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The strings quiver-a broken body in silk,
nails pressed to wood
like bruises that refuse to fade.

A melody bleeds,
sharp notes rip through skin,
veins unravel in cold ink.

Drums crack time open,
tremor down too slow
to outrun the black.
Shadows gather,
drowning the air.

A voice rises-strangled, fractured,
singing what lungs can’t reach.
Each chord a blade,
carving its name into bone.

And when it ends,
silence screams louder
than the song that tore me apart.
A sable veil, a crepuscular drape,
Wherein the soul, a phantom, finds its shape.
A nocturne played on strings of frayed despair,
A hollow resonance, a vacant, frigid air.
The mind, a labyrinth of obsidian hue,
Where phantoms dance, and truths are skewed anew.
A pallid moon, a sickly, waning gleam,
Reflects the void, a fractured, broken dream.
The heart, a sepulchre of frozen tears,
Where joy lies buried, choked by shadowed fears.
A silent requiem, a mournful, solemn chime,
For life's bright tapestry, consumed by creeping time.
The body, vessel frail, a spectral frame,
Endures the tempest, whispers not a name.
A brittle echo, in a vacant, vast domain,
Where solace flees, and only shadows reign.
A somber canvas, painted dark and deep,
Where anguished secrets, silently they sleep.
A cryptic cipher, etched in mournful prose,
Depression's shadow, where the spirit goes.
Themes & Mood:
* Depression, Despair, Melancholy: These are the foundational emotions. The "frayed despair," "vacant, frigid air," and "frozen tears" directly depict these states.
* Existentialism & Nihilism: The "void," "vacant, vast domain," and "brittle echo" suggest a sense of meaninglessness and the absence of inherent value.
* Loss & Grief: The "sepulchre of frozen tears" and "silent requiem" point to a deep sense of loss, likely of joy, hope, or even a sense of self.
* Isolation & Loneliness: The "phantom" soul, "vacant, vast domain," and "solace flees" emphasize the feeling of being utterly alone.
* Darkness, Void, Shadows: These are recurring motifs, representing the overwhelming presence of negative emotions and the absence of light and hope.
* Mourning & Requiem: The "silent requiem" explicitly states a sense of mourning, a formal lament for something lost.
* Anguish & Sorrow: The "anguished secrets" and overall tone of sadness convey deep emotional pain.
Imagery & Style:
* Gothic & Dark Poetry: The language is rich with dark imagery, creating a gothic atmosphere. Words like "sepulchre," "phantom," "spectral," and "nocturne" evoke a sense of darkness and decay.
* Symbolism & Metaphor:
   * "Sable veil" and "crepuscular drape" symbolize the obscuring of light and joy.
   * "Labyrinth of obsidian hue" represents the confused and trapped state of the mind.
   * "Sepulchre of frozen tears" symbolizes the heart as a place of buried emotions.
   * "strings of frayed despair" shows the breaking point of the emotional state.
* Imagery: The poem is visually evocative, painting a picture of a dark, desolate landscape.
* Nocturne & Crepuscular: These terms emphasize the twilight and night, times associated with darkness, mystery, and introspection.
* Phantom & Spectral: These words suggest a sense of unreality, a feeling of being disconnected from life.
* Labyrinth: representing the complicated and confusing nature of the mind.
* Sepulchre: A tomb, representing the death of emotions.
Emotional Tone:
* Sadness, Hopelessness, Desolation: These emotions permeate the entire poem, creating a sense of overwhelming despair.
* Fear: The "shadowed fears" and the overall sense of darkness contribute to a feeling of anxiety and dread.
* Loneliness: The isolation of the "phantom" soul and the "vacant, vast domain" emphasize the feeling of being utterly alone.
In essence, the poem creates a powerful and immersive experience of deep melancholy and existential despair by using vivid imagery, symbolic language, and a consistent tone of sadness and hopelessness. It is a testament to the power of language to convey the darkest corners of the human experience.
The rope slumps, an unstrung throat.
Pills rattle like broken teeth.

The mirror unmouths my name,
gulps me in glass, spits static.

Outside, the city chews its own tongue.
Streetlights pulse like exposed nerves.

I step forward.

Or maybe I don’t.

The night swallows.

