Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
See you in captivity How many times have I wished, when I was a grass-boy, to creep into the actors' dressing rooms through the secret snail passages, like an invisible, otherworldly friendly ghost, a wandering spirit. It would have been nice then, disappointed and a little cheated, to step onto the spacious, creaking boards and, like Pious Yorick, Fastaff, or Graciano, with his head held high among the spectators, confessing the petty, naive, seemingly innocent, holy lies of everyday life.

Oh, in my mind I was greeted in Thalia's noble panopticon as an old returning guest who would only stay until he could see his favorite actress's face up close and wish her: "Big hat" - for her public appearance.

- A sly joke, a human gesture - the theater didn't do much, because money was always coming down the drain, and because an actor's hands were always tied! He sticks a drawn smile, a glued halo, angel wings on himself, so that the average person would always believe faithfully that Reality was just a kind of forgivable, idyllic appearance, a childish little nonsense. I could never understand how anyone could play a character and radically transform his or her mundaneness, behavior, etiquette and whatnot - why is it that after stepping off the boards that represent the world, the murderer would take over hubris-arrogance, haughty phlegm-excellence?!

"That was just a role, Dear Sir! I hope you understand!" - he replied. - I watched the sadness and restless hurt flow in my vulnerable soul and, like an orphaned child, I burst into tears in protest in one of the renovated restrooms, while outside the great play that deceived everyone was still going on!
Micko 7h
Each day, I wake as though it’s my last.
Breath held gentle, shadows cast.
No sudden steps, no need to rush.
My soul stands half-stitched to this earth,
afraid to leave before it’s whole.

And when the night begins to break,
And silence draws across the ache,
Just longing for a little grace.
To leave no mess, no word unsaid.
I kneel  beside my bed and pray...

If it’s Your wish, God, let me live to see the next day,
not to escape death,
but to finish what life began in me.
But if I must, my soul You keep,
For I have lived, and I have loved.

And so I wait, both still and brave,
A quiet prayer in each wave.
Because living, for me, is a sacred thing
a wish come true in a trembling place.
Just hoping to rise to one more day.


Written by Micko.
©️ 3.05.2025
The new dawn 222.
Kayla S 7h
We might've said 'I love you' to fast.
5 days in, including our past,
But you and me are gonna last.

Yeah you ghosted me 3 times,
but you always came back around.
The kind of love that shivers spines.
Yet you don't ever make me feel down.

I feel so safe with you here,
I'll forever love you my dear,
And in my future i see you clear.

You make me want to change.
I know that I will for you.
Already planning our wedding at this age.
We're gonna pull through.
I will forever love this man.
When I was born,  
I cried,  
As a sign  
Of being welcomed into a world full of sorrow and hardship.

What is death?  
Is death the reason why people are born?  
All thoughts are a result of blurred vision,  
Where society is trapped inside a cage of heavy darkness,  
Wherein dwell beasts — some who eat meat, and others who eat grass.

Those who eat meat rule over those who eat grass,  
But the day will come when the grass-eaters  
Will gain understanding and transform,  
And they too will start eating meat,  
Because of the growth of strong, sharp teeth.

What is death?  
Is death the result of birth,  
Or is birth the cause of death?
That's my first poem
When you are
feeling alone, and
within Solitude,
all on your own,
no one else,
just you,
you feel
like you are
an outcast, and
you are
feeling so blue,
when you have
no friends,
and when you
don't fit in, but
you try to,
when no one
is around, and
you are feeling
so down,
you are
considered an
Outsider, and
on your
face you wear
a frown; but
you are not alone,
just want to make
your day Brighter,
your kindness
is shown,
you should
feel much Lighter,
So, don't feel bad if
you are rejected,
there are others
just like you,
that you could relate
to, and
feel connected,
so, when you
are feeling like
you don't belong,
there are others
that are the same,
so, just be strong,
I am here to
motivate,
encourage,
and Inspire,
Have Faith, and Hope,
Just Lifting you Higher,
Just broaden
your Horizons, and
make your path wider,
Are you
in Isolation???,
Do you feel
like an Outsider???


B.R.
Date: 5/3/2025
In beauty's embrace, majestic with grace

Soothing, yet a lingering sense of sadness filled up the place,

Unwanted thoughts wind up like a haphazardly tied lace

Been alone countless times won't deny

Maybe it'll be over soon, sighs

I did cry, but I won't pry, I must try and try and try, relentlessly, I don't know why?

Something tells me to do so, and no I won't ask any questions, I'm too tired.

My head feels heavy and it feels cold

Yes, I am a reckless fool, but let truth be told,

hold up, behold,

A free soul, got locked up, in a stronghold, due to freefall, did a reroll, felt an unease, faulty threshold, with a default,
Setting.

Yet I thrived on, not with violence, but with a smile on,
Dreams engulfed in darkness, yet persevered and fight on.
Emotions masked, I fight on, a battle of silence, I reckon

I'm a lost soul at a crossroad, with no hope, yet I try on,
I hold my head up high, a bit shy, but I try
To change the narrative, to rewrite my sky.

I see the highs, I see the lows,
Life's a cinematic film, beautifully composed.
It's real though, no retries, no cheats,
A mistake made, a life fades, "Scream!" echoes in the streets.

Skill issue, you say? Perhaps it's true,
The presence of another is a dream I pursue.

Alas, my fumbling technique never ceases to amuse,
Back to solitude, melancholy's muse.

Walking up the road less travelled by, devoid of any gleam,
A haunting daydream, or so it would seem.

No destination, no direction, just endless extremes,
A conflicted response, a ghastly gleam.

Alone through the time, a truth I've known,
Helplessness grips, a silent pathetic moan.

