#original poems

[hybriddh]

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.

[dark-strangers-art]

I leave fingerprints

on silky skin

your eyes close

 ... barely audible moans

lust consumes 

Breathless

an erotic dance

No inch untouched

shivers of anticipation

pain overwhelmed

By an ardent need to feel

Dark Stranger©

[iamktb206]

Found this one in the trash can. 🚮

[stantheanomaly]

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

- Suvrahadip Ghosh, Making Sense

[3amsr]

[alparslan0]

I'm just hurting

[laydiestardust-blog]

Wasting my potential

I shall not with my language bluff,

Nor claim my struggle as a storm,

Of lyric distance I’ve enough!

I am not sep’rate from my form!

Why disregard kind equity,

And front of talent place a wall;

May I avoid complexity,

And here refuse the Heaven’s call?

I’ve no desire to rot slow,

Within dulcet lexical show,

Of my creation, ‘fore begun

My dull attempt to structure know;

Perhaps my fervour blossoms fair,

But never twist it to a page,

For should I waste a expert tear,

His heart shall surely flood with rage!

I’d lift up high my aching chains

And sing that blistering note wild,

Sweet song bled through the weeping veins

Of God’s favourite kind of child.

And how he’d laugh! As I aspire,

Draped in prize of empty heart,

My plagued lexis he’d admire:

“Absorb foul pain! Produce foul art!”

[lonelyfrenchpoet]

I was just a kid

I was just a kid.

I wasn't supposed to see that.

I wasn't supposed to do that.

I wasn't supposed to feel that.

I wasn't supposed to hear that.

I was just a kid.

By Val (22.03.22)

[mentalnote1]

Sculpting Tears ~Poetry

If I could sculpt myself a tear

I’d make it audible

Allowing even the deaf to hear

***

If I could sculpt myself a tear

I’d paint it purple

Signifying royalty

And make all the blue disappear

***

If I could sculpt myself a tear

I’d relinquish loneliness

And mix this liquid with a prayer

***

If I could sculpt myself a tear

I’d give it an automatic reset

So that it would never be in need of repair

***

If I could sculpt myself a tear

I would never create it

Cold

And salty

Like

This wicked world

[amoxicillin-tangent]

i am given birth to by my mother. i am brought home to a falling-apart trailer. i am fed and i am not fed enough. i am aged into a small being with opinions and some semblance of autonomy; my childhood is a video game and i am given three objectives: sit down, stay quiet, and cease to exist. i am made good at the last part; it is a god-like sort of art, and so i do. silence is suited for me as well as i am suited for silence. 

i am told, gently, by my third-grade teacher to stop writing in passive voice. the noun of the sentence should be the actor, the doer, the taker. i am not a taker. never the actor of my own consciousness, of my own unconsciousness, remember, now, i am ceasing to exist. 

i am uprooted like a wilting plant, no sunlight, chipped terracotta pot, placed, never planted. grow, says the sunlight seeping between the drawn shutters, and i deny its case. i am made a masochist at all of eight-years-old, i am made for withering away. i am made mother, made martyr, made clever, made more, made machine. 

i am placed in a foster home and told the new rules. i will sleep at 2130 and wake at 0600. i will eat blueberries and coconut yogurt and i will make good grades. i will behave. i will sit down, i will stay quiet, and i will cease to exist. 

i am told, gently, by my ninth-grade teacher to stop writing in passive voice. like this, you are the subject of the sentence. i am brought home; i am subjected to my sentence. i am taught, i am created, i am embittered, i am disillusioned, i am ceasing. it is all i know how to do.

blurring letters litter the pages before me. maya angelou, oh pray my wings are gonna fit me well. oh, tell the hell-child to return to her cell. mangled beast, worthless mongrel, ceasing. perfect child, perfect victim, passive. the sentences are diagrammed by my expert hand and i am diagrammed as well, pages in a folder, problem child, trouble-maker, mentally unstable. infinitive, preposition, page-break. 

my eleventh-grade teacher is asked why was it okay for maya angelou to write in passive voice? she responds, because to write in active voice would take the focus from the corpse to the crew. i like that. i understand it. the pages aren’t so blurry anymore. i trace them with my fingertips, letter-by-letter. her bones were found//round thirty years later//when they razed//her building to//put up a parking lot. 

i am no longer still, silent, ceasing. i am no longer wilting, and no longer made, i am maker. 

grow, says the sunlight seeping between the drawn shutters. i am neither the corpse nor the crew. i reach forward with trembling hands,

and i pull the cord, and the light floods through.

[shareapoetry]

I thought I never experienced love,

The rush in your veins,

The racing of your heart,

Things that people call butterflies;

But the love I found was nothing like that,

He was like a fine wine getting better with age,

While I was like a bird rotting in its cage.

He was full of calmness inside,

While I was like a turbulent storm;

Talking with him was all I needed to feel alright,

And his shoulder felt like home;

When he was with me I desired no more,

Because love is found in comfort;

Not in chaos.

Saumya Thapliyal

(Do follow @shareapoetry on Instagram💕)

[dark-strangers-art]

His Hands

~Dark Stranger ©

She remembered 

his hands,

soft ...strong

firmly holding her 

how gracefully

guiding her  

forcefully controlling her

the exquisite pain

they brought

…the pleasure 

Oh… yes…

The pleasure

…she trembled

~Dark Stranger ©

[iamktb206]

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

[stantheanomaly]

I write with the same hand I hold her with. Maybe that's why there's an essence of her in every poem I write.

- Suvrahadip Ghosh, Her Essence

Loved reading it? Read the entire piece in my debut book Ruins. Experience a rollercoaster of emotions. Available worldwide on Amazon ☺️

[hybriddh]

Singing Without a Voice by HybridDH

Art by ghosty_entity

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

(Check out profile for original poetry)

In this realm of muted echoes, where my voice finds no sail,

Lost to the void, my whispers, too frail to tell my tale.

The melody within, a shadow, silent and pale,

It's just my breath they hear, a futile exhale.

Through corridors of silence, my unheard song is flung,

A narrative stifled, on life’s lowest rung.

Bound by the chains of quiet, my spirit's unsung,

In this void, my essence, forever young.

With each breath drawn, no tales take shape,

In the vast nothingness, my attempts escape.

A dance of solitude, in darkness I drape,

This silent symphony, my only landscape.

My whispers chase the light, finding naught but gloom,

A silent lament, in this endless room.

The echo of my nothingness, a perpetual doom,

In the quiet, my desolate spirit is entombed.

Each breath a silent cry, in this void so divine,

A melody lost, with no stars to align.

In this abyss of silence, no semblance of a sign,

It's just my breath they hear, a lonely line.

So in this silence, I languish, a testament to despair,

A story untold, suffocating in the air.

Though my melody fades into the quiet, bare,

It's just my breath they hear, a silent prayer to nowhere.

[laydiestardust-blog]

Bed rottting

(What an awful name, I’ll change it soon)

I am aware, in simple terms,

That for a time I shall be doomed,

To rot within a mind of worms,

And feel my soul has been consumed,

And at the same time I can know,

This feeling lasts a fleeting time,

My anguish laughs, for it is faux,

Yet feels alive; this mind of mine

Induces gladly vile twist

Of everything to something numb.

How minimal my everything

Seems now to shockingly become,

And though it may soon pass, and I

May fail to recall this blight,

That otherworldly heaven’s eye

Will not soon yield from its foul spite.