I want to be a poet, Is that anyone else's dream?
You had me
and left.
Easy.
Like skipping a track on a playlist.
I was just a heartbeat you helped make,
then dropped like a cigarette on the sidewalk.
Mom raised me in smoke and screams.
She picked Chance—
the man who played nice until he wasn’t.
Ten years of war behind closed doors.
And me?
I was nine with scars I gave myself because I didn’t know how else to scream without getting in trouble.
Then you show up.
Zak.
Biological.
That’s all you’ll ever be.
Texted like everything was fine—
like you hadn’t missed birthdays,
breakdowns,
me learning how to hate my own skin.
I meet you,
and you judge my shoes. Spiderman drawn in Sharpie—
because it made me feel like maybe I was still a kid.
You looked at them like trash.
Like I was trash.
You sized me up against your new life,
your sporty step-kids,
your girlfriend with her smile.
And I didn’t match.
Too quiet.
Too weird.
Too much of the past you never wanted to face.
You poked at my clothes,
my food,
my softness.
Like I was clay you could mold into a version you’d finally accept.
But I’m not your project.
And I’m not your second chance.
I bled.
I burned.
I survived.
Without you.
So don’t you dare act like you’re here now and that should be enough.
You don’t get to call me daughter just because we share blood.
That title’s earned.
And you?
You were never even in the running.
To anyone who is interested, I post the majority of my poems here.
@4579Xx So raw and powerful.
Well hello.
life has been really crazy lately, in ways that I am not comfortable with describing (weird, since I tend to spill my guts on this website) but anyways, I started a ticktock. I doesn’t show my face or anything I just recite poetry and it shows a picture of the corner of my room. If anyone is interested just ask! Also, I have a little girl voice haha. So I don’t really sound my age.
The way he did:
The pain won’t leave me.
It yanks my hair the way he did,
presses hands where they never should,
the way he did.
I hate him.
I swear I do.
But part of me mourns the view
of who I thought he was—
before he shattered the trust.
It was mine.
It should have been mine.
At eighteen, I should have been free
to choose when, and how, and who—
to give that moment,
to make it true.
Instead, I hold dust,
shards of broken trust,
glittering like broken forever—
promises of always,
that became never.
I’m so sorry :’(
So much suffering that you never deserved. Its such a real take too. Mourning what would be worth giving freely too, when the reality became the opposite... This writing is the kind of thing that can really speak to people though, especially when they can relate.
@jesusredeemedme2425
In a garden where apples should never fall
A hand reached through the thicket wall
Not the wind
No storm had passed—
Yet branches snapped
And silence crashed.
A lamb once played in the silver dew,
Trusting the fence
The sky
The blue
But something crept with polished shoes
And carved its name in her morning hues
The sun still rose with painted grace
Though shadows lingered on her face
She stitched her heart with lavender thread
And tucked her voice beneath her bed
The well is deep beneath the tree
Where secrets sink too dark to see
She drinks her lies like bitter wine
And learns to say, “The weather’s fine.”
A fox in velvet wears a crown
Feasts at dusk, then burns the town
The orchard’s fruit is soft and red—
She tells herself it's just the bed.
Years will pass and seasons rust
She’ll plant her heart in cleaner dust
But still at night, the roots recall
That hand that reached through the garden wall
This one's a little different than what I'm used to seeing from you, and I absolutely love it. There's so much to be explored in a format like this, and it's fun to imagine while also being dark and real on a level that you can feel in your gut. No words wasted, from where no apples should fall to a fox in velvet. So much emotion and symbolism in this.
@Torean
Thank you so much! I’m actually not the biggest fan of writing in this style—while I do enjoy metaphors, poems like this aren’t usually my thing. But lately, I’ve been reading a book that explores this kind of poetry, and I decided to give it a try. It’s been enjoyable, but I wouldn’t say metaphors come naturally to me. I often spend a lot of time reading poets like Mansi and others just to find inspiration.
Most of what I write is based on my own life and past experiences. I’ve found that writing metaphorically forces me to think more deeply about what really happened—what it felt like. When I write in my usual, more straightforward style, it’s more like venting. I just get it out, and somehow it turns into a poem. A messy one at first, but a poem nonetheless.
I don’t stay up at night because I’m working on these—I just don’t sleep much. I’m often restless, and writing poetry helps with that.
(also idk what happened to the font lol)
I’m not even sure of the meaning behind this poem, but I love it anyway <3 What does it symbolize? <3
@jesusredeemedme2425 SA
I’m so sorry :’(
That makes a lot of sense. I think it's really good to write in different styles just to try it. Sometimes really good things like this can come out of it.
Yours has inspired me to try being more straightforward, or In a venting style. I admire it because my poems tend to be cryptic to a fault. I think a lot of it comes from wanting to show people poems... And I don't always want them to know what it's about sometimes, because it might involve another person that they also personally know. But anyway, I think there's a lot more that I could do with branching out. I'll read some from others too, starting with Mansi, because I admit that I don't read a lot of poetry. I really should.
Consent form (signed in absence):
They hand you a form with your name misspelled
The ink still damp, the paper swelled
The print is pale, the words collapse —
A legal breath between the gaps
"Just sign below, it won’t take long
It’s not about right
It’s not about wrong."
You read the lines that don’t quite stay —
They blur, then fold themselves away
The section marked "Describe the scene"
Is printed in a shade between ash and skin
A bruising hue— a color only memory knew
A body sketched with nameless parts
No labels —
Just suggestion marks
You trace a silence down the spine
And wonder
“Which of these is mine?”
A box at bottom
Small and neat:
"Please list what made the act complete."
You do not write
You do not move
What could that question even prove?
They file it all in Drawer C
Beneath “events that came to be.”
The cabinet locks without a key
"For record’s sake," they gently add, "The copy’s yours. That’s not so bad."
But copies warp
And paper fades
The words wear masks the sentence made
A form remains
But what it meant
Was lost the moment you consent.
To being filed
Not being heard
To being pressed into a word too clinical
Too tight
Too clean —
The kind they staple to a scene
They ask for facts
They ask for grace.
But never once recall your face
The form is signed
The box is checked
And something sacred stays unchecked
END RECORD.
Oh man... There's a lot to say on this one. Its sickly to think of how many people have to face this kind of anxiety in their own way, especially when it doesn't go anywhere... The way you word it though, this would come alive to anyone.
I admire both this and you. You're deserving of comfort to fill the gaps of where you've been failed by this world. I may not be able to offer much of that from just words, but I can say that you've got a kind of gift for writing that can't fully be taught. It's the kind that can give people the chills, and it's the kind that might save people who have been suffering similar things.