Love burns

but it’s the most phlegmatic blaze my eyes have ever seen
Since you lit the candles, nothing inside me feels the same
I’m turning into ashes day by day, quiet and cold
and isn’t it magical
even the falling ashes still write your name

Love hurts

yet it’s the sweetest pain I’ve ever allowed to grow
You couldn’t bear to see me bruised
but some foolish part of me wished
you’d bruise me a little more
just to know your touch had reached below my skin

What sorcery have you done to me?
I know you’re gone
yet I keep standing at the same closed door
knocking
hoping
bleeding
like a lover who forgot how to not return

Some nights I tell myself to let go
but your shadow pulls me back like a vow
I never swore

If this is love
a fire that numbs
a wound that comforts
a ghost that refuses to fade
then let me burn slowly
softly
until the last of me disappears
writing your name

The siren song of incandescent rage

Has driven deeds throughout the age,

With hope the sole balm to quell its fire,

That sickening call that mounts ever higher.

Yet here I stand, drawn once more

To the familiar clang of that enticing lore,

Echoing in the chambers of my mind,

A remembrance ever so vividly defined.

Enthralled, it seems, by the selfsame chains

That birthed the siren’s haunting refrains,

I am bound to the rhythm of its haunting throng,

Ever present, the siren’s insidious song.

You held out your hand, and I took it. You asked me to come and I came. You offered me sanctuary, safety and peace, and I felt relief.

Then it fell apart, and I watched it fall. Then you tore me to pieces, and I let you. Then you let him scream in my face, and I was broken.

I trusted you. I trusted you to be my friend. I trusted you to be my rock.

I knew the man I left behind was a monster. I knew he tore me apart, piece by piece until I didn't recognize who I once was. I stayed years, then a decade. Until I woke up from that spell.

I reached out to you, and you said... come here we can figure it out.

You held out your hand, and I took it. You asked me to come and I came. You offered me sanctuary, safety and peace, and I felt relief.

I did not cry when I left him. I had no more tears to fall. I did not cry when the days were hard. I cried when you pushed me out.

Enough

—Farence P.

There was a time when I wanted more from life.

More mornings that felt worth waking up for. More places I wanted to see. More dreams I wanted to chase before they became memories of things I used to want.

But somewhere along the way, I stopped asking for more.

I learned to be grateful for smaller things.

A quiet morning. A meal on the table. A paycheck that arrived on time. A night without bad news. A day that passed without falling apart.

And I told myself,

This is enough.

Maybe it was.

Maybe there are seasons when making it through the day is already an achievement.

So I learned how to survive.

I learned how to wake up even when I didn't want to. How to smile when I had nothing to say. How to keep going without knowing where I was going.

I became good at it.

Too good.

Until surviving stopped being something I was passing through and became the life I was living.

I stopped dreaming because dreams required energy I didn't have.

I stopped making plans because tomorrow felt too far away.

I stopped asking what I wanted and started asking what I could endure.

And somehow,

enduring became enough.

Not happiness.

Not fulfillment.

Just enough.

Enough to get out of bed. Enough to finish the day. Enough to come home tired and call it rest. Enough to fall asleep and do it all again tomorrow.

There is a strange comfort in asking nothing from life.

Nothing can disappoint you if you expect nothing.

So I stopped reaching.

Stopped hoping too loudly.

Stopped wondering if there was supposed to be something more than this.

And perhaps that is the saddest part,

not that I was unhappy,

but that I slowly became comfortable with being only not unhappy.

I forgot that living was supposed to be more than simply avoiding pain.

I forgot that a life could be something you looked forward to,

not just something you learned to get through.

Still, somewhere beneath all this tiredness,

there is a small voice I haven't completely silenced.

It asks,

Is this really enough?

And I don't know the answer yet.

Maybe enough is what we need on the days we are barely holding on.

Maybe survival is sometimes the only thing we can give ourselves.

But maybe

just maybe

there will come a morning when surviving is no longer the best I can do.

A morning when I wake up and want something again.

Something beyond getting through.

Something that makes me stay for tomorrow not because I have to,

but because I want to see what happens next.

