Self Poems
Clay
by The Moody Poet
I have never felt beautiful
At least, not in the conventional sense
Or in any sense - if I may speak my true
But I know enough to make sense of why:
To the lord I was clay
Soil and water his fingertips could work
Into the image of himself
Some call it an act of self obsession
I call it perfection emulation
In empyrean skies I was created
......
Color Me Slowly
by Joel C
Color me slowly,
lilac mist across my face—
the hush of dusk before I go.
Let soft sky blue gather
across my chest,
a quiet kind of silence
like a cloudless day
hiding me,
like a secret that lingers.
......
ePitaph
by Tyler Morello
Here lies self.wav,
Whose death ripples through domains.
Having fallen victim to bugs before
The antivirus firewall free trial ended.
Only the good ctrl/alt/delete young.
*file type not supported*
Here lies self.jpeg,
An image edited many times over.
......
Philosophy of Me
by Ujjal Mandal
By Ujjal Mandal, India
Thoughts have a continual succession
of complacency or anxiety,
black thoughts paint me a fire fly
that emits light mere in the darkness.
I am like the flowing air
neither I have head to think
nor the arm to catch,
......
I AM!!
by Mita Roy
You call me dark.
You think am weird.
But don't you think that's unfair and a bit too stark?
You think I hide
a part of me................
But do you realise , I've never had YOU by my side?
You think I wear a mask
to show the world what am not.
......
Color Me Slowly
by Joel C
Color me slowly,
lilac mist across my face—
the hush of dusk before I go.
Let soft sky blue gather
across my chest,
a quiet kind of silence
like a cloudless day
hiding me,
like a secret that lingers.
......
The Heart’s Shadow
by Kim L
The chosen stone plays a healing part
A talisman for a broken heart
The weight of which they could not wear
For it whispers truths, too much to bear
They chase themselves where power thrives
Through gilded halls where mirrors lie
They seek their strength in loud acclaim
But will come to find it’s all in vain
......
Letter to Self
by Adelana Victor
Dear Adelana Victor Blaqhárt,
I need to make this crystal clear: stay out of my way. The path I’m on is one I’ve carefully crafted, and the vision I have for myself demands no interference—not even from me. I’ve spent enough time second-guessing, doubting, and overthinking. I can no longer afford the luxury of hesitation or the noise of self-imposed limits. So hear this—if you, I, ever attempt to sabotage what we’ve built, if you hesitate when you should leap, or if you take one step back instead of moving forward, I will not forgive you.
You’ve fought too hard to let yourself remain stagnant, to let fear or insecurity hold you back. Do not test me. I’ve been patient, I’ve been understanding, but I’ve had enough of this struggle. I have set goals, I’ve placed myself on a trajectory that demands all of my focus and strength. If you ever even think about derailing that, I will shut you down. There’s no room for doubt, no room for weakness, no space for hesitation. You either rise to meet the person you’ve promised yourself to be, or you get out of your own way. This is no longer a negotiation.
I know you, your brilliance, your creativity, your drive. But I also know your tendencies to question, to overthink, and to stall. The world won’t wait for you to find the courage; it won’t wait for your permission to move forward. So here’s the deal: stay out of your own way, or face the consequences of wasted potential. I won’t tolerate it. We’ve come too far.
From Adelana Victor,
You.
......
The Song of Spirit
by Julianne StanleyThere's something disturbing in the air. An eery, deep quiet; a boring hole of dark empty. There's nothing as loud as silence. Grey matter makes holy shapes before swallowing us whole. The moon pulls tides inward to the secret world of ocean like the soul pulls the body. I drool into my cup of dreams and pour it into a flowing river of desire. You count the rings of my fingerprints like the rings of a tree stump, and you find I am a thousand years old. An endless spiral, an endless song. We kiss poison and call it praise, we call it worship. We deny our powers in humanness and call it sin. Trees die, still calling your name. Yet you cannot hear for you will not listen.
Continue readingLuminal Whispers
by Julianne Stanley
The moth takes
its powdery soft breathes with
the strokes of its wings
and
the sycamore's leaves
murmur in their celestial tongue,
telling stories to the dark.
I take my breaths too,
but they come out coppery
......
