Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Reece May 27
Sometimes,
My mind,
Decides,
To scare me.
Feeling,
Indifferent,
All-consuming,
Apathy.
Sometimes it's scary when you just feel indifferent about everything around you.
Birds are chirping in the broad sky
Children are happily playing. I always want to experience being outside.
Meeting people and making friends.
I have always wanted to know how to live like ordinary people do. But can't.
Our mother won't let us
She said that we're different. I notice that when we're always wearing black, and not allowed to go outside unless it's at night.
I want to make friends, not eat them.
We are different from the start
I’ve drunk enough—
don’t fill my glass again.
All you’ve ever offered,
I’ve gulped down to the grain.
Pleasure’s senses never sate;
for me, they’re just a stain.

I have this body like all others,
a hungry dog
that waits beneath the table
and eats all that falls from it.

Did no one warn you?
Never feed the dog at dinner.
Do it, and he’ll haunt your chair—
whimpering and begging for another taste.

Can’t you see the feast is laid?
Silver platters, crystal bright!
You’re the guest who’s free to taste,
to drink the banquet’s blinding white.

Is it the dog who gets the scraps,
does not care and all devours?
—Exactly!— and once he's finished,
he'll come begging, craving more.

Don’t blame the dog when he invades
your sacred feast.
You shout, you punish his demands,
yet you fed this beast.

Now discern. Divide. Rearrange.
Let each thing keep its name.
The dog in the dog’s domain.
The master at his plate.
All my poems are related with the music I compose and perform. Piano solo, modern classical/jazz style. I will provide more information when I make a good recording. My work try to explain my life philosophy. Philosophy that first are acts, and then I try to explain with music and words.
Don’t blame me if I am not,  
for in the end, I am by not being  
in order to be.  
Every kiss,  
every flower,  
every stranger’s smile—that’s me.  
Do you see the sun’s shimmer on water?  
That, too, is me.  

And that boy sleeping on the street?  
That mother weeping?  
Those who eat what others threw as trash?  
I am these people as well, I confess.  
Don’t be surprised if my sorrow does not fade,  
for I can be nothing but all these things I am.  

In the things that are alive,  
there is where I live,  
and it is not in death where I die.  
From thing to thing, my clothes change,  
From so much longing, my heart pulses.  

And if one day i ceased to be all this,  
what would remain of me then  
would be merely what i alone am.  
A small thing,  
or nothing.  
For blinded by indifference,  
not even my mirror  
would know who I am.
All my poems are related with the music I compose and perform. Piano solo, modern classical/jazz style. I will provide more information when I make a good recording. My work try to explain my life philosophy. Philosophy that first are acts, and then I try to explain with music and words.
The uniVerse May 11
what a noble endeavour
to always appear measured
to never loose you cool
I've been through it all
the turbulent sea
the loss and apathy
yet I still remain
not quite the same
not quite insane
but getting there
wherever that may be
across the same sea
I was never a strong swimmer
not what you'd call a winner
but who needs medals
or other precious metals
they will only weigh you down
how heavy is the crown
I abdicate my throne
would rather be alone
you may not think of me as clever
but noble is my endeavour
Originally written Oct 4th 2022
Bonnie Mar 2
Venice’s Commemorative Monument to Bartolomeo Colleoni - 1488



The general glares downwards from his horse,

faithfully keeping watch over the mundane,

the tedious progression of centuries.

A sentinel, he had imagined himself—a noble,

intended to become immortal,

traveling ever forward in time,

defying the erasure of memory.



But time is the enemy of all things.

The pigeons and the rain could be tolerated;

time, however, has become relentless and unyielding.

It has eroded his heroic relevance,

he watches unblinking as his glorious benevolence

fades from all memory.

Generation after weary generation

manifests the ruinous decay of collective forgetfulness.
The melancholy and futility of the fleeting nature of human remembrance.
© BonnieBayGallery 2025
Sara Barrett Jan 29
They tell her, it’s not their place.  
Say, he’s always been good to me.  
Say, she should have left sooner.

They say a lot of things,  
but never the ones that matter.  

Her black eye is a private matter.  
Her broken ribs, just a lover’s spat.  
Her ******? A tragedy—  
but never a crime until her name  
is trending in the headlines.  

When she packed her bags,  
they called her selfish for breaking the family.  
When she stayed,  
they called her weak for not leaving.  

But where was she supposed to go?  
Shelters with no room?  
A courtroom where his lies outweigh her bruises?  
A graveyard where they’d whisper,  
She should have known better?  

They say, not all men.  
Say, he was under stress.  
Say, he’s a good dad,
as if a man who leaves his children hungry,  
their mother in pieces,  
is anything but a walking threat.  

And you—  
the man who doesn’t hit,  
but laughs at the ones who do.  
The one who turns away when your friend grabs her wrist too hard.  
The one who stays silent when your coworker brags,  
"I keep my woman in line."  

You are part of this.  

You are why she doesn’t call for help.  
Why she learns to stitch her own wounds in silence.  
Why she dies and they ask what she did to deserve it.  

The system says, report him.  
Then calls her bitter.  
Then hands him weekends with the children—  
the same children he left cowering behind locked doors.  

And when she’s gone, they’ll ask:  
Why didn’t she say something?

But all she ever did was scream  
into a void of indifferent men,  
silent women,  
and a world that let her be hunted.  

So hear this now:  

If you know, speak.  
If you see, stop him.  
If you call yourself an ally, act.  

Because the only men who fear consequences  
are the ones who know they deserve them.
"Bruised by Silence, Built on Indifference" is a poignant and unflinching exploration of domestic violence and societal complicity. Through powerful imagery and stark language, the poem confronts the indifference that often surrounds victims of abuse, highlighting the painful realities they face when seeking help or escaping their situations.
The poem critiques the harmful narratives that blame victims for their circumstances while calling out those who remain silent or dismissive in the face of violence. It challenges readers to recognize their roles—whether as bystanders or enablers and urges them to take action against abuse rather than perpetuating a culture of silence.
With its raw emotional depth and compelling call to allyship, this piece serves as both a reflection on systemic failures and a rallying cry for change. It speaks directly to the heart of the struggle many women endure, making their pain visible and demanding that we all become part of the solution.
Daniel Tucker Jan 14
Black Robe
High Bench
Pursed Lips.

Furrowed Brow
Hand to Chin
The Perfect Pose.

Letter of Law
Bias Hidden
Masked Indifference.

Walk the Mile
Tighten Straps
Pull the Lever.
© 2025 Daniel I. Tucker

Character assassination in
general.
The stars blinked out one by one,
and for a second, I thought I had won.
You always said I needed too much,
that the world owed me nothing.

But I wanted the debt anyway—
wanted it piled high enough
to scrape the edge of the moon.
I wanted the universe to notice
how I stayed up nights,
bartering my breath for forgiveness
and my spine for love.

I thought the quiet was mine to keep.
I thought I had tamed it—
a wild joy, caged
in the ruins of what we built.

I bartered with silence,
traded my dreams for detours,
hoping to bend the night into something
I could swallow whole—
but it swallowed me first.

The dark wasn’t empty.
It was you—sharp as every breath
I tried to hold, under a sky
too proud to care if I fell beneath it.

And the stars?
They just didn’t want to watch anymore.
Next page