#spokenwords

[naimabycoltrane]

I’m very nervous for this new journey but excited for where I’m going! I created my poetry page on Instagram if anyone would like to follow and join me on this journey! All support is highly loved and gladly appreciated💐

@bydeztychelle.

[atalternateuniverse]

[thezfactor01]

Laugh

Laugh, laugh the game has begin and may the starters last.

[echoesofphilip]

Dear life, I have a complete grasp on the fact that you are not fair. So please, quit teaching me that lesson.

[writing-from-the-closet]

BLUE VS GREY

You like the blue in the sky,You love the sunny days,Chilled summer drink in hand,Three or more ice cubes clinking,That sundress from winter’s sale,30% off,Saved for these kinda days. You call friends, ready to go out,“IT IS A BEAUTIFUL DAY,” you say. I too like colours, like the grey.I sip my ginger tea,Wear warm pyjamas,Cover myself with a blanket,Looking like a teddy, Watching the view…

[thepersonalwords]

I know how you feel because I’ve been there too. I’ve hated and I’ve loved. I’ve seen my demons root and crawl and my angels branch and soar. I've died within myself and lived a thousand different lives. I too fight the same war and I too am drowning in the puddles of self-consciousness this world created.

Robert M. Drake

[shanswriting]

pockets are empty, dreams on hold

bills stack high, and the nights feel cold i chase the hours, but they slip away working for pennies, day after day

i need the money, it’s all i can see freedom’s a price that’s too high for me counting the minutes, waiting for more but the struggle’s the same as the day before

[naimabycoltrane]

a poem + a vibe.

[yannnza]

S P O K E N W O R D

It’s been a while

[laurachouettepoetry]

I cannot write in the stillness of life. My ink must be drawn from chaos And utter difficulty. The page must tremble in unsteady hands, While the lips quiver words of unrest — Truth lies in uneven lines. - Laura Chouette

[jaggedjawjosh]

In every act of kindness, you plant a seed of hope in the world—grow a garden of compassion with every step you take.

[music-is-my-life-man]

[secondblooms]

In English, we say: “I miss you.” But in poetry, we say: “I trace the shape of your absence in the spaces where your laughter used to linger, and let the echoes of you fill the hollow hours.” In English, we say: “I don’t know how to let go.” But in poetry, we say: “I carry you in my chest like a stone— heavy, unyielding, and carved with the sharp edges of what once was.” In English, we say: “I feel lost.” But in poetry, we say: “The compass of my heart spins wildly now, its needle drawn to places it can no longer call home.” In English, we say: “I wish it were different.” But in poetry, we say: “I water the garden of could-have-beens with tears, waiting for flowers that refuse to bloom.” In English, we say: “I hope you’re happy.” But in poetry, we say: “May the sun that warms your days be as kind to you as the first kiss of dew on the dawning light upon the leaves of the laurel that we once made love under” In English, we say: “You hurt me.” But in poetry, we say: “You planted thorns in my chest with hands I once trusted, and now every breath feels like an apology I shouldn’t owe.” In English, we say: “I wanted to stay.” But in poetry, we say: “I lingered at the edge of your world, a star burning quietly, unnoticed in your vast, indifferent sky.” In English, we say: “I’m trying to move on.” But in poetry, we say: “I untangle your name from my veins each morning, only to find it woven into my dreams again at night.” In English, we say: “I’ll be okay.” But in poetry, we say: “I gather the shattered pieces of myself like broken glass, knowing someday, even scars can catch the light.” With poetry I write paths through gardens of grace with words in ways my body dare not go as a whole. Written by : Larson Langston.

[s0ftplacetoland]

I write to you in the quiet hours, each letter a confession I know you will never understand:

how well my limbs remember the shape of your absence.

Would you expect any less?

You are the poet of my body, after all.

Each line you write deeper, closer, until I am no longer certain if I am the poem or the one who has been written-- the ink still warm from where you never touched it, the silence between us a language all its own.