Imagine a chamber filled with blackened smoke
Always swirling and churning, making you choke
Each narrow passage heavy cobwebs cling
A deep breath taken is a wasps sting
Tack on a dusty layer so thick
Just like being hit with a brick
Barely a whisp of air to flow throughout
Exhausting is the struggle, without a doubt
Add a vice, jaws clamped tightly around the chest
The beast within devours each morsel with zest
Dining for years before it is seen
A touch too late to repair, no vaccine
This devil within has a ravenous appetite
It has no feelings, no cares, just delight
Slowly consuming tender bits from within
To leave a withered deflated unusable skin
****
Written Oct 7, 2026
To experience an incurable disease.
The past was regret.
The future, a promise never seen.
Between them stood a tunnel,
tempting those who wished to rewrite what time had already written.
It offered forgotten smiles,
lost voices,
and dreams buried beneath sorrow.
Yet every step within its silence
asked for a piece of the life still waiting outside.
Time was never its victim…
you were.
Each heartbeat traded
for another chance at yesterday.
Pain may shape us.
Guilt may follow us.
Regret may whisper our names.
But the past is a place to remember,
not a home to return to.
For no tunnel can heal
what acceptance alone must mend.
It can only ask
how much of tomorrow
you are willing to surrender
for a yesterday that will never truly be yours again.
The tunnel was never a gate.
It was a choice.
To lose yourself chasing echoes,
or to carry your scars
and walk toward the light waiting ahead.
Voices echoed where no words were spoken,
Faces passed by, yet remained unseen.
Smiles wore the shape of living,
While souls wandered somewhere in between.
Anger struck like a storm in silence,
Leaving guilt where thunder used to be.
And every step away from others
Built another wall around the sea.
The world still turned, the sun still rose,
Yet colors faded from the sky.
For isolation is a quiet prison,
Where a heart can scream and none ask why.
But even shattered glass reflects the light,
Even the deepest scars can heal.
For one hand reaching through the darkness
Can remind a lonely soul to feel.
So here stand the voiceless and the broken,
The lost, the guilty, and the afraid;
Learning that being heard is not in speaking,
But in the bonds that silence never erased.
It seems she walked away in disbelief
It seems she was interrogated and never to return
It seems she was in a mysterious world, only fear smile
It seems she was tortured for decades, unceased
It seems she had enough, thirsty eyes tearing teen organs
It seems she is already known victim, preaching forever wounds
It seems she is always at a corner crying, accusing life
I always find myself
getting upset with little things,
whether it’s the way my best friend
acknowledges me like I am a burden,
or the way my boyfriend
can’t just be happy with one girl.
I’m always upset,
and I don’t know why I’m like this.
I’m a happy person,
at least to people’s knowledge,
but on the inside
I am angry.
Very, very angry.
I feel like a wolf in sheep’s clothing.
I can be happy,
but that’s only when I have a distraction,
like when my best friend does listen to me,
or when my boyfriend makes me feel
like the prettiest girl in the world.
Those are meant to be happy moments,
but somehow I find the negative in all of it.
Is she secretly judging me?
Why is he suddenly nice?
Is he cheating?
Why can’t I just enjoy something good
without wondering what’s wrong with it?
Why do I always have to find something
to be angry about?
I’m happy to people’s knowledge,
but on the inside,
I’m angry,
and sometimes I don’t even know
what I’m angry at.
Lord, tears fall at night so silently;
people don't notice.
In the pitch-dark hours, no one can see
puffy, red faces in broken homes
or with broken lives,
where there is no peace.
They cry and cry till sunup,
and some fall asleep,
with no appetite to eat,
for their souls are hungry for peace.
They sing,
"Who really loves me?
Who can save me
from these thoughts that torment me?"
They all judge them, Lord—
their friends and family.
They have all turned
their backs on them.
But Lord, You see.
And You are faithful,
for You never sleep.
Show them Your never-ending love,
the power of a King clothed in majesty,
with a crown of thorns
and holes in His arms and feet.
Destiny had been kind to us for a season
we exchanged I love you’s and went our separate ways
The nostalgia for something so wondrous and fair
still astounds me
something different from the memories - and the dry uncontrollable ache of loss
I transmute the pain with ritual:
fresh thyme grown in a pot
on my doorstep
infused in oil
contained in a jar at my feet
and daily performed.
I’ve been searching
in a new place and time
for a different song
I’ve finally got it through my head
I just can’t break it to my heart
It starts as a whisper, a storm in your skin,
a pressure so loud, it echoes within.
