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[Official Part-1]

this  world  can  be  dangerous 
bleak,  wild  and  careless 

you're  living  without  knowing 
how  many  days  you'll  ride 

every  day  you  face  with
the  problems  you  think
they  are  bigger  than  'you'
but  they  are  smaller  than
the  whole  universe

mini  world,  bright  sky
time  is  gold;  it  will  fly

no  one  is  getting  it 
no  one  is  feeling  it 

what's  in  your  veins 
what  lead  you  to  the  chains 
seem  every  little  is  in  a  mess 
like  every  human  is  in  stress 

walking  on  the  sharpest  bridge 
thinking  I'm  ready  to  stop 
maybe  I  can  lay  here  and  flop 
on  to  the  cold  concrete  ground 
am  I  ready  to  beat  this  round, 
what's  next  or  what's  behind 

how  hard  it  is  to  feel  kind 
when  it's  all  making  you  blind 
and  here's  where  you  can
show  your  difference
by  being  kind

noise  trauma,  unnecessary  drama 
everyone  wants  to  be  an  alpha 
race  of  fame  and  goals  to  gain 
end  of  nature  and  crazy  bane 
after  this,  I'll  never  be  the  same 

relationships  have  a  journey 
which  starts,  goes  and  ends 
I  found  One  has  no  'end'
GOD  IS  MY  BEST  FRIEND. 



☾ M. E. Kuşaslan ✩
@lightinthedarknesspoetry
Thanks for being here. Until the next verse.

For more, follow @lightinthedarknesspoetry and explore the debut poetry book "Light in the Darkness ", which is out now.
Now the pain is gone.
I don't care about you.





☾ M. E. Kuşaslan ✩
@lightinthedarknesspoetry
Thanks for being here. Until the next verse.

For more, follow @lightinthedarknesspoetry and explore the debut poetry book "Light in the Darkness ", which is out now.
You tried to take the good in me.





☾ M. E. Kuşaslan ✩
@lightinthedarknesspoetry
Thanks for being here. Until the next verse.

For more, follow @lightinthedarknesspoetry and explore the debut poetry book "Light in the Darkness ", which is out now.
You came fast into my life.
Like a roller coaster,
Told me that you wanted me,
But all you did was stealing my dreams.
Took my innocence, my friends
You tried to take the good in me.
Now you're gone too,
Left me in the darkness,
My heart was shaking,
When I thought about you.
Now the pain is gone.
I don't care about you.



☾ M. E. Kuşaslan ✩
@lightinthedarknesspoetry
Thanks for being here. Until the next verse.

For more, follow @lightinthedarknesspoetry and explore the debut poetry book "Light in the Darkness ", which is out now.
Si no me encuentras donde solía esperarte,
no pienses que me fui;
tal vez me perdí buscándote en mí mismo.

He sido un mapa sin rutas,
una brújula herida por el norte de tus ojos,
y aun así, caminé.
Caminé con la esperanza
de que el eco de tu voz
algún día me guiara de vuelta.

No quise ser eterno,
solo inolvidable.
No quise que me amaras para siempre,
solo que no me olvidaras tan fácil.

Si no me encuentras,
búscame en las cosas pequeñas:
el silencio entre dos canciones,
el respiro antes de una lágrima,
el temblor leve cuando alguien dice tu nombre.
Allí,
en lo invisible,
me quedé.
Joss Lennox Apr 24
The weighted blanket,
I wasn't meant to carry,
layer after layer,
of burned threads,
leaving stains where they are,
for it wasn't made for my bed.
I wrote this poem about burdens, traumas, life events, that occur in each of our lives that weren't ours, but somehow or for some reason, fell on us to be responsible for or to take on its identity.
(a poem in six stained glass windows)

I. BECOMING

I used to flinch when someone said
“You’re gonna be big someday,”
like—how big?
How loud?
How lonely?
How much of me
do I have to lose
to be loved that widely?

I kissed a boy once
just to see if I could still feel small.
I could.
then I wrote about it,
rhymed tongue with undone,
called it healing.

Some nights I Google myself
with the same hunger
you search a symptom.
Just hoping it’s not fatal.
Just hoping it is.
Just hoping there’s finally
a name for it.

My digital footprint is a shrine
to girls I outgrew but never buried,
their teenage poems
still written in Sharpie
on the back of my ribs.

My first book will ship with
a hand strung bracelet that says
“I survived myself.”

II. PERFORMING

Every time I tell the story
I’m a little more clever,
a little less heartbroken,
a little more
dangerous,
a little more wrong.

I have a bad habit
of leaving confessions in comment sections—
breadcrumbs on the internet floor,
for anyone sad enough
to mistake me
for a map.

I used to rehearse goodbyes in mirrors,
just to see if my eyes could lie
as well as my mouth did.
They could.
They still can.

They called me brave
for saying it out loud.
But I only said it
because the silence was louder.

The secret to staying soft
is deleting the parts
where I’m anything else.

I write best in hotel rooms
because they feel borrowed, too—
because no one expects
the towels to stay white
or the girl to stay quiet.

III. DISGUISING

“SENSITIVE” was printed on my sweatshirt
the night he told me
I hurt myself through him—
at least now he can’t say
I never gave a trigger warning.

Half of my closet is clearance rack chaos,
the other half is second-hand salvation—
each hanger a theory
of who I’ll be next.
Sometimes I dress like the version of me
I think he could’ve stayed for.

Every good body day feels like a plot twist,
like God gave me
a guest pass
to precious.

He said I was too much,
but whispered it like praise.
Now I underline his fears
in neon.

Some nights I still wake at 3:14
to texts I dreamt he sent—
all apologies
and no punctuation.