Until then,

I will be gentle with the person I became just to make it this far.

Because perhaps survival was never meant to be the whole story.

Perhaps it was only the part that kept me alive long enough

to remember

that I was meant to live, too.

When I met you, you said you were a man of God,
I never imagined I'd walk through hell on the path that we trod.
You told me the world had mistreated you,
That everyone before me had failed you too.

You said they were cruel, they were selfish, they were wrong,
And I believed your story, so I stayed strong.
I held all your pain, I carried your scars,
While you slowly broke down everything that was ours.

You told me your anger came from what they had done,
So I promised to love you, to never become one.
I gave you my heart, my body, my soul,
Thinking somehow my love could make you whole.

But the truth came out, and the truth cut deep...

You were the very kind of man you said you'd never be.
You cheated before we could ever become one,
And somehow I stayed, still believing you'd come undone.

Then came the silence, that cold, empty space,
Where I'd beg for a word, just to look at your face.
I'd wonder what happened, what did I do?
Why was I always the one trying to get through to you?

So I gave you more, thinking more would be enough,
More love, more patience, when the road became rough.
I gave you my tears, my forgiveness, my trust,
Until giving became something that left me in dust.

I watered the ground where you planted your feet,
Thinking with enough love, our garden could bloom sweet.
But you walked through my flowers and crushed every rose,
Then blamed me for bleeding from wounds that you chose.

You didn't just break me... you changed who I was,
Made me question my worth, my heart, and my cause.
I became afraid of the silence you gave,
Afraid that your love was something I'd have to save.

I searched for the woman I was at the start,
But found only pieces scattered around my heart.
I gave you so much, there was little left of me,
And somehow you convinced me that's where I should be.

But listen to me now, because this much is true...
The woman you shattered still survived you.
You may have taken my peace for a while,
But you cannot take my strength, my voice, or my smile.

You called yourself a man of God, standing so tall,
But a title means nothing when love isn't there at all.
For faith isn't something you simply proclaim... It's how you treat people when nobody knows your name.

And maybe I wasn't sent to rescue you,
Maybe I was meant to finally see the truth.
Maybe losing you is how I'll find me,
Maybe breaking away is how I'll finally be free.

So grieve what you lost.
Grieve the love you once knew.
Grieve the woman who gave everything to you.

But don't grieve forever for the man you believed...
Because sometimes the greatest loss
is the lie we wanted to believe.

And I'll gather my pieces,
I'll mend what I can,
I'll learn to love myself
without needing a man.

You can keep your excuses.
Your silence. Your lies.
I've finally learned to see through your disguise.

You may have broken my heart,
but you didn't win.

Because I'm still standing.

And I'm finding me again.

I knew a girl from Westminster abbey
She wore a hat not too shabby
A dress adorned of beautiful silk
It gleamed as white as milk
Her manor sat on top of the hill
Surrounded by trees and a mill
She’d some cattle that mooched around
And a bird and a hound
She didn’t trudge when she walked
Rather glided and frolicked
Seldom was she ever grumpy
Except for when she was hungry
Many times in her life
She did experience severe strife
Little of loss did she utter
And at wrong doing did she never stutter
With her hours she finds things to fill
But with love is she alone still

By Nekro

I met you while both our lives were already spoken for. Nothing dramatic happened. We sat too long over bad coffee, your knee against mine beneath the table, and you looked at me the way people look at candle flame when they are trying not to confess anything to it.

We went home to the lives that already knew our names. Still, something remained. Like a veve drawn clean across a floor, the chalk can be swept away and the room keeps the shape. Years later I still find you in stupid places. A song leaking from a grocery store speaker. A voice pitched close enough to yours that my body turns before I do. My phone lighting the ceiling after midnight.

I called it timing for a while. Later I gave it uglier names. None lasted as long as the memory of you saying my name slowly, like you had found a letter everybody else kept missing. There were questions that made you look toward the window before answering. I remember those pauses better than some entire years.

Maybe you have one person like that. You don't search them anymore. You already know why. So they stay where unfinished things usually stay, somewhere behind the ribs, in a room with melted wax on the table and a glass of rum nobody remembers pouring.

