You speak in thorns and no matter how I try, I cannot seem to find the roses
Taylor Wade
Taylor Wade is an aspiring writer in her late twenties. She’s currently majoring in Psychology and plans to use that knowledge to enrich her future works. At the moment,Taylor is focused on writing her debut novel but still makes time to read, binge Netflix, and teach herself how to play the piano.
As a writer, she uses her words to purge strong emotions and experiences catharsis by turning them into something beautifully imperfect. Taylor is deeply inspired by people. Especially their hearts, minds, and the dichotomy that exists inside of them.
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With snow softly chiming, pine needles shaking in rhythm.
Icicles ringing high pitched, echoing.
The overwhelming calm blanketing all with a moonlight interlude.
Spirits of Winter’s past whisper over the frozen ground, breathing life into the barren scene.
Their dance is haunting, ghostly, but snowflakes swirl as they spin.
And once it’s done, peace reigns again.
Aubree Barnum
Aubree has been writing since she was 14 years old. Her two literary loves are poetry and fantasy writing.
Aubree encompasses magic and mystery into a lot of her words. She also loves to write honestly about depression, anxiety, and being a mom. She gathers a lot of inspiration from fellow writers in the Instagram community and loves to support them.
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Steamrolled daily by your emerging talents Since birth, it’s been my job to coach you One day you’ll play lead Your very own life production Unconsciously in rehearsal No need to audition Acts played out in front of me Motherhood matinee Casting your own cast You’re growing up too fast Momentarily slide into my private box You’re in crisp, sharp focus Spotlight is soft The auditorium snaps me back with roars of ferocious approval I also applaud you, always Can I extend the intermission and be delighted by your immaturity a little longer? I know this confirms your growth Dependency being swapped for independent stage direction Could the stage momentarily please stand still I’ll be lovingly waiting for what’s to come in your encore
Jemma Chawla
Jemma Chawla lives in Greater London, UK. She enjoys writing poetry and short fictional stories. She writes to capture memories and process her emotions. As well as it being a great creative outlet, she also finds it a form of therapy. She enjoys writing pieces that are relatable, in the hope they offer a safe space for readers to talk and that it contributes to normalising stigmatised topics. Her current aspiration is to complete and publish her first anthology.
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Seeing myself Through your eyes Is addictive Just a glimpse Through those glasses Clean and rose tinted I am hooked To this sugar-coated view Of my life I want to climb inside your head And watch the re-runs My top ten best bits Maybe stock up some memories While I’m there I want to be filled to the brim With your admiration Of this version of me That you see And then hope that it rubs off Onto my self esteem To rekindle some love For the version I see
Emily Way-Evans
Emily is a mother and an arts administrator by day and an amateur writer by night. She discovered writing as a therapeutic creative outlet after joining a class during maternity leave, and whilst experiencing an intense period of post-natal depression.
She continues to write in as many moments of solitude as possible and shares her work on Instagram under the name @emilywaywrites
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 3 — //Written kisses don’t reach their destination, rather they are drunk on the way by the ghosts.
In our room resides a sky full of colours, Making love to the drunk, setting sun Who’s about to pass out. Time is bipolar. Czechs are at war. The poor — dying. But here we are, Ashes of dead stars — An extraordinary collection of atoms That come together For a brief period of time, And then fall apart.
I write you a Slovak kiss With my crossbow lips on the paper. And you smile, While reading it.
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 2 —
//I’m tired, can’t think of anything and want only to lay my face in your lap, feel your hand on my head and remain like that through all eternity.
Tonight, the moon is a few hues too deep. And I, like the waves of azure, Carefully try to navigate The rugged shores of longing and heartache, Bruised under the weight of heavy nightmares That lovers seek refuge from In early prayers.
You carry a tired moon inside yourself. It is round, white, dimly lit. And when you are full? People become ocean waves.
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 1 —
//I can’t feel a thing; All mournful petal storms are dancing inside the very private spring of my head.
Gustav Mahler plays in the background, As you write about erratic family circumstances, Exile colonies, and Gregor-ian laws. Your words are a pearl necklace Falling to the floor. Collapsing — Alarming, messy. Astounding, too. And I collect all the pearls, Slouched on the floor Like a five-year-old That has stumbled upon a collection of marbles.
You feel like your muse; Weaving iambic poems in the air That sails on the clouds, And perhaps rain on somebody, In another time.
𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘱𝘵𝘦𝘳 0 —
//Yours. (now I’m even losing my name — it was getting shorter and shorter all the time and is now: Yours)
Where we go from here will be a cliffhanger. If we survive, we’ll have a story to tell. If we fall, I’ll build a trampoline With these crumpled letters on the way down.
They ploughed the soil to make trenches. They emptied rivers, And even prayed it to the rain. But Franz, you and me, We’ve started a wildfire —
The one that would either light up the world, Or burn it all down.
—
[Kafka had written a series of letters to Milena Jesenská, from 1920 to 1923. This piece is an ode to that brilliant writer, who made me feel emotions I never knew existed.
If Milena could reply to those letters, maybe this is how she would?]
Aishwarya Roy
I’m Aishwarya, the ‘god’s perfect idiot’ from Kolkata, India.
The engineering student in me reduces the probability of sadness to near zero, by feeding itself salty newspapers of memes. The artslut in me reads classics and scribbles art on forbidden walls.
I’m still the same little girl, who would write stories of love and wars upon the palms of her hands, walking around, arms outstretched, asking people to read them.
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I’m Not Going to Hate Myself by Sarah Bellum Mental
I’m not going to cry I’m not going to release diamond threaded water trailing down cheeks looking to obliterate the skin with the piling up of emotions like compost creating heat shimmering waves on a quiet day thinking of the way he touched me how I fought but I didn’t fight enough but maybe that’s the thing about trauma is that it doesn’t care about your strength.
