Shell

 

#yincoven The Spell of the Shell

I’ll not wake up, no,
swimming here in this conch shell
of life, shadows tickling my ear,
playing house while the real
the world assumes it’s won.
I’ll not confront it, no,
kicking up the remains of reality
swept under expensive furniture
when we could afford the luxury
of not caring.
I’ll remain in my head,
enveloped by this conch shell,
closed to those sounds desperate
to encroach, honking displeasure
at deaf eyes shut.

 

Phillip Knight Scott is a native of Durham, North Carolina, where he lives and writes poetry. A husband and father, he finds happiness in family, friends, reading, and of course, writing. He enjoys creating expansive worlds in as few words as possible. His writings can be read at http://www.phillipkscott.com.

My Hollow Chest

Luxury ethical designer jewelry designed by Stella Simona

 

The rain has to convey a million words of abandoned worth,

To the lonely, desolate soil and my soul, stabbed with their judgmental different ways,

This hole making me feel devoid in my hollow chest cannot be stitched by someone,

For company, I don’t seek for I find satisfaction within my hollow chest.

 

A mist of forlorn fogginess prevails with the breadth of every mortal creature,

I desire these distances as they are symbiotic,

My distance appeals them of a pleasurable world better off,

And my loneliness makes me happy for I never defined it as one.

 

It’s not a disease, but a cure knowing that the only thing that should matter my mind is me,

A cold mist and shock jolts down the numb veins of my body when I’m in the presence of someone,

And all my desire from this fire of their criticism of my ways and beliefs,

Is my isolation from their reality, which by God’s mercy I’m well provided with.

 

I’m engrossed in a novel all day,

I sip my tea and immerse myself in a scent of calm chamomile, as my fingers turn the mottled, dust-colored pages,

I hear the rain pitter-patter on the shelters of unknown homes,

As if they try to imply the silent wishes of the dynasties above,

And I feel my soul can understand their bluntly unheard voices beckoning to me,

As if intended from the creator of my hollow chest.

 

 

I observe their ways and that difference is undoubtedly crystal,

That difference which drugs me of my own unique world and perhaps blinds and binds me,

With the chains of isolation tied to my barren soul devoid.

But I’m happy, I’m at peace, I’m not sad.

I’m different. I’m okay.

From reality, I’m away.

But that’s the desire of my hollow chest,

To isolate and self-heal, and be me.

 

 

Niharika Gursahani is thirteen years old and she is into writing poetry since she was ten years old. Her work is completely amateur and this is the first time She is writing a poem without a rhyme scheme. She blogs at  @theniharikadiaries .  She likes to play the piano which is another passion of hers.

 

 

 

 

Tectonic Plates

Untitled, 1950’s, Hans W. Silvester. Swiss, born in 1938

 

Tectonic plates move
Under my feet
Eerie sounds of the ground shifting
Shifting my soul and my
sense of self
Hope eludes me as the root cause of my uneven understanding of self
crumbles
Swimming in sea fog and black suns
A mile deep
into the Earths core
Magma is bubbling over
my heart
An electric jolt hits my mouth
as the black sun rises
No moral compass found
in this deep canyon just inertia
As feelings of hurt spread and drip down to my purpling heart
I can’t hide the sadness it fills my eyes
It drips down to my mouth where I taste salty tears disguised as stars of hope
As the earth shifts, I run to grab tree branches, but instead,
I float by in a sludge
my life in words and desolate scenarios.

Joann Cohen

Joann Cohen is a desert dweller from The Southwest. She enjoys
painting and photography. Writing has always been at the
forefront of her creativity since she was in her teens. Joann
enjoys finding inspiration for her poems and stories from the
world around her. Read more of her work at
https://jomillyblog.wordpress.com and at Free Verse Revolution

Grieving the grief

 

Take a shower, wash off the day. Drink a glass of water. Make the room dark. Lie down and close your eyes. Notice the silence. Notice your heart. Still beating. Still fighting. You made it, after all. You made it, another day. And you can make it one more. You’re doing just fine.

grief,

a shout in the void

where birds chirp and sing

meaningless songs of love

and heaven swings

to it’s highest position in prayers

but nothing is left,

at least it looks like this.

 

my mouth is an empty vessel

with a porous bottom

agony slips swiftly

bleeding the red of anger

from my chapped lips,

grief is too thick to slip

still.

 

my fingers are needles

of my mother’s tailoring toolbox,

I weave threats into poems,

and make sweaters out of pain,

it’s a comforting effort

for a dying soul,

grief can’t be woven,

it’s fibers are delicate.

 

my legs are nocturnal,

I take night walks

talking to the merciless moon,

I count dead bodies on stars.

sometimes the sky smiles at my strength,

sometimes it weeps heavily,

but grief doesn’t leave my eyes,

it’s too frozen to melt.

 

grief,

is a poem burning on my lips,

is an intricate thread scarring my fingers,

is a suffocated tear crawling inside my eyes,

is an aglet that keeps pain from unraveling

is a loss you kept coming back to.

 

grief,

is an epiphany,

too divine to be rejected as the present

and

too earthly to be asked in a prayer.

