Writing Prompt

I was just a kid then. I saw the forest, with the beautiful trees I could climb and the gorgeous ponds in which I could swim. I played for hours, but I got tired eventually. I was hungry and thirsty, but I didn’t know where I was. I was starving for days, maybe even weeks.

I don’t know exactly how long it took, but I found someone. They had horns, black with red glowing cracks. They were willin...

A poem about mental health and depression

Each day under the pouring rain

Same and old, feet pressing against the wet concrete

Boots filled with liquid and tilting your head down

And yet here you are,

An imposter to the people around you

In the fiery streets,

The rain might as well be burning concrete,

Piercing your toes and your raging heart

That is awaiting autumn to come.

Only then, wind ...

Hot waves of memories

A surfable crest

Numbing high of seafoam

Can only be felt after they crash

Ice blue eyes that freeze me

The only thing I see

A voice that drains and pins

Me down under every boot in this

fucked up place

Drink her words like Jim Beam

Calmed by her Xanax attention

Villainize me again, baby

I’ll die again, I don’t care

We will talk again someday…

Even the dead tell ...

“Why is it that the dead are seen as gone?”

I mean… are the people who think that really wrong?

“We are simply out of reach like distant stars!”

Still farther than I can get to by car.

“Death is another stage of life in a way.”

So then why is it that in death you stay?

“No angel of Death can steal someone’s light.”

So what? You stare down Death and ask for a fight?

“The sun dips below the horizon...

My grandma,
still alive,
tells stories of her life.

In some, she shouts;
in others, she laughs—
but always keeping
her eerie head,
with sharp, loose teeth.

My grandma brings me to bed
with haunting visions.
"Grandma, do you also see
the moving monster in the corner?"

Grandma chuckles, denying.

And years later,
my grandma’s voice howls through the night,
telling stories of her life.

For the dead te...

Disregard the fallen

Pass what has passed

They say not to cry over spilled milk

Stillwater in a glass

Put the words upon a gravestone

Return the nutrients to grass

Treat the grief like checklist

Burn the pages when they ask

But we relent

To think of times that we spent

With bodies bruised

And backs bent

And instead we invent

A shattered sense of nostalgia

A fortress that’s really a tent

...

Even the dead tell stories

We come down

And we talk to you

But nobody will listen

Even the dead have memories

Even, maybe,

Clearer than yours

But you choose not to remember

Even the dead have feelings

But everybody shoos us away

Even the dead have ideas

But nobody will hear us out

Even the dead tell stories

As long as the living care...

Carved lines on rocks

And a casket that locks

Not much to see

Unless you’re really looking for me

Take a close look at what’s engraved

And step off of what’s already paved

I can show you another place

Where you can look me in the face

I thought I had everything I’d need

But I was still brought to my knees and plucked like a weed

You watch from nearby, waiting for the final scar

My stuttere...

Even the dead tell stories,

The final machete fell at 5PM,

It’s echo rippling through the trees,

As the blood met the earth in a solemn dance.

The Crows and the Vultures swooped down,

Hungry not for flesh—but for memory.

As my mother’s eyes were plucked out,

I could’ve sworn I saw a tear fall down her cheek.

A drop of sorrow caught between the realms,

Like a farewell from the other side....

Some call it, being a “Coward”.

Others call it, being afraid.

One feeling is shaken to the core.

The other struggles with being brave.

On the podium, reading lines.

Time stops, feelings shave.

Is it rain? Is it pain?

Suddenly you’re pushed back.

A gale force unmatched.

You couldn’t even look at him!

Are you a COWARD!? Not brave?

No, there’s fear in there too.

Shaken unable to shake back.

You wer...