Lost Love

Written by Kvothe

Glittering jewels scattered across a black abyss,
Darkness consuming the edges of light, stealing warmth,
Cold biting bone deep, despair folds around me.
Empty space of the only one I have ever loved,
Heart bleeds. Remembers the gentle safety of her arms.

Then, as if answering my harboring call,
A graceful beauty wanders in, filling the room with joy.
But my heart falters, while blood runs cold with loneliness.
I can’t find those perfect words. I want to tell you how I feel,
All past hurts lost, with only a mind for you.

As the bravest of warriors, I smile on seeing you,
Heart melting, happiness burning, cheeks flush.
But another takes your hand and kisses your neck,
Territorial and yet tender he claims you. Forbidden fruit.
I walk away leaving my lonely heart on the floor by your feet.

Time passes and wounds heal but the hurts stay the same.

Having written this piece largely to pass the time while on holiday, Kvothe’s poem hits us where it most hurts. Losing a loved one to another can be torturous, particularly if the one you love doesn’t know your true feelings. Kvothe captures those truly dark and lonely moments, wraps it up in a box of heartache, and leaves. We can’t help but feel for the poet here. If you enjoyed Kvothe’s work, make sure to read his lyrical beauty, “Tinker’s Tale“. 

Featured Image CC // JLS Photography


Paper Bag

Written by Moonflower


Moonflower’s Paper Bag leaves us feeling all crumpled up.

I’m just a paper bag.
Given to you by hands of fate,
unrecognisable, indistinct.
You were the kind of stranger,
who flashed me a sincere smile,
when I passed on by.
I blended in the background of thousands,
carrying nothing but emptiness.

I met you again.
Drenched under the bus stop,
our conversation slow and awkward,
like the rain dripping off the metal shelter.
You didn’t let on much,
you only offered your sweet voice.

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Maybe She Needs A Bigger Table

Written by Fantasy Girl

dining table

The table will be set for three at exactly 7.24pm every evening.
Image Courtesy of http://www.dailymoderation.com

Tea will be served at precisely 7.24 pm, just as it is every evening. The table will be set for three around the small square at which they will eat. Three meals will be put on the place mats. Only one person will be there. Only one person will eat.

She never changed her routine, even after the incident. She still bought clothes for the other two. She still washed them. She still ironed them. She would even put them away for them. She would have conversations, seemingly with herself; about what they should have for dinner, about what was on telly that night, or what film they should go see at the weekend. Nothing changed. It never changed.

It’d been ten years since the incident, ten years since they died. The car went under. She was the only one to get out. Why couldn’t she save them? Why didn’t they let her die too? Because she’s a survivor, that’s why. She had always been a survivor – when her parents died, when her husband and child died… funnily enough in the same way.

Or maybe that was the point – that she was meant to be alone – that they were all meant to die, and she was meant to survive? But what kind of survival is this? Living in the past, believing they are still alive, believing that they will one day be home for dinner.

Because that’s why she sets the table, you know, not because she doesn’t know they’re dead. Of course she knows. But because she believes that one day they will return, and be home at 7.24 pm for dinner. And maybe they will bring mum and dad too… maybe she needs a bigger table.

Minor Wounds

Written by x3naurus

Memories, all drained in vain…

Few enclose my sight to words
in sync with silence, as night occurs
to send me in a wind of ice.
Light betrays, shadows suffice

Memories, all drained in vain.
Hidden smiles keep me insane.
Not with sight I cannot see,
but watching what’s in front of me.

A simple circle, falling fast;
The seeds inside all watch the past
disappear, and sing with fear
to die in light, and live in tears.

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