A mystical poetess with a straightforward style of writing. Her poems
question norms and portray naked truth, sometimes subtle sometimes
clearly evident. Sameera took up writing as a means of escape and never
looked back. She is on a constant look out for lost souls like her own, giving
voice to the unheard and painting pictures of the unseen are her favourite
pastime. She blogs at https://poetryblog320.wordpress.com/

An imprisoned poem

 

study, college, and school image

Butterflies perched upon lashes
The dark in my eyes is engulfing all
Stars in yours
A hiccup stung the memory of you
I knit a bag of lies to carry on
Shapely shoulders
Disproportionate bones break like
Twigs under weightless traumas
My demon is a friend in the reflection
A lover without rules or confrontation
My expectation is the sin I pay for
With bouts of sanity
Loss flows from between my legs
When strange fingers pull me at
The seams
Pain tickles like a misunderstood
Melody
I weave blank fetishes
Devoid of your touch, kiss, sweat, you
You; my prisoner
This poem, my liberation

Nameera Anjum

Nameera Anjum is a nineteen-year-old aspiring poet who loves to pen
down her thoughts and feelings as fearlessly as possible. She believes
that the utmost liberation comes to her through words; writing is a
part of life she wishes to keep intact until the very end. Gothic fiction is
her absolute favorite genre while reading and writing. It comes as no
surprise that Edgar Allan Poe is her ultimate inspiration.

A friend I never Knew

@jouliann

 

A friend I

Never knew,

The body of

Mine in

Mirroring

Form.

 

Sadness as I’ve

Felt,

A torture

Wrought

From the

Twisting

Antics of

False clowns

Marching with

Black balloons

On shadowy

Streets.

 

Something in

A restless

Mirage as

This,

Kept away

From my

Knowledge.

 

Passing through

An inner

Hallway

Gone numb,

A leaky light

Swinging

In

Heedless abandon,

Night oozing in

From

The mind’s fold.

Katherine Robbins Karr

Katherine Robbins Karr grew up in a small sleepy town in Northern NJ where
people don’t dream of becoming artists. She is a promotional model with a candy
cigarette girl company in SF, a rock n roll fashion seller online, a musician/singer in
a duo, and a poet with a degree in Creative Writing from Mills College. Katherine
lives in SF with her partner Haji and dog Aly.

 

 

The Spiral Graveyard

70+ Trendy Photography Kids Sad #photography

 

Sprawling in tiny,
The graveyard behind my house,
Is a spiral graveyard with
Hundreds of tomb stone,
Etched with emotions,
Hidden inside the lunar light.

The tombstone carved
Out of their regret,
Shines in turbulent thunder,
When words fall splattering
On the stones, caressing their hips,
Leading to some past ecstasy.

I have kept every drop off,
Their lust into the coffins,
Hidden behind the broken mirrors
The pieces stinging my translucent skin,
Mending a fragrance
Of some distant memory.

People come and people die
Into my house,
Upfront the graveyard,
Where lilies would bloom
In the center,
A place so untouched,
Where weeds out of their bones,

Never killed those hideous beauties.

Since time immemorial,
The seasons have trespassed my lilies,
Until today, when you plucked them out.

Now from my house,
I can see your large gravestone,
Or would I rather say your center stone?
Where forces of mystical love,
Maxed out into the hollowness
Of this constricted spiral.

My words have failed to,
Nourish your parched nails,
Driven into the coffins
I’ve buried myself you,
Withering in the hollowness
Of our mystical love,
Where lust, ecstasy has never
Run past your eyes,
Where our bodies have
Decayed into one,
Where the ice has
Melted on our lips,
Making our heart frozen into love,
Until the day you plucked the lilies,
Until the day you stole my home.

Now I live in a broken shelter,
Where thunderous clouds of,
Melancholy, rip me inside out
Which scares me beyond fear
Where ground beneath my feet
Is still drenched in blood.

 

Amartya Pattanayak

He is a worshipper of abstract writings. The voices inside him move through shards and pieces of drunken emotions, sober with metaphors. And he hopes to create a shift in perspective in this vivid world.

A reincarnation

 

It didn’t burn like my ambitions did,
it didn’t break the way ideals always do,
just vanished, like an angel in the clouds,
with wings made of white nothingness
and the feather it dropped is probably fantasy
as on the vestiges of my loss grew tendrils of
a few insipid dreams, fragile as a tentative faith.
The bliss I search now is not in ignorance,
or despite the despotic logic that refutes
and mocks, it’s not in my dreamy escapades.
With an unfounded resolve, I delve deeper
into the excavations of the lost cities of innocence.
Nothing deters me, not the aches of a lost limb,
of the lost wing that once carried a purpose, of life.
At the end or the beginning of another origin
a reverberating voice speaks, to me,
speaks like me, rising without pain
from the ocean within, piercing the
a stone that is now the rational heart.
Not everything is lost, it echoes
in everything you write and as long as you do,
innocence now reincarnated as hope.

 

He likes to be called as ESP and be known for his blog: https://esprambles.wordpress.com
At most he can say that besides the mundane, he loves to read and write or rather ramble.