I’m not going to slice off bits of my body to acclimate me to the feel of feeling since I’ve numbed myself for so long that the pins and needles seeking my flesh takes forever to prick my porcupine quills into twitching in response everything succumbs to the inability to deal with emotions.
I’m not going to condemn my body like it is a foreclosed house looking to collect moths in expansive corners becoming more than the walls I always hid in corners kept my back to walls I could use it to keep them from getting to me until they finally broke through my fortress hands saying do not pass go do not collect my treasures and they grabbed everything I owned, trashed it, spat me out like day old gristle.
I’m not going to hate myself because there’s enough rampant in this world, rampaging against the home you should know but you keep denying you have the keys to the lock inside because you kept changing them so much each time they vandalized your body.
Sarah Bellum Mental
Sarah Bellum Mental focuses on connection through metaphors providing experiences.
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The voice of the wrong Is loud enough To ensure that the voice Of the right is completely Strangled
To the voice that is already muffled Opposed by the one that would Leave us baffled Bad bosses in corporates Protester girls on streets And lengthy jargonic tweets
The louder say “I’m right, regardless” Truth needs Ears to see and eyes to hear Reality is just a faint smear Faulty senses never see it clear Suppressed by fear Pushed aside to save What’s more dear
Truth is a second option Brushed under the mattress of “Socially sound” hypocrisy And “Diplomacy”
I’d rather be Gatsby As he rested in his coffin With truth’s heart sobbing If truth was a person Her heart would be ripped apart To watch truth’s child broken and bruised Because maybe he wasn’t understood Even after dying But with the right he strived And although he was cheated He wasn’t the one cheating
But the epilogue chose him Because he was the story narrated Truth is forever contemplated Although for truth tellers, truth is awaited
Yet, It’s almost as if lies have replaced An honest dialogue Truth tellers retort to monologues So many lies make it easy to forget reality
What would happen if we lied to each other? And forgot all solidarity With lies and distrust infiltrating Here’s to the truth that’s dying With truth tellers attending funerals And paying their last tribute.
Achala Gupta
An undergraduate student in her second year pursuing dentistry who utilizes spare time to write poetry about nature, mental health and philosophy.
Writing is an effective way for her to capture emotions and turn them into words that can be a collection for later reference.
This site contains affiliate links to products. We may receive a commission for purchases made through these links. For more information, see my disclosures here.
As my ink floods the page Who you are becomes unclear I can’t trust That what I see Is what I know For every memory That flashes through my mind Becomes a reminder That the person before me Is someone I used to know Looking for any indication That the girl I knew Is still there As my heart reaches for hers Seeking to answer one question It recoils at the answer That her beating heart Is no longer the one that used to beat for me
Christian Mejia
Hi everyone! My name is Chris. I’m a Clinical Psychology student studying in Melbourne, Australia! I have always written poetry on and off since I was I teen as I way to express things emotions that I didn’t quite understand.
I’m quite a deep thinker and my emotions tend to run even deeper than my thoughts and poetry has really helped bring all of that depth to the surface.
I like to write about deep personal experiences that I have had with other people, but I also like to write about my little observations about the complicated world we live in.
My poetry is driven by the belief that life is difficult and dark, but there is always light to be found in every situation and I try to capture that in almost all my work. I really hope you enjoy my poetry and it can speak to you in the way it speaks to me. Thank you so much for your time!
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I could build you a mansion marble tiles, crystal chandeliers, sliding walls, and a pool So you can drink Martinis while dipping your feet in lukewarm water that glistens in the pale light of a crescent moon
I could construct a big enough blanket to keep you safe from the frigid nature of the world to protect your exposed skin from the severe winds of our chaotic surroundings Though you may need to sacrifice comfort due to the hard surfaces and jagged edges
I could recreate a story where you play the protagonist and I am your trusty sidekick We would go on the craziest adventures and you would never wonder, what if Fiction is reality when you’re dealing with bricks or
I could hold you close to me and make you a cup of coffee at dawn to keep you warm in our unheated home and we could forget the fantasies Because together is enough
Emilie Chau
Emilie is currently a senior attending high school in Oregon. In her free time, she enjoys watching movies, playing the violin, and going for an easy jog.
She currently has two novels and over ten poems published online. In the future, she plans to pursue a major in creative writing and explore the many different facets of literary expression.
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Irony’s not what this is. Poetic injustice, maybe.
There’s evil in me. In everyone. Even the best of us are part shadow. It’s not something to be removed from the basket, but the ribs of the basket itself. Some believe their dark has gone. Or worse, that it was never there. An unearned confidence in one’s purity. But it WAS there. And is. And will be.
What to do? Illuminate the evil. Deal with it. Know it. Own it. Overcome it. It can be kept in check, but never killed. Because the downside to human morality is the unlit corner of the soul that renders such morality necessary.
You are the impulse to do evil, And you are the values fighting for evil’s destruction. All of it is you. All of it is me. We’re each Baby Hitler in the hypothetical.
Worse than the compulsion to mass destruction Is believing there’s no such compulsion in you. To be unaware of its presence is to be ignorant to its effect. Why solve problems you don’t know are there? Why fix what you don’t believe to be failing? But it is. It’s failing you as long as it’s ignored.
Just remember… There are no demons, only human weakness. There are no saints, only overcomers.
Matthew Donovan
Matthew Donovan is a retired professional firefighter and a practicing lawyer. He was born and raised in the Bronx, and lives in Ridgefield CT with his wife Stephanie and their two daughters. A graduate of Pace University School of Law, Matthew began writing poetry at age 41.
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