Not for attention. Not for the show.
It’s the scream you can't let anyone know.
It's the moment you drown, desperate to feel,
when numbness becomes the loudest appeal.
They say, “Just talk,” but the words retreat -
how do you explain pain that doesn’t speak?
You cover the marks, pull down the sleeve,
play the part that others believe.
But it’s never about wanting to die -
it’s about needing something to quiet the cry.
And still, you survive. Again. Again.
You wake and ache but try to remain.
Because somewhere deep beneath that ache,
you know there's more than what pain can take.
So here’s what’s true, even if it’s small:
You are not your scars. You are not your fall.
You are the breath that followed the burn,
the strength in choosing each twist and turn.
Let your voice crack, let the silence break -
you’re allowed to need, to bend, to shake.
And if the darkness clings tonight,
let this poem hold the light
A Drink with an Old Friend:
Like a criminal,
I'm caught red handed —
As I return the scene of the crime.
But I don't understand it,
It's not mine.
No, I didn't plan it.....
Noose around my neck,
And trauma did the damage.
Reenactment....
Drowning in the fractures,
Of my melted face.
Again I ask,
Who am I today?
Isn't time just a place?
Does identity disappear,
When bones are ground into paste?
When even the mirror,
Reflects my empty space.
Red is the flesh,
Dipped in my own blood.
Stained is the page,
With a cruel heart called love.
Swaying in time,
Like the pendulum of the clock.
As I turn towards death and simply laugh.
I've been dying.....
Ever since my first bath.
Come on Mr. Grim,
If you won't take me—
Why don't we just hang.
Here have a cigar,
I'll pour you a glass.
Let's raise a toast,
To the pain long past.
~D34d-1~
*In regards to Repetition Compulsion
At the touch of Divine love every scar of the soul is instantly healed.
Demetrios Trifiatis
04 October 2026
What had happened?
What is wrong?
They all will ask
But will they risk understanding?
No, many can’t handle the idea
The idea that the being before them was broken
Rejoined and broken again
Over and over with nothing to give
Nothing but a fake smile and laugh to ease others
Will they know it’s fake?
Will they even care?
What would happen if we could all give a bit more?
To those around us broken beyond repair?
Would the world spin a bit brighter?
Or would we all become a bit darker?
Oh I’d ask what is wrong?
What had happened?
What is needed?
If only I could speak
But alas
I am broken.
Soft like the skin of a baby
Like the ocean on a quiet night, not a breeze to be blown
Soft like the breath of a child hiding under her desk
Like the whispers of her teacher as she locks the door
The soft steps of anger through an empty hallway
Her soft hair as it absorbs what she once was and could have been
Soft silk of a casket she lies in after she takes her last breath
Soft, are the cries of a childless mother
Soft are the prayers of the local church
Soft is the sentence he will receive
Because soft is the government who oversees
We live to die,
For no man knows what tomorrow holds,
And in the end, the last appointment we all must keep is death.
When the Angel of Death comes,
He does not ask for your title,
He does not bow to your riches,
He is not moved by your power, your fame, or your crown.
At the end, we all die.
Whether you are young with dreams still budding,
Or old with stories etched in wrinkles,
Whether you are mighty or broken, celebrated or forgotten,
We all die.
It is painful, yet undeniable — there is nothing we can do to escape it.
We were not born to remain here forever;
We were born to pass through.
This life is but a breath, a fleeting shadow,
We live it once, and only once.
So let that once be worthwhile.
Therefore, live knowing we are here for a short time,
Do not look down on others, do not trample the lowly,
For you do not know what tomorrow will make of any man.
The beggar today may be a king tomorrow, and the king today, dust.
We live to die so love deeply,
Forgive quickly, live truthfully,
And let your life echo beyond the grave.
Never Say Never
Never say no to the moons in pain,
never kill the caged dove.
Turn off the alarm that kills the birds —
you are the one who can save them.
I hear voices asking for life,
I hear whispers, I hear cries.
I will not stop, I will listen to them,
because I am the one who cares.
They are alone beyond the sea,
I live on the northern sea.
I will never say no, I will listen to their voice —
that is the only help from my side.
Run
She marched.
No shoes,
just marched —
grey patches on her legs,
stiff and hard.
Metal watching from above,
nowhere to hide,
just to walk.
She cannot sit,
she has to write.
The world must listen to the cries,
but how long can she survive?
The buzzer alerted.
It landed —
landed on her with a thud so wild.
Pen in her hand.
Pen was her guide.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.