Latest Stories
Most recently published stories in Poets.
Messiah
You have to knock louder, my dear. I can't hear beyond the thunder of the door. I won't believe you actually mean it. Because you have to want it more. You became home to me and I fear when it's going to end. I conspire against myself in hopes the truth will bend. You're the therapy I actually benefit from, the doubt that gets removed. I run to the sound of your echoes while I climb out of this tomb. I was searching for you but were you looking for me? Did you pin all your hope on a future while you waited for me? I don't want to escape, I want to run away with you. With your hand in mine, we can witness everything brand new. I've learned to live with distorted self-esteem. Where I couldn't possibly be worth anything. To measure up with what I expect you'd want and need. To be everything wrapped up in a peaceful dream. To be enough, to be the one to make you happy. Where I prove myself and land at your feet. Why can't I just be myself and hope for the best? Because I'm afraid I will always be -less. There's a part of me that lives in constant fear. That I speak in a language you couldn't possibly hear. I cannot control how you view me, my love. All I can do is continue to love you and hope its enough. My attempts at happiness are few in between. My efforts at evolution are always unseen. I crave the safety of consistent and stable arms. I yearn for the freedom that lies in your peaceful and loving heart
By Anna Torresabout 16 hours ago in Poets
Love is not supposed to hurt
I reach for you, blindly in the dark. The initial moment where our hands meet is where lies my heart. I was the book no one else could read. You are the tourniquet for the cut from which I bleed. You keep the anxiety at bay. You are all the silent words I cannot say. I was the frightened animal that refused to be touched. Because of you, laughter is a must. Don't ask me what took years to learn. I was afraid to break, I was afraid to burn. I wasted eons pretending not to be distraught. I got used to the battles I had fought and lost. You became a haven for me, safe and warm. I have shelter now that will keep me dry from the storm. You are the precious sanctuary I seek. A steeple at the top of the mountain peak. I've ascended high with you at my side. My salvation lies where you and I come alive. A cathedral with open doors and open arms. I've asked for redemption and refuge where I remain unharmed. You are the blessing I was not prepared for. The invisible string that always allowed something more. I doubted why the universe brought me here. The lack of control was what I always feared. I ran out of curses for my own shame. I missed the misery because it was all that remained. You are the light that erupts brightly over the horizon. You are the anchor that kept me intact when there was none. I know nothing about fate or its sentiments. All I know is you're here with me and it makes perfect sense. I never had any hope or faith until you came along. You became the asylum in this epic love song. A secure place for me to evolve as I heal. You are everything I always wanted to feel. You are the calm waters leading me to peace. My reprieve that glues me back together, piece by piece. I'm headed back to the stars where there are no more words. You taught me that love is not supposed to hurt
By Anna Torresabout 16 hours ago in Poets
Beyond the Firelight
Long before the advent of printing presses, libraries, or digital screens, the warmth of firelight was the setting for humanity’s most treasured stories. In the quiet of night, people gathered to listen to tales that were passed down not in written form, but through the spoken word. These stories were as diverse as they were enduring—whispers of gods, songs of legendary heroes, and lessons taught by tricksters who roamed freely between realms. These narratives weren’t captured in books; they were carried from one generation to the next, spoken from elder to child, their essence preserved in the memory of those who listened. Folklore became the fabric of memory, and poetry, with its rhythm and rhyme, was the thread that stitched it into the very fabric of human history.
By Jhon smithabout 17 hours ago in Poets
11pm thoughts
Hard to believe but I know there once was a time when people weren’t grinches and loved community for community. Think back after the world wars people didn’t have money for gifts for holidays or even birthdays but they could round enough up for a cake and something to drink so the family and community-weather it be neighbors or church fellowship could get together for a small moment of happiness without materialistic expectations.
By Kallie Teresa Venturiniabout 18 hours ago in Poets
