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eliana Jun 30
Sometimes
I wish that you could see
This scared girl inside of me.
I'm not really as I seem.
I'm not tough, strong, or mean.
That isn't me.

This isn't the real me.
I fight by day,
Yet cry at night.
No one can see through
My false identity.

I've been hurt,
As you can see,
So I created
A fake me.

No one ever tries
To get through my shield.
All I want to be is me.

How do I show
What I've kept hidden for years?
How do I show
All the silent fears?

What would you think
If I showed you me?
What would you say
Without my false identity?
i couldve sworn i thought i posted this but maybe it was a glitch so heres this..
been wearing the truth
up my sleeve
for ten whole years,
yet people who've known me
for half that time
stumble
when it gets revealed.

inside and out,
time has sealed
those battles fought in vain.
we're like family now—
truth and I.
but when they flinch
at the unconcealed,
I still don’t know
what to say.
this one is about the quiet discomfort of being fully seen.
June 26, 2025
I don't
feel anything
at all,
but I feel
it all
at once.
The brokenness,
the misery,
the weariness,
and the shame
are like
being
drenched in silt,
caked in filth,
covered with
life's crud.
I reek
of the living river—
its currents
have carried me
into a sea
of everything.
Now,
I find myself
adrift
in an ocean
of everything
and nothing.
For when you're drowning in everything and still feel nothing. A piece about emotional overload, numbness, and the silent weight of it all.
abyss Jun 24
Stuck in a crossroad
always in the middle of these **** roads
Where do I go?
Which road do I choose?
Does it even lead anywhere?
Do either have a dead end?
Stuck in a crossroad —
or multiple crossroads
Identity, morality, existence
Love, pain, hope
I pick my path —
Another crossroad
A little depressed, a little existential dread, a little hopeful, a lot of everything.
anuj Jun 23
I was alive — when I look back.
I can preserve it, but I can’t get it back.
I want to shine, but I’m not a pearl.
I want to cry, but I’m not a girl.

This society says: “Be happy, be composed,”
But never lets us feel free and exposed.
I wore a mask I wasn’t allowed to take off.
I’m a boy in a world that calls me free —
But I’ve forgotten what free even means to me.
Please reacts readers
Limes Carma Jun 22
There’s an outfit for each kind of day,
one for work, and one to play.
One for silence, one for charm —
I dress to keep their peace from harm.

I match their tone, their pace, their cue,
become the me they’re walking through.
A shifting shape, a face that fits —
but never quite the one that sits.

I dress in layers not for style,
but just to wear a safer smile.
A thousand looks, a thousand designs —
but none align with what’s in mine.

And every mirror looked back at me
But none of them knew who to be
I learned to read the room so well,
I lost the voice I used to tell.

But fabric wears, and so did I,
the cost of always living shy.
I’ve worn their sizes, played their part —
let fashion hide a restless heart.
But now I pull the stitching tight —
and walk in clothes that finally fit right.


© Copyright 2025 - Limes Carma
I’m in a drought for time— yet flooded with ideas.
as the sun rises with the dust, and by dusk, all hope
feels spent, or quietly scattered.

I know destiny calls— even without a map, signal
or a location marked. "Yeah, I don’t know what
I’m doing," I often confess, in quotation marks—
still walking toward the shape of who I’m meant
to become.

Pushing through bruises and bitter slights—real joy
flickers, but most smiles still feel perfectly rehearsed.
To stay above the arrows, but never ahead of myself—
sharp enough, still, to pierce through the soft fabric
of my many, many daily doubts. And I’m learning:
sometimes the cage has no door— but only the illusion
of one, built from fear.

There’s always a world just outside of it— waiting.
We’re all just finding ourselves day by day.
And life? It’s one day after another— until, finally,
you recognize the person you've been becoming
all along.
Zywa Jun 22
I undress voluntarily
The assistants lead me
to the middle

into the half-dark circle
of curious students who
search for the connection

between my bare legs
and the light swell
of my white shirt

I lower my eyes
and follow the instructions
of the professor

as if I see myself
in a film, turning around
in the circle

of light
of attention
of thin voices
Collection "Eyes lips chest and belly"
AMAN12 Jun 20
I sit on a throne of unfinished things,
wearing a crown of missed chances,
a robe of echoes and brittle stances,
stitched with the pull of quiet strings.

My mini palace is kept on my palm,
built from silent, paused goodbyes.
I spread my kingdom with quiet gaze,
ruled it with intent none could revise.

I am self-slaved by chosen remand,
My soldier thumb obeys each command
My courtier eyes chart where I land
Time kneels before my wordless stand.

I claimed the void they wouldn't dare
and named myself the nillionaire.
A sovereign forged in silence, “Nillionaire” reclaims stillness, unfinished things, and missed chances as the architecture of power. Through mythic imagery and precise restraint, it builds a throne out of pause and a crown from what others call loss. For those who've been mistaken for nothing—this is your anthem.
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