Individual poems
The Vanishing LinesDawg Come closer. This story deserves your full attention. There was a timewhen the world was sharp,when colors burst with life,when every line you drewfelt like a heartbeatechoing through your being. You were the artist. The creator.Worlds from nothingbut a blank canvas and a bit of paint. But something changed.Barely noticed at first […]
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The Voice That Is Not MineIt started as a murmur at the edges of my thinking,a commentary running just below the surface,linking every action to a failure,every pause to a defect.A voice that knew my history with cold and clinical effect. I tried to track the logic of its sentences,to find the mechanism of its
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The Day My Goldfish DiedDawg I’m feeling uninspired.Sublime yet mundane.Nothing left to tweet about —everything’s the same. I wish I had more to share,something to make you laugh or cry,but the only news worth reporting todayis my goldfish’s demise. Don’t tell me it can’t happen.It’s all crystal clear.When I left, he was in his bowl.Came
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The Silenced VoiceDawg You sit there, day after day,pencil poised between trembling fingers —a fragile lifeline to a worldyou’re too scared to face. The blank page is a mirrorreflecting the silence you’re trapped in.Not just any silence —the kind that suffocates,that sits heavy on your chest like a stone.And yet, in the suffocating quiet,there’s comfort.
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The Symphony of SilenceUnder The Floorboards / 7DS Deep within the creviceswhere life gasps for breath,we weave our murky webof inevitable death. The air, pregnant with contagion,exhales a silent sigh.I am Pestilence–the weaver of this deadly lullaby. Feverish fires rage beneath skin,consuming all within their path.We leave in our wakea residue of hopelessness and wrath.
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The Haunted MindDawg In the dim light of a cramped apartment,shadows stretch like fingers across the walls,whispering secrets only the silence understands. He sits hunched over, breath shallow and quick,trapped in a waking nightmarewhere escape is a memory he can’t quite reach. The air is heavy with unspoken wordsand decisions that spiraled into anguish.Every choice
The Nightmare ClinicDawg In a quiet corner of the citystood the Sleep Haven Clinic —a sleek front hiding the horrors within. Glass doors glimmered under fluorescent lights,drawing in the desperate,the ones who’d do anythingto stop dreaming. The waiting room smelled of lavenderand unspoken fear.Patients fidgeted, tapped fingers, shifted gazes.A woman clutched her purse, knuckles white:“Do
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The Fear Therapist His office whispered secretswith every creak of the floorboards.A rusted mask from a long-dead carnival,a glass jar filled with preserved insects —reminders of the fearsthat lurk just beneath the surface. “I trust you’re readyto confront your fears?” She shifted uneasily,fingers fidgetingwith the frayed hem of her sweater.“I’m not sure what you meanby
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The Hands As I gaze upon this weathered skin,I ponder when it all began,tracing a scar with a calloused touch,realizing how much I missed. How much. I know this like the back of my hand,an empty truth I understand,for I can’t recall when my hands changed,when the years rearranged. I remember when my grip was
The Basement DoorI painted it shut in the first year we moved in,three coats of latex over the jamb and the pinof the deadbolt that I locked from this side of the frame.The basement has its own weather, its own separate claimon the temperature that seeps through the floorboards at night,a cold that has intention,
