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Archer Apr 13
Not enough hours
In a day to love you when
You’re not even here
MacGM Apr 12
The other night some man took a trip outside city limits.
He ambled along until he got to a pasture where the ghosts were warm and thoughtful,
missionaries in a newly old land.
They looked as though they were brimming with knowledge on how to live correctly,
but he was just a visitor looking for freedom from thought,
and so asked nothing.
Though he did learn the ghosts weren’t fully translucent.
It seemed there was still blood in them.
Pagan Paul Apr 11
A story unfolds in her eyes,
the little runaway recites,
depth in an iris of secrets,
halcyon days and sapphire nights.

Release the words dearest youngling,
bleed the emotions you regale,
let the narrative entice time,
weep the history of your tale.

She blinks and the page slowly turns,
another chapter taking shape.
The story unfolds in her eyes
and lids close as she seeks escape.
Piyush Apr 10
A violent night,
A crucial sight—
A family living
A tragic life.

A boy with blurred eyes,
A disturbed wife,
A husband who cried,
A child who sacrificed.

Why is it so difficult
To earn a dime?
I'm trying, trying, and trying,
But in the end,
I'm just a boy who's always crying.

The eyes saw the child
Holding a knife.
To him, it was right—
But to the wife,
It was an inevitable crime.

What should I do
To stop this fight?
The home is broken,
And the eyes are, again,
Just crying.

The vision is blurred,
The colours are blind—
Am I dying—
Or am I again trying?
Thea Apr 5
In a world devoid of meaning, she wandered alone,
A soul forsaken, lost in the void, a heart of stone.
Her eyes, once bright, now dimmed, like stars in the night,
Reflecting the emptiness that consumed her light.

She walked with steps of lead, her feet heavy with despair,
Her laughter a hollow echo, her hopes a distant, fading air.
Time, like a thief, stole away her dreams, leaving only ash,
And darkness crept in, a slow and silent crash.

It didn't come all at once, but trickled in like sand,
Grain by grain, until the light was lost in the land.
Her smile, a forced and fragile thing, like a blade held sideways,
Couldn't pierce the shadows that enveloped her, like a shroud that wouldn't fade.

She didn't scream, she didn't cry, she simply stopped shining,
Her light extinguished, like a flame that's lost its spark, its meaning.
The world around her lost its shape, its color, its sound,
And she was left with nothing, but the echoes of a hollow ground.

But then, one day, an ember appeared, a spark of light,
A small, yet fierce, flame that flickered in the dark of night.
It didn't promise, it didn't call, it simply existed,
A tiny, glowing point, that beckoned her to follow, to resist.

She reached out, with a hand she thought was lost,
And touched the ember, feeling its warmth, its gentle cost.
It didn't move away, it didn't fade, it stayed,
A steady, pulsing light, that guided her through the shades.

She followed, step by step, through memories like thorns,
Through fear like fog, that shrouded her, and kept her from being reborn.
The ember led her, through the dark, through the pain,
Until she saw, a glimmer of light, a world reborn, a new refrain.

The darkness peeled back, like a curtain, like a veil,
And air, sweet, warm, alive, brushed against her skin, like a gentle gale.
She blinked, and the world bloomed, like a garden in spring,
Colors she had never seen, spilled from the sky, like a rainbow's wing.

She stood, trembling, on the edge of something new,
A world of wonder, a world of beauty, a world anew.
And there, in the gold-soft hush of morning, she met a heart,
A heart as gentle, as soothing, as the morning breeze, a brand new start.

He didn't ask for her story, he just listened to the silence,
Between her words, where the truth resided, where the pain existed.
He didn't try to fix the cracks, he just held them, like a work of art,
And showed her, that even broken, she was beautiful, a masterpiece, a work in progress, a brand new start.

His laughter was rain on a window, his voice, a gentle stream,
That flowed through her, like a river, and washed away her pain, her scream.
His eyes, like the morning sun, shone bright, and warm, and kind,
And when he smiled at her, she saw herself, reflected, redefined.

She, who once flinched from affection, like a wounded thing,
Now leaned toward his kindness, like a flower, that needs the sun's warm wing.
She let herself soften, let her hands learn to hold,
Without shaking, without fear, without the weight of her past, her gold.