I screenshot compliments
like they’re prescriptions,
take two every six hours,
pray my body doesn’t reject them.
One day, I’ll ask the pharmacy
if they carry praise
in extended-release.

Every dress in my closet whispers
“wear me to his funeral,”
but he keeps refusing to die,
so I just overdress for brunch—
and sit facing the door
just in case.

IV. SEARCHING

I footnoted the grief.
Added asterisks to all my ‘I’m fine’s.'
Even my browser history
reads like a ******* fire.

My greatest fear isn’t that I’ll fail—
it’s that someday I’ll win
and realize the trophy feels
exactly like loneliness,
but heavier.

I read horoscopes for signs of relapse,
Googling “Do Libras experience nostalgia?”
at 5:15 a.m. like a drunk astrologer
pleading with the stars
to cut me off.

I used to edit Wikipedia pages
for characters who reminded me of myself,
changing their endings to
“she survives,”
“she gets out,”
“she burns the diary.”
They banned my IP
for excessive optimism.
I took it as a compliment.

V. RECKONING

The girls who follow me online
all think I have answers.
I don’t.
I have questions in fancy fonts
and delusions of grandeur
dressed as advice.

My therapist asks me to describe “progress,”
and I show her unsent messages,
leftover pills,
and a notebook filled with
poems written in my sleep—
and one that woke me up
Screaming.

Some of you highlight my breakdowns
like they’re quotes.
I get it.
I do it too.

VI. ALONE

My brain is a group chat
of all the selves I've ghosted,
texting in all caps
and sending GIFs that scream,
"Remember when you thought you'd be happy by now?"

If this poem goes viral,
tell them I made it big.
Tell them I got loud.
Tell them I wasn’t lonely.
Just alone
by design.
Like all cathedrals are.
This is the cathedral I built with what was left.
A six-part spiral. A myth I wrote to outlive myself.
Let me know which window you walked through first.
Asher Graves Apr 12
Half of me and half of you, a point of divergence for you
Half of me and half of you, a point of amalgamation to me
Half of me and half of you, a false pretence to you
Half of me and half of you, a make-believe fairytale to me
Half of me and half of you, a hefty disdain to you
Half of me and half of you, a wishful radiance to me
Half of me and half of you, a lousy freebee to you
Half of me and half of you, a subtle rush to me
Half of me and half of you, a blatant lie for you
Half of me and half of you, a beautiful lie to me
                                                                         -Asher Graves
Wrote this when I was in love. Didn’t end well—but hey, at least it gave me this piece. They say the greatest tragedies spark the deepest inspirations.
I smiled so wide my molars got jealous.
Everyone said I looked stunning.
I said thank you in the voice I reserve for customer service and playing dumb.
That’s the closest I’ve come to a scream
this week.

I wore the dress that says: I’m over it.
(It lies.)
I walked like a question mark
straightened out with rage.

There was a man in the corner
making balloon animals.
He asked what I wanted.
I said surprise me.
He handed me a noose
shaped like a swan.

No one noticed.
Or maybe that’s just what I tell myself
to feel interesting.

Later, someone told a joke
I didn’t get.
I laughed like I was being watched.

The punchline wasn’t funny.
It just echoed
like something I would’ve said
before I got careful.

I stood in the kitchen
with a paper plate of olives and nothing,
holding it like proof
I was doing fine.

Someone spilled wine on the couch.
I said I’ve ruined better things.
Everyone laughed
like I meant it to be charming.
(I didn’t.)

A girl in white heels asked me
how I knew the host.
I said same way I know most people—
by accident,
and with the kind of premonition that wears perfume.

The bathroom mirror was cracked.
I counted the breaks like confessions
and chose not to atone.
The soap smelled like fruit
that only exists in dreams
you wake up crying from.

I reapplied my lip stain
like armor,
like alibi,
like an exit strategy.

Then I left without saying goodbye
because I couldn’t figure out
how to do it quietly
and still be missed.
A poem about the quiet performance of "doing fine." It's about olives, nothing, and everything under the surface. How we decorate our sadness to make it digestible. How we want to disappear, but be remembered as something haunting. This one came out sharp and honest. I hope it finds the ones who feel it.
Asuka Mar 31
A sheep unshorn, a misfit star,
too wild for wool, too sharp for flocks.
It walked alone where twilight wept,
where mountaintops kissed silver clocks.

Judgment struck like feathered arrows,
but wounds grew wings and took to flight.
"I’ll carve my throne from nameless echoes,
build my own laws beneath the night."

Yet beauty whispered, laced with teeth,
a velvet snarl in hunger’s guise.
The wolves arrived—moonlit beasts,
with gleaming pearls of red-stained lies.

Beauty isn’t soft, nor kind, nor fair,
It’s a rare flame, wild in the air.
A mirage that shifts, a whispered disguise,
Wrapped in illusion, unseen to the eyes.

The sheep stood firm where darkness danced,
while others cursed the sky’s despair.
Was beauty love or sharpened fangs?
A question lost to midnight air.

Bound by fate or freed by choice,
it laughed—"I’ll fall, but not in fear."
For even flight can lead to chains,
and even wolves can disappear.
This poem explores the journey of a rebellious soul,an outcast sheep,who refuses to conform. While others fear the darkness, it faces the
wolves, uncovering the truth that beauty is not just light; it is also fierce, deceptive, and untamed. In the end, it chooses to embrace the unknown rather than run from it, questioning the very nature of beauty and the night itself.
It became part of the night, part of the unknown, neither fully sheep nor wolf but something beyond,something that understood both the beauty and the danger of the world. It didn’t conform, didn’t break,it simply became.



Is beauty a gift or a disguise? A blessing or a trap? Tell me,what does beauty mean to you?
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