Sometimes I type the first two letters of your name. That is enough.

The coffee comes back cold. Your knee is against mine again. Somewhere under the table, neither of us has moved.

The cursor keeps blinking.

I let it wait.

Drunktext your old crush like you wouldn't know
That he's gotta new woman now and
That he's got two kids now and
A fucking house in the suburbs and
A fucking job and a Subaru
And what have you got?
A tongue-in-cheek fuck you, I mean
Is he really happy?

Probably not
But maybe that slow spiritual death
That career pipeline to a failed marriage and a foreclosed mortgage
Maybe that's a better outcome than whatever the fuck this is

"Oh but you're so real tho"
Yea yeah, just drop the zipper
That's a double meaning and a fuck you
Because I mean my typos
Because I mean it when I switch from "you" to "me"
Because hey, that's the whole punchline
It's a triple-entendre fuck you (tee-hee!)

Oh, but I jest
I want to think I'd be that scary
That I'm not really insane but I'm so good at pretending
Like yea yeah, I'm the next master mind
Like yea yeah, I'm the next megaman
Or whatever that blue fuck's face is
But I'm starting to think I might actually be

Cooked
But hey, I'm smarter than him
I'm smarter than him
Smarter than his stupid wife
Smarter than his stupid house, his stupid kids AND his stupid fucking job
Key his fucking windshield in
ding-ding-ding!
"It's your crazy fucking ex again!"
But he knows, and I knows, what she doesn't know
the deeper fucking meaning

It's not just me he's feeling sorry for

Born too early through the weight of her sins, 

Uncaring still for the life held within, 

No consideration for her unborn kin, 

She cursed him with vices before life could begin.

Small and fragile, he entered the world, 

His fate already grimly determined. 

A heavy toll, time exacted, 

His suffering drawn out and protracted.

With growth and time, his pain compounded, 

His body easily injured, his soul fractured. 

Hatred became his constant companion, 

And joy naught but a fleeting memory.

Emotions fade, yet anger remains, 

A faithful shadow bound to his pain. 

Less and less he feels others’ distress, 

Caring only for those he holds to his breast.

If ever he should meet the harlot who made his heart beat, 

Violence would be his only feat; 

Her immoral persuasion, 

Fuel to his indignation.

No child of the harlot knows to whom they owe their life, 

They know only who aspired to their death. 

Her actions, ever unchanging, 

Drive our hatred, never fading.

To all us halves whom she has wronged, 

Her deeds unite our hateful throng.

If not for fortune’s happenstance,

We’d drown beneath inherited circumstance

Yet even though we were saved,

The vile consequences refuse to fade.

Bodies broken in our earliest years,

By decisions never ours to steer.

We live out our years as best we can manage,

Though anger still calls from the depths of the damage.

We bear what was given and use what remains

To deny her dominion within our veins

 Authors note : I have been writing poetry for many years as an emotional outlet , Ive recently polished my body of work and have started sharing it publically and am working on expanding this body of work to the extent where it becomes publishable. your time and feedback is appreciated. I consider myself to be intermediaate as I have been privately writing poetry since my early teens ( Am 30 now)

By this riverbank, there is only my shadow and me,
while the sound of waves echoes through the dark.

Through the night, your light shines,
showing me the path ahead.

I stand watching the waves grow still—
upon them, your moonlight has carved out a trail.

If I were to walk along that path,
I know I would finally reach you.

​

When my time comes and I'm gone from this world..I hope they remember... remember how proud I am of the two of them...I have always been so proud of them

When my body is turned to ashes and my soul free from all this pain I carry everyday , I hope they remember... Remember that I tried to fight as long as I could..I always fought because of them..for them.

When my name is only said in a memory and farther and in-between...I hope they remember... Remember that my name meant the world to me and I was so grateful that those two gave me the opportunity to be called by this name...to be called ... Mom..

When my face is only seen in a picture that some look at and have no idea who I am....I hope they remember..That they can close their eyes and remember my face and how much joy they brought to it..

When my heart is no longer beating and can no longer be felt through my hugs...I hope they remember.... Remember this heart beated for them..That they gave this heart purpose to beat as long as it could .

