Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
they told you no.
they meant never.

they tried to carve
a life without passion—
because passion is poverty,
and you deserved better.

just wait, little one.
the world will carry
your name on its tongue.
the dream they stole,
quiet as a matchstick,
burned through a decade.

today
you’ll strike it—

and the whole sky
will burst into flames.
this one is for my thirteen-year-old self, who wanted to be a graphic designer, but my parents thought… computers are for men, i should be a doctor. i became neither. but i did just finish the cover design for my book.
Some poems seem to write
themselves;
I just move the pen.
Others are like lumps
of clay;
they refuse to be molded;
they need moisture and time.
This one is like
a robin that just learned
to use its wings.
It heads west, on a
gentle breeze, into
a tangerine sky.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aMbrfKP2H38
Here is a link to my YouTube channel where I read my poetry from my latest book, Sleep Always Calls.  It is available on Amazon.  The latest video I did is a poetry reading at the Clear Lake Public Library.
AUSTIN Sep 4
intuition
speaks through art
speak through
your craft
a message :D
Beyond death and life there is no separation, no frontier, no fixed boundary. What we call life and death are only names that thought has invented, abstractions to divide the indivisible, shadows drawn upon the infinite. Existence itself is seamless.

Life does not begin, as a flame suddenly born from nothing; nor does death end it, as if the flame were blown into emptiness. Life is the flame and death is the smoke — both movements of fire, both expressions of the same unseen source.

The river flows toward the sea. We say: the river dies there. But the sea replies: the river has always been mine. The star burns and collapses. We say: the star is lost. Yet its light travels across centuries, touching eyes not yet born. Nothing is lost. Nothing is separate.

Death is not the opposite of life; it is the hidden curve of the same circle. The wave rises and falls, but the ocean remains. To cling to the wave is to fear its end. To see the ocean is to know that the wave was never apart.

Beyond death and life is the abyss of nothingness — not a void of absence, but a womb of possibility. From this abyss the opposites emerge: presence and absence, form and formlessness, being and non-being. They unfold for a time, they dance, they dissolve, and they return. The abyss is not against them; it is within them. Every opposite carries in its heart the silence of its own dissolution.

To see this is to awaken. Fear falls away, for there is nothing to lose. Grief softens, for absence is another face of presence. Love deepens, for the beloved is never gone, only transformed.

Beyond death and life, we discover the transparency of being: full and empty at once, radiant and silent, ephemeral and eternal. We are not born, and we do not die. We appear, we disappear, we reappear — but always we are the universe unfolding itself.

The cosmos breathes, and we are its breath. The abyss dreams, and we are its dream. Beyond death and life, there is only the One — endless, seamless, indivisible.
This heart to love — abrupt,
a door slammed open in the storm.

No warning, no gentle knock,
just the rush of something that's
too vast to hold.


And this face, a gallery of what remains:
a canvas carved by wounds, a battlefield’s
aftermath; a work of art painted by scars —
proof that breaking is its own design.
Nigdaw Aug 29
angels dance in the inferno
of creativity
untouched by it's heat
just illuminated in flame
while I stumble through
a forest
with trees I couldn't bring
to life on a page
but Blake in his divine
madness
saw angels in the branches
greatsloth Aug 27
On the corner of your pages
I'll leave not my name
Nor my wretched face,
But a word of thanks

You let me read your stories
Shared to me your worries;
I somehow became part
Of your wonderful art

I would be greatly honored
If you saw my crooked words
And remember those times
That once our pages aligned—

Where laughters are easy to find
So did our cries and whines.
our canvases were born
from chaos at midnight.
colour spilling with the smoke
of cigarettes waiting
patiently in the tray.
we wove them in
with the brushstrokes
then let it breathe
so the magic would dry.

'darkness is coming',
dark blue across white
a bird slurping
rainwater from petals.
or something like that.
art is supposed to
make you feel something.
ours wasn't there to be nice.

one day,
it wasn't there at all.

i came home,
and found them gone —
shredded and torn.
the reminder,
that hands crafted them
that wouldn't caress you,
was unbearable.

i'm sorry.
that i shouted at you.
that i couldn't respect
you needed space,
a clear head
away from the clutter
that came with me.

i would have done the same.
we don’t get to choose
who we let in,
and who we love.
the only choice we have
is whether to erase it
slowly,
or all at once.
this one is about the art that couldn't survive the weight of unreturned love.
Next page