Guilty, vulnerable, yet a soul set free,
I hate to admit it, but I won't concede.

Heartbreaks, anxieties, failures persist,
Giving up is foolishness, not on my list.

Break me, bury me, all for your thrill,
My body may perish, but never will my will.

Intrusive thoughts roam around, Like I’m fallin’ off of a cliff
The desire to bounce back is sharper than you think
I'm not the one who's drowned here man,
I stand alone, like a “Poneglyph”
My spirit untouched, my soul unbound like a monolith

A rowdy spirit, scorned with disdain,
I'll mock you still, throughout the pain.

I choose my role and I define my fate,
Your words, your arrogance, I disrespectfully negate.

In defiance, I speak with a voice loud and clear,
"The path is treacherous, hearts break, I fear."

The soul’s burnin’, seeking a purpose anew,
To burn it all down, tired of feeling blue.

A voice echoes, a spiteful chill,
Fate falters frivolously front of a mortal's will,
The birth of a legend, just like the Hercules’ will

The poem concludes, a profound standstill,
A journey through emotions, in verses that I instill.
                                                                             -Asher Graves
This poem is a reflection of the silent wars we fight within—the chaotic harmony between vulnerability and resilience. It's about walking alone when no one understands, yet refusing to lay down even when everything screams “give up.” I wrote this during a moment of mental fog and emotional exhaustion, where the only clarity came from putting feelings into form.

The piece isn't polished with comfort. It’s jagged and heavy on purpose. Life doesn't come in neat stanzas, and neither does healing. You'll find scattered metaphors, anime references, poetic contradictions, and a stubborn flame that keeps burning—because even in brokenness, there's defiance. Even in solitude, there's meaning.

This is for anyone who’s felt like a background character in their own story, who’s laughed through tears and masked scars with smiles. You're not alone in your silence. This is me screaming back at the void, not to be heard—but to remind myself that I'm still here.

Keep fighting, even if it’s just to prove the silence wrong.

— Asher Graves
Mahta 9h
It’s a miracle that I’m still around
After I lost my skin
And walked all over Tehran’s streets,
Absorbing all the noise and pollution
Directly into every little muscle and bone.

It’s a miracle that I still love—
Even if very selectively,
And surgically cautious.
Even if from a distance,
From my carefully curated living space
Where only music, art, and fashion are allowed,
With no pre-screening and constant monitoring for letdown and betrayal.

It’s a miracle that I still smile—
Even though, if you look closely
At the corner of my mouth,
You would notice a trace of unbreakable sadness.
That’s why, when I feel too deep,
I look away.

There was a time, when I was younger,
When I loved so freely,
So carelessly,
So curiously—
But I got pushed and pulled,
Hurt and burnt
Beyond the point of my breaking.

You cannot see it,
But my soul carries all those wounds
And burn marks on her skin.
And she carries them
Like a badge of honor.

Because it’s a miracle that I still breathe.
And it’s a miracle
That I kept my dreams.
Don’t knock.
Just rattle the door like the wind did
that night I sat in the bathtub
eating ice with a steak knife.
Bring your worst self—I’ll know what to do.

I’ve buried better men under worse moons.
Named stars after bruises and made constellations
out of what never touched me.
Still called it love.
Still called it mine.

I painted my ribcage lavender
to trick the vultures.
Grew silk in my throat
just to scream prettier.

There is no map.
Only muscle memory and perfume
that smells like the lie you almost told.
The one you rehearsed
but lost the spine
to say aloud.

I practiced not loving you
like it was piano.
Every night, slower.
Quieter.
Wrong keys, on purpose.

So if you must come,
come wrong.
Come ruinous and unready.
Come like someone who forgot the story
but wants to hear it again.

I won’t read it to you.
But I left the pen uncapped.
Go ahead. Ruin the rest.
Andy Mann 22h
There is an ache that folds
like paper
soaked through,
crumpled in the cold,
collapsing
centre
of me.

With nothing more than a whisper,
it returns,
as if just moments before
I suffered this mortal injury.

Its power unbound—
ready to consume me
if I let it.

Some days,
I beg this ache to vanish,
leave me hollow, free.

It guards me from healing,
a quiet, faithful dog,
licking old wounds
to keep them open.

I sink into this quicksand of memory,
then fossilize in grief’s amber—
trapped, not treasured.

How can I let it go,
when its grip
is all I have known?

And yet, I breathe it still,
not by choice,
but because forgetting
would mean losing the last of it.

I move through sorrow’s veil,
a torn page curling on wind,
almost-free.
For anyone who’s ever found it hard to let go of what once was.
When I had met them for the last time, I was forced to lie in the depths of wild, proliferating Christian bushes, like a thief fat sarcoma, but not to hit any more; The enforced, deeply hidden, brutal-backing age asked me to testify and obey several times. They had no idea that the last time would be.

Now, only I look at the bench-windows of the time, close-up doors that closed, rusted doors in the alarm, spiclishes-it would have been good, like an invisible, stray shadow only to disappear once more, to disappear in the alley of the streets ...

For the curse of the presence on the wall of the Commissioner is still shining, which, as a disease, was with me from the cursed childhood; Infections of the polarities that are tensioned with each other, the infections of the small atagonisms, can be almost cozy. "Certainly, because life is increasingly absurd, nonsense, uncertain, just like the free -thought intellect, which has an increasingly expandable border and endpoints."

Can the human soul be excluded from itself; you. that you want to stay less and less for adults?! Instead, he would choose the minutes of carefree, playful childhood, and a momentary joy: it would be good to climb a smaller hill so that one could at least see through our stone walls!
Next page