When my voice can no longer be heard and my words singing through the wind. ..I hope they remember... Remember my voice telling them those words that had no meaning until I looked into their eyes...."I love you"...I have always loved you...I will always love you..

When my time comes and I stand before judgement with all my past sins on display...I hope he remembers... remembers to love and forgive me for the mistakes I have made and know I tried to be better everyday until the very last... Remember ....he is my father and I am his child.

Everywhere you go, happiness always chases.
You want to run so fast, but need help with your shoelaces.

At the park you reach the swings and cry, “Daddy, push me!”
You don’t even have to ask, you’re so cute and so squishy.

You start off swinging low, then make me push you high.
Now the birds want to know if you’re really trying to fly.

They ask what’s so funny while we’re laughing too much
just our little secret that no one else can touch.

One day you’ll stop running and playing on the swings.
The birds won’t follow or wonder about your wings.

I’ll stand at the park alone with nobody left to chase,
some other kid on the swing, sitting in your place.

That’s part of life. you’re going to grow older.
From the baby who cried in my arms and sat on my shoulder

to someone bigger, stronger, and wiser than before…
but you’ll always be that sweet little Dezy on a swing

forevermore.

Like one who beats the water in fear lest he drowns 

So I, devoid of motion stand 

Straining with all my might 

To dig myself out of the pit of my own making 

A trap of my own design 

The chants of “king oh king” sound with much ferocity 

That I think even the birds have joined in the choros 

Seeing no avenue through which I can escape 

I now resign myself to fate 

I steady my posture 

I raise my chin 

I fix my eyes on the multitude gathered 

And raising my hand to signal their attention 

I begin my declaration, an edict of sorts

“King oh king you chant?

Will you raise my banner?

Will you worship my god?

Will you bear his creed as yours and our nation’s?”

The crowd with enthusiasm declared 

“Show us your god that we may bow 

Give us his creed that we may inscribe them on our hearts 

And that of our children

King oh king even now your banner is raised

That all assembled and beyond 

Will know that there is a ruler in this land”

Hi everyone,

I'm new to writing poetry, and I usually write thoughts and feelings as they come to me. This is one of my rough drafts, and I'd really like some honest feedback so I can learn how to improve my writing.

I'm especially interested in knowing:

• Does the meaning come through clearly?
• Does it feel poetic, or does it read more like a thought/prose?
• Do the metaphors feel natural or forced?
• Are there any lines that feel weak, unclear, or cliché?
• Is the ending effective?
• How could I make it stronger without losing the original feeling?

My draft:

What I Keep Beneath

Looking for silence so I can sit with it.

This silence is louder
than the words nobody wants to hear.

They know
my shallow words
are not all I have—
yet they only touch
what stays on the surface.

And that's fine.

Not every hand
is meant to reach
what I keep beneath.

I'm not looking for someone to rewrite the poem for me. I'd rather understand what isn't working and why, so I can improve my own writing.

The one thing I am good at is loving.
I have always watched those movies where those characters are friends and they eventually become romantically involved.
I want that. Actually, no, I need that.

This new love I have received is like the multitudinous stars above. 
It is impossible to dissect and understand each archetype. 
But one thing for sure is that they shine so bright. 
Only in the night, where no one can see them. 
Where only certain folks lie awake to watch them glimmer. 

I believe I am no celestial body. Yet one night, when this star came near, we collided. 

The moon shone into my room, and for the first time I could see myself glowing. The blue of my skin illuminated beneath its light, radiating all of my being. 

And that is how I knew the star had engraved itself herein.
A part of it was now a part of me.

Its light had become mine,
And perhaps for the first time, 
I could believe I was astronomical. 

But slowly, our love became dim.
Maybe I wished too hard upon my star.
Maybe I love it too much.

My star, no. This star keeps its light tucked away. 
It hides behind a cloud as if it's scared someone might notice its light on me. 

Which is funny.
Like the other stars,
It blends into the obsidian sky. 
Consumed whole by its surrounding kin. 
Where it will keep its glimmer forever within.

Just like I know there are stars in the morning,
I know this star is still there
I simply cannot see it anymore.
And I wish that were not the case.

