaklings die.

This hellish pit, this eternal grind,

The swing of my hammer, both curse and bind.

The iron resists, my spirit depletes,

In the relentless echo of my heart’s bleak beats.

The damned forces, they wear me thin,

A soul corroded by the din.

Yet I stand firm in the blistering glow,

A forged man, no semblance of woe.

Through the veil of night, I chase mere bread,

In the mines where hope fears to tread.

The coal sears my flesh; I am marred,

Deeper still where the exits are barred.

It’s a choking hell, this miner’s cage,

Where the air is thick and the walls enrage.

But stop I can’t, it’s a maddening lure,

The grind that promises but never ensures.

My body’s a wreck, oh, I’m breaking down,

Yet I can’t fucking stop, can’t bear to drown.

I need to halt, to breathe, to cease,

Yet the chains of labor deny my peace.

These days stretch endless, a cruel jest,

Each sunrise mocking my lack of rest.

What is this life if not a trap?

Where dreams are dreams, and bridges snap.

I’m not the sage, not the learned man,

Just a husk, driven since this all began.

Whittled by duty, by life’s sharp knife,

Carved out of the shadows, devoid of life.

Yet, there’s a beauty in this brutal fight,

In the sweat-soaked days and the coal-black night.

The flicker of hope in a lover’s touch,

The fleeting peace that offers much.

Every strike sparks a bit of my soul,

In the blistering forge that takes its toll.

And though I curse the heavens, forsaken in toil,

I’m tethered to this accursed soil.

Why, oh why, must this be my fate?

To grind and suffer, to spurn and hate.

When will God lend His goddamn hand?

Am I not His creature, shaped by His command?

Yet, amidst the forge’s unforgiving flame,

I find a fierce will no god can tame.

For though I’m cast in the deepest mine,

Each hammer’s fall marks a design.

A life of steel, of fire, of pain,

A spirit tempered, born again.

For each day I rise, broken, anew,

To face the dark with a grim view.

I’ll keep swinging, keep making my mark,

In the belly of earth, in the endless dark.

And when I’m gone, let them say I stood tall,

Against the tide, against it all.

For I am more than this soot, this sweat,

More than the iron, the forge’s threat.

I am the fire, the will, the might,

A smith of my fate, in the dead of night.

So let the winds of hardship howl and moan,

In the mines of sorrow, I’ve found my throne.

A king of ashes, of dust, of bone,

In the silent depths, I reign alone.

This is my saga, grim and long,

A testament written in sweat and song.

For even in darkness, deep and sheer,

The forge’s fire makes everything clear.