He showed her, that love didn't have to be loud,
To be real, to be true, to be a love that's proud.
It could be the quiet way, he stayed, even when she tried to run,
The way he said nothing, when her fear said everything, when her heart was undone.

The way he called her beautiful, not to convince her,
But because he simply saw her, like a work of art, a masterpiece, a treasure to discover.
He saw her, like a sunrise, like a sunset, like a work of art,
A beauty, that's rare, a beauty, that's unique, a beauty, that's a work in progress, a brand new start.

She still gets scared, still waits for the light to leave,
But now, she holds his hand, and the journey, is a different beat.
It's been a journey, of magic, stitched into the mundane,
Of coffee cups, and stargazing, of midnight confessions, and slow dances, in messy kitchens, in the rain.

It's been a journey, of missteps, and meltdowns,
Of moments, she nearly ran, but he was there, to catch her, to hold her, to love her.
He's been there, through it all, through the laughter, and the tears,
Through the fears, and the doubts, through the moments, that seemed to last for
It's a long one, a bit like a story of sorts but I hope you all like it, I got inspired after watching numerous movies in the past two weeks and I've wanted to write based on that.
Hope you all love it and that you all have that special someone in your life
Archer Apr 3
They say that choices made
(Be it by yourself, others, or nature)
Can drastically affect how a
                                 Single
Person’s life plays out.
It’s quite like the ocean that you sail on now
With the seawater swaying
                              Back
              And
Forth
Or in
Loud
Violent
STORMS
Fate works in mysterious ways
It could be high tide at one point in the day
And then later show you
Beautiful things
That were previously
                               Under           Water
You can feel at peace one second
Bobbing
^ Up ^
              And
v Down v
And then
PAnICKinG -and- DRowwnIING
The next
You inhale deeply
Breathing in the salty fresh air
The sharp cold cuts through your lungs
…it’s painful…
But you Don’t Mind
You Don’t Mind your red cheeks
  Or the crashing waves
      Or the rocking
                                 Back
             And
Forth
You only Mind having to
Leave your
|Home|
-But-
We’ll see,
We’ll see.
LastSun Apr 2
Why does the story not end?
Don’t you long to know its final breath, oh Sun?
How many words must still be spoken,
How many must still bleed onto the page?

The story is eternal,
Flowing like the tide of time,
Like the ichor of gods and the blood of mortals.
It breathes like a wish,
Drifts like a whisper,
And soars like a bird unchained.

It watches me with the eyes of the abyss,
Loves me with the touch of death.
It lingers in the spaces between silence and sound,
Between memory and forgetting.

As long as I read, it lives.
As long as I listen, it speaks.
No end, no chains, no grave to rest in.
I am the reader—
And so the story walks with me,
Unbound by time.
Linden Lark Mar 27
Do you ever feel like your story is being written for you?
Maybe that’s why I write—
because when I look down, at least I know it’s mine.

How did I get so lost,
so far from what was once so bright?

Page after page keeps turning,
but my pen ran out of ink long ago.
Time keeps passing,
but the story unfolding isn’t me.

Maybe my story was never mine.
Maybe it belongs to someone else.
Maybe I’m just a book collecting dust
on a stranger’s shelf.

Maybe that’s why I write—
so that somewhere, buried in those pages,
there is at least one part
that is undeniably mine.
Emery Feine Mar 27
I am not accustomed to feelings of longing
As it is now not from a person

I stand on the creaking logs in the middle of a swamp's river
Balancing to remain afloat

I watch from a distance
Sitting on my rain cloud
As my acid raindrops on your safe haven homeland

I have hidden my heart under these planks
And the beating is like black and yellow sparks
Screaming in my ear
"Now,"
They shriek,
"Now."

I'm like an artist staring at a canvas
The rainbows swirl in my mind
But there is no shadow
There is no story.?

I watch the band from below
I shower them with photos
And they ask me to be there
Again and again

I watch from the wood
Longing to be in the rainbow rain
I describe the floorboards
Because that is all I know.
"And all I can sing about are the floorboards backstage." - SOFIA ISELLA
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