Write poetry. Get feedback. Discover poets.

Only the night matters, its granaries filled with gold, the awakening of the voice. Under the regime of the sun time bends the heart, waiting frays the mind. That's where I survive, among fragments of screams and visions of blue; my dream-horse lost in the desert.

A thousand miles or three, some distance more; Does it much matter so, or not at all? Each wave that comes a-lapping at her shore Shall whisper softly, echoing a call Of love; a feather 'neath the ocean's roar, Left lingering, to trace the sand so calm As would my fingers gently stroke her palm. More acrostic love-anguish, I'm afraid (same...

In Buddhism, there is a belief in the inevitability of suffering... which is conquered only through reincarnations, overcome only by attaining Nirvana. But I believe that love is a balm- it cannot undo pain but serves as a reminder that for every act of violence, there are others - of kindness, of charity and though many are...

A void template Freedom so pure Paid in ignorance Wisdom matures Lies slowly wither Truths roots run deep Now the cost is clear We were too young to see

Sadness isn’t always obvious. Sometimes it shows up quietly, more like a fading feeling than something sharp. It can feel heavy, or just kind of hollow, like there’s a gap where something used to be, even if you can’t quite explain it. It has a way of making you slow down and pay attention. To what hurts, to what’s missing, or to things that...

do you feel it? as you walk slowly through the dark, in this fallen neglected labyrinth of the mind, where mold and filth fester upon crumbling walls, and rainwater seeps and falls like tears of the damned, this once great building now diseased and decaying, a parody of the minds once entombed within, can you hear the echoes of the screams? from...

thousands of miles from where my name means something in a city where no one knows me— it still feels like home. not the warm kind. not the kind with open arms and someone waiting at the door. the quieter kind. the colder kind. the kind i’ve known for as long as i can remember. i’ve always known loneliness. it was never loud. just steady. like...