Latest Stories

Most recently published stories in Poets.

Sometime I Daydream
Sometimes I daydream Live a second life Outside this world Not in reality But with real emotions Sometimes I cry Sometimes I laugh
By L.I.Eabout 11 hours ago in Poets
I Hate Love
I hate love.  I hate the way it builds you up just to leave you bleeding in the rubble.  The way it whispers promises  then vanishes without a trace,
By Isabella about 12 hours ago in Poets
Crippling Loneliness
The only one left to me Yet I long and strive in ever active hope cultivating harmonizing until she this ever present
By Sota Fukuzawaabout 14 hours ago in Poets
clouds
too real, whatever that means--clouds breaking over human endeavor
By Mark Francisabout 14 hours ago in Poets
This Much, This Far
I’m terrified of the day this house is quiet and I’m still young. I wouldn’t trade young motherhood for a few more years of being responsible
By Sara Elise MacDougall about 14 hours ago in Poets
The Long Dreaming
This poem is about human consciousness and the fact that we move through time without fully understanding it. ⭐✨🌟 Each day we wake, live for a number of hours,
By Tim Carmichaelabout 15 hours ago in Poets
Reflection on my tendencies, words, and the fear of impermanence
There are days (most of them I’ll be honest) that I wish you’d say I love you more, go out of your way to vocalize something
By Sara Elise MacDougall about 15 hours ago in Poets
Malachite Soul: The Art of Dancing Through Life
If you ask me what stone I am, I will not tell you I am granite. Granite is hard, unchanging, and cold. I am malachite. My soul spills from a deep green forest into the celestial blue of the ocean. I am a stone that breathes, that adapts to light and people, carrying romance and softness, but also an indestructible structure. Like a fish in the sea, I do not trudge through life – I dance. My strength is no longer in banging my head against a wall, but in that elegant movement with which I bypass obstacles. My adaptability is not a weakness; it is my supreme intelligence of survival.
By Magma Starabout 15 hours ago in Poets
The Window Facing Evening
Every evening, at almost the same hour, I sit beside the old window in the small room at the back of the house. The window is not large, and its wooden frame carries the marks of many seasons. The paint has faded slightly, and the glass holds faint scratches from years of wind and dust. Yet it is my favorite place in the house.
By storiesabout 15 hours ago in Poets
Full speed ahead
Full speed ahead. 0-0-0 A rotting ship that leaks. Listened to the side, mute. The canvas on the wall screams.
By Manuel C.about 15 hours ago in Poets
When the Peach Trees Bloom
I sit quietly at the entrance of the house in the early morning. The air is still cool, carrying the fading breath of winter. The garden is silent except for the distant sound of a bird greeting the day. In front of me stands the peach tree, thin branches stretching gently toward the pale sky. It does not look impressive at first glance. Its limbs twist in quiet patience, reaching above the red tiles of the roof, as if sketching a quiet picture against the morning light.
By storiesabout 15 hours ago in Poets
Split Personality
Split Personality I say I’m fine and mean it then feel the cold hit later when no one’s around I dance in rooms I hate
By George’s Girl 2026 about 16 hours ago in Poets