Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
eliana 1d
We may have the same eye's
but I use mine differently

We may have the same heart
but I use mine differently

I'm Different cause I do things differently
I'm different cause I wear things differently

I may stand out differently in many ways
but I love it
and I love begin different

I Am Different
People are faced with the fact that they are different and other people don't realize that it's a great thing. So in this poem I'm saying that people should be happy that they are different and they should use the different things in the way that makes them happy.
Strolling in a labyrinth of bleeding hearts
with ghost orchids whispering forget-me-not.

Along a path paved with celestites,
the Queen of the Night unfurls by the labradorites,
with the crown carried by Firecrests,
as Lorikeets glide beneath the sky, enthralled
by the harmonious rhapsodies of the nightingale.

The sanctum — a rosette of Angel's trumpets,
alluring Snowy Egrets as Snowdrops embrace the sunset.
This is a symphony of Birds, flowers and rare stones.
"Rusted Harp"


Strings crust over
like ancient ossuary bones,
once vibrant with touch,
now mute in neglect.

Each pluck would be agony—
a resurrection of rust,
a hymn to how
we let beauty corrode.




.
See me in the shadows
My beauty is hidden
I know you can see it
Because you know me
You know my heart
Knowing what I need
Off your nectar
I feed
butterfly
Sophia 2d
I sketch my face
The unusual silhouette created by my hair
Whispy pieces blowing in my face
Resting on my chubby cheeks
That do protect my lips graceful arch
My noses flat tip

I fill in the colour
My skin red as I blush
Mixed with my natural warm yellow tones
That hide beneath the surface

I wore no makeup
No foundation or bronzer
No concealer or highlighter
No lip gloss or eyeshadow
Bare skin looking back at me

I paint an image of my face
It does not look the same as the one I Invision
I wonder if I'm a bad artist
Or have never seen my true self before
he grew
in the shadow’s cradle
where light was a stranger
and silence spoke in thunder.

among the red flames,
he stood
a dark flame itself,
unyielding,
sharp as obsidian.

not softer,
not less
but forged
from the stillness
between storms.

his roots drank from broken earth,
his veins held stories
etched in crimson glass,
fractured but gleaming
a quiet war
etched beneath his skin.

they called him wild,
a thorn without a rose,
but he was more
a sentinel of shadows,
a keeper of scars,
a guardian of unseen battles.

he bled without sound,
he bore his fractures
like medals of fire
each shard a testament
to survival,
each wound a map
of the battles he won
without surrender.

he did not seek to belong,
only to endure,
to thrive
where others would break,
to bloom
like the black thorn
that thrives
in the night’s embrace.
There is another part of it. It is called The Black Rose. Please check that out too. Thank You for being the part of this beautiful poem and thankyou for being here.
she bloomed
in the hush of night
where the sun dared not reach
and the wind whispered secrets
no red petal could keep.

they called her strange
a shadow among flame—
but she stood, velvet and midnight,
thriving
where silence kissed her roots.

among the red,
she did not wilt—
she shimmered.
not in gold,
but in obsidian grace
wrapped in the perfume of grief
and galaxies.

she was not less.
only different.
a hymn of thorns,
a waltz of ache.

the roses around her
spoke in bright laughter
but she sang
in echoes—
in lullabies
dripping from glass edges
still stained
with the stories of those
who held her too tightly.

there was beauty
in her breaks—
shattered, yes,
but glinting with stardust
and crimson.

she had bled
where no one could see
and still
she stood.

not because she was untouched
but because she was unclaimed
by ruin.

she was not born to belong—
she was born
to remind the world
that even darkness
blooms.
There is another part of it. It is called The Black Throne. Please check that out too. Thank You for being the part of this beautiful poem and thankyou for being here.
She tried her best to grasp the moment that flowed forth so freely.
She tried to capture it like a still or a photograph.
She tried to replicate its beauty and innocence.
Finally, she set it free.
She realized that certain moments are so transient they only exist for a short while as a magnificent instant in time, and if fortune smiles upon us, they return like familiar companions who come to see how we are and provide solace to soothe the cycles of this life.
They ebb and flow, departing and arriving, precisely on time.

-Rhia Clay
Close your eyes,
just sleep,
with your hair
tickling
my ears,
hand in mine,
relaxed,
beautifully
at rest,
Asleep
as I dream
in-depth
awoken
to your beauty.
At first light trudging through the Arctic Snow,
Is it for thrill or just a Facebook photo show?
As the Arctic wind buffets our flushed face,
The long-awaited walk soon becomes a shambles of a race.
Hands morph to splintered wood, eyebrows deftly freeze,
And yet the brochure promised we’d do this trek with ease.
Soldier on, embrace the frigid grind,
Pray aloud that inner fortitude to find,
Not a sound outside our laden breath,
Every move made with fractured hapless stealth.
But coupled to the cold a streaming sweat,
A larger wager would I not have surely bet,
That a saunter on the glistening Arctic Tundra
Would at most develop the art of soothing Mantra.

Then a booming voice disturbs this quiet introspection,
As the guide engages in frantic group inspection,
His walkie talkie comes suddenly to life,
Stern commands soon wailing shrill with strife.
Bears ahead with teenage cubs in tow,
Keep down, stay low,
Curb the chatter, pretend you’re but a stone,
Form a line, don’t venture out alone;
Rifle’s cocked, don't turn around,
Polar bears don't run - they bound.
Now move backwards, avoid their steely gaze,
Take full advantage of this soaring Polar haze.

Maybe minutes, but seemingly an age,
As we shuffle blindly stage by stumbling stage;
Our Dunkirk - the waiting rubber boats,
Ecstatic for anything that somehow runs and floats.
Back to the ship, sodden and quite sore,
Not to mention frozen to the epicenter of our core,
We huddle around cups of steaming tea,
Sharing stories of all we had to fear and see.
You may well ask, was this the fateful end,
Did we to natures will forlornly yield and bend?

It's true the thought did rather cross our minds,
Fearful of more unscripted scrapes and woeful binds,
However, a good sleep and liquid strength galore,
Did somewhat mollify that sorry shameful score.
For as dawn broke early the next day,
To a person did we in seeming chorus say:
Off we trudge as more adventure waits,
To experience all that Nature's majesty creates,
Our only thought one of craving more,
And so we went, still frozen to our core.
A little story from our recent Arctic trip
Next page