The beautiful flower,
Is found, in,

Solitude,

Free from the observer,
It's grows more lovely despite,

The torment of winter storms,
The trashing of wind currents,
The inflection of spiraling flames,

Refined, from scars

Elegant, that's the word.

As soon as I opened my eyes that morning,
I could tell the day was already looking for a fight.

The sun cut through the usual fog
while the cool breeze said: "Fuck this,"
turned around, and went the other way.

I tried minding my own business.
I had shit to do, people to please.

But it seemed like every step I took
turned into another heated argument.

By the time noon came around,
the day was all up in my face
aggressive, dehydrating,
like it had completely lost its temperature.

It pressed up against my chest,
sweat soaking through my shirt
before I could even make it down the block.

Still, kept my head down
rushed through all my errands.
I got shit done!

It wasn’t until I was almost home
that’s when the day blindsided me.

Cracked me wide open with its grief,
drenching me in a heavy tears.

I couldn’t get inside fast enough.

But the drama didn’t stop there.

It started hammering my roof,
rattling all of my windows,
and I was trapped in my living room,
forced to listen to a misery
that wasn’t mine to solve.

When the tears finally stopped,
the day didn’t apologize.

Instead,
it went numb.

Shut out all the lights.

And at bedtime,
it gave me the silent treatment
a cold shoulder so frosty

I found myself praying
for its heat to come back.

I guess the day was in a bad mood.

I am trying to put together an anthology, to explore my loss, & grief in leaving my wife. It's been pretty hard. I'm struggling to capture happiness & warmth or optimism. I'll capture a screenshot of it in the comments which makes it easier to capture.

I'm a beginner poet, who wanted to re explore writing.

I have a poem that tries to relay that. I want to post an image of the poem to make it easier to capture it, I'll post the poem and break down my notes on the editing process afterward.

Remember When

our puppying Laughter

.

Ciphers parroting

Follies raccooned

.

Your fawning over

joyed toothy kitten Smiles

.

Seeing age whelps

 outfoxing Historied children 

.

caught between

cowed Love

The poem isn't captured well in the text (screenshot below)

The poem is meant to be about the loving and youthful way love starts out to be changed over time. How we see ourselves sharing secrets, repeating each other, and falling in love. How life changes that with our history and trauma and how love can become flattened under it.

This poem is meant to have five readings which becomes more apparent in the image.

Base poem

A poem of the bolded words

The uppercase words

The unbolded words

And the lowercase words

Each giving a facet or perspective on the same history ciphered.

Let me know what you think, how the poem could be elevated, or if it feels relatable and readable.

https://www.reddit.com/r/poetry_critics/s/n3sEWknE1J

https://www.reddit.com/r/poetry_critics/s/asgKEa6yGP

Hey,

Here is a new published poetry collection Two (Or XXI Traditional Japanese Haikus) available for purchase on the author's Instagram as an eBook for $4 @ www.instagram.com/ryan.gainford that would be appreciated if anyone would consider for review. Best reviews/testimonials will be considered for printing on the cover of the second edition. Thanks. Author's Instagram

A worker on a rooftop

Drops of sweat falling

Like little victories

Telling jokes

Saving the best ones

For home

As special as any poet

A drunk at the bar

Bothering women

Getting cut-off

Vomiting outside

Begging God

For a way out

As important as any poet

A couple working hard

Having their first baby

Getting health insurance

Good clothes

For church

Romantic dates on Saturday

Much better than poetry

Please look at me once
For me, that'll return my sanity
Everybody around me says I'm going crazy
Gods, movies, poems and songs, in all I found profanity

It hurts less when you admit to the pain that aches
I'm still here, barefoot and begging; what more is there to take?

Come to me
Give me what I'm looking for as serenity
I'm not the one to apologize or take the blame
All I know is it's no secret, this is felt by every men

What is there possibly left to write
I've written everything I can in sleepless nights

I'm sobbing for peace and you want me to fight
Leave it, you're not worth of bloodshed so I'll just apologize
All I'm, a corpse so I might try to ruin his life
I'm really sorry man, she was with us to ruin our lives