Nothing shifts.
dead poet Mar 6
could you imagine what it’s like to not imagine?
to feel a feeling, before it ever happened?
to tell a breeze from a beast, waiting in the cabin?
to conclusively deny the myth of the dragon?

could you ever really know the false from the true –
having lived so little in a world so new?
could you live with love, when all you have is you?
could you assure the blind that the sky is blue?

could you split the atom, and fill the void –
with a hate so violent you were meant to avoid?
could you find your peace, amidst a frenzy on steroids?
could you smother the fire with which you toyed?

could there ever be a time you’d know for sure –
if you should let go, or endure… a bit more?
could you think for yourself, with thoughts obscure?
would you dare to tell your child - ‘you’d better mature’?
The womb convulses, spitting me forth—a clot of breath. Light carves itself into my skull. Already, the body is a wound.

I lurch toward meaning, but time gnaws at the marrow. The mirror refuses me. Language drips, cooling into names I do not recognize.

Love lingers but never sinks in. The tongue, a rusted hinge. The hands, outstretched, grasp absences. They call this aging, but it feels like erosion.

Flesh crumbles into concept. Time forgets. A door swings open in the dark—
or was I never here at all?
dead poet Feb 24
at the end of the day,
with my illusions at bay,
when bound to obey
a truth so gray —
i travel the depths
with sondering footsteps,
to see if they help
or merely cast a vignette
of eclectic readings,
and years of heeding
the lives preceding;
still bleeding —
like a pair of lips,
torn at the tips
in sorrow’s grips;
hardly equipped —
to deal with ‘the self’
blowing dirt off bookshelves,
too dry to spell  
the thought of oneself.
Bones threaded with silence,
a weft of unseen tides,
drowned before the sky could murmur,
names twisted into half-light.

Empty calls carve through marrow,
a dissonance stitched in the flicker
of unspoken skies,
twisting where shadows breathe.

Flesh frays in the void of mouths
that never opened—
rusted hums too thin to grasp.

Skin unthreads,
and what remains burns in the air
like a scream that cannot form.

Dust to dust—
the thread severed
in half-thoughts,
too distant to bleed,
too numb to remember.
Vianne Lior Feb 15
Act I: The Universe Breathes, and I Am an Afterthought

I arrived late to existence,
billions of years after the stars had their golden age.
Missed the Big Bang,
missed the Renaissance,
missed the time when love letters were written on paper,
instead of reducing feelings to keystrokes.

They handed me a body,
a mind that questions too much,
and a world obsessed with carving meaning out of chaos—
as if Sisyphus hadn’t already proven
we’re all just rolling boulders uphill,
pretending not to notice the futility.

Act II: The Weight of Knowing, the Lightness of Forgetting

Socrates said, “The only thing I know is that I know nothing.”
I read that at 3 a.m. and felt personally attacked.
Descartes told me, “I think, therefore I am,”
but some days, I think too much and forget how to be.

History is a carousel of déjà vu,
spinning the same tragedies on repeat.
Empires fall, currencies crash,
trends resurrect themselves like poorly buried ghosts.
The Greeks feared hubris,
the Romans feared the barbarians,
I fear how meaning crumbles when no one is left to remember.

Act III: Beyond Meaning, Beyond Regret

Maybe Dante was right—
hell isn’t fire, it’s bureaucracy.
Maybe we’re just modern Stoics in overpriced hoodies,
romanticizing the art of being okay with things we can’t change.

Maybe meaning isn’t found in grand gestures,
but in the quiet absurdity of it all—
in watching the sun rise like it’s not exhausted,
in laughing at a joke older than Shakespeare,
in knowing that despite wars, collapses, heartbreaks, and lost civilizations—
someone, somewhere, still bakes bread from scratch,
still hums a song they don’t remember the name of,
still chooses to keep going.

Final Scene: To Exist Is to Hesitate, and Yet—

Nietzsche said, “He who has a why to live can bear almost any how.”
I’m still figuring out my why.
But in the meantime,
I’ll sip my coffee, watch the world spin,
and pretend I was always meant to be here.
Some nights, the universe feels indifferent. I wrote this to remind myself that I am here—that I matter, even if only to myself. I exist, I question, I feel—what more proof do I need? I thought this wasn’t ready. Turns out, neither am I—but here we are. And if the universe remains indifferent, I’ll take that as permission to laugh :)
GS Feb 11
There is no hope,
There is no desperation,
Life flows like water,
Neither bad nor good.
If this is true,
Why can I feel?
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