Prose
The Weight of Nothing, Something
Darkness, impenetrable intangible, casts its unrelenting shadow over me. Reprieve and relief have become obscure ideals, experiential relics of a past the memory of which slowly dissipates into nothing. People tend to misunderstand nothing. In its own cruel way, nothing is something. When it's your only something, you cling to it as I cling to it. I've long forgotten what it felt like to have something—anything worthy of pride and a sense of achievement. “True hope... is swift." "True hope is swift... and flies with swallow's wings. Kings it makes gods and meaner creatures kings." What is hope?
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
Write What Disturbs You. AI-Generated.
Introduction Writing is an act of courage. It's easy to write about the beautiful and the simple, but the real power lies in exploring what disturbs you. Those uncomfortable truths, hidden fears, and unresolved emotions are the threads of authenticity that make your writing come alive.
By Usama Shahidabout a year ago in Poets
Hoar Frost and Husky
Author Note: One of winter's beauties is the intricate crystals--called hoarfrost--that form on branches, wires, poles, and other things. Hoarfrost could be called a wintertime cousin to summer's dew. It forms when water vapor in the air contacts solid surfaces that are already below freezing point. Immediately on contact, ice crystals form, and the ice continues to grow as more water vapor is frozen. The Arctic frequently has perfect conditions.
By Andrea Corwin about a year ago in Poets
Frost's Grasp
Dear, whomever this letter reaches, In the desperation, last ditched notion of legacy, I wrote it. I want to remember, to hold onto the feeling of the quiet cold of the world awakening and the bite across my bare pale flesh as the sun shines, though its power is bereft and left us. I sit and ponder existence, purchase and agency as my skin becomes taut and blemished by the pierce of the frozen, meeting the warmth that still pumps through my body. The frost has taken its grip at Jack Frost’s behest. When you channel power toward a cause—one you have no reason to belong to—do you truly have agency? Especially when Jack’s bitter hand rests on your shoulder, promising a better future than the past you’ve endured.
By Paul Stewartabout a year ago in Poets
