I step out into the light.
It's been a hard night;
Cigarette in hand,
Smoke in mouth—
I exhale and let it all out.
The blood on my shirt won't go away, no matter how many times I wash my face. This feeling of numbness;what happened to that thrill, that heart beat that rattles my ribcage and deafens my ears, that reverberates through my body, soul and mind—what happens?
I put down the cigarette and stomped it into the ground. This is the last line, I'll quit tonight; I say as I pull another cigarette out and light.
#poetry
When I stare out at the sea and nothing but waves collide between me and that ever glowing horizon, that bleeds a warming feeling of sunshine and glee, that reminds me of the one I love; it's you and me.
By Hailee
𝑻𝒉𝒆 𝑵𝒊𝒈𝒉𝒕 𝒕𝒉𝒆 𝑩𝒆𝒂𝒔𝒕 𝑭𝒆𝒍𝒍 𝑺𝒊𝒍𝒆𝒏𝒕
There are nights
when the beast does not pace.
No claws upon the long stone corridors of my ribs.
No restless breath fogging the cold glass of memory.
No low thunder stirring in the marrow
like a storm seeking something left to break.
Tonight—
there is only quiet.
Not peace.
Never peace.
But a stillness so profound
it feels like the hour after a cathedral has burned,
when the smoke hangs in the air
and even the ashes seem to remember
what once stood there.
The beast is awake.
I know this
because I can feel him
in that hollow chamber beneath the heart
where the relics of old wounds are kept
like cursed heirlooms.
But he does not rise.
He does not bare his teeth
at the ghosts that pass through the walls of memory.
He simply lies there.
Heavy.
Watching.
As though the long violence of survival
has finally begun to weigh upon him.
For years he has guarded the gates of my life—
fangs drawn against betrayal,
claws sharpened on the bones of abandonment.
He has roared when the world came too close.
He has torn at the dark
when sorrow tried to swallow us whole.
Many nights
he saved us.
But not without cost.
There are wounds
that were not given by enemies.
There are scars
left behind by the beast himself.
Rage does not always choose its direction wisely.
And tonight—
perhaps for the first time—
he remembers that.
The chamber within my ribs is thick with it.
Not fury.
Not hunger.
Something quieter.
Something heavier.
Regret.
The beast lowers his great head to the stone of the dark,
breath slow,
eyes reflecting the pale lanterns of memory.
He sees the nights he struck too quickly.
The moments when the storm inside him
became a danger to more than ghosts.
The damage done
in the name of survival.
And so tonight
he does not rage.
He does not pace the iron halls of the ribs
searching for enemies to tear apart.
He listens.
To the breathing of the dark.
To the slow echo of his own heart.
As though he has finally understood
that the greatest battle
was never against the world beyond the cage.
It was here.
Within.
Where the monster and the man
have always shared the same bones.
The beast is not gone.
He never will be.
His teeth remain.
His strength remains.
But tonight
he lies still in the shadowed chamber
with something new stirring behind his ancient eyes.
Not defeat.
Not surrender.
Something far more terrible for a creature of storms.
Understanding.
And in that long, haunted silence
between heartbeat and memory,
the beast does something
he has never done before.
He bows his head
in the dark.
Dance clown—why has your smile faded: The red smeared down, the big red nose gone, the eyes show your frown; where have you gone silly dancing clown?
#poetrycommunity
The rain falls
And here I sit
Having no roof
With the world revolving around me
The rain falls
And here I lay
No bed made of hay
With the stars shining on me
The rain falls
And here I am
And here I'll remain
The fallen