She Looked Up I said it was just blue just space but she stood barefoot staring and grinning like it meant something. then the sky turned pink the clouds froze the sun held still like it knew her name. And for the first time I believed the sky might actually be watching her.

bite the wild in me, and let it devour you back

✍️✨OUT NOW ON AMAZON✨✍️ "The Bourbon Psalms" A debut poetry collection by Chris Robinson @Prison_yard_DMs Take a look at the first review below 👇

✍️✨OUT NOW ON AMAZON✨✍️ "The Bourbon Psalms" A debut poetry collection by Chris Robinson @Prison_yard_DMs First review below 👇 by J.Hutchinson, UK. #WritingCommunity #poetrycommunity

The silence Once, even hunger had a music. Now it’s just static. You catch your reflection and don’t bother looking twice. Used to be, that meant something. Ambivalence isn’t pain. No. it is quieter than that. more insidious. You fade into the dark with the body forgetting

The Stories We Tell I thought I knew. I had stories for everything, lined up in my head like bottles on a shelf. An innocuous comment, an insecurity, a tightness in my chest. I said it all meant something. But I was too far ahead, playing out moves in a game no one else was in.

The Trade She wanted truth, but truth is heavy. I gave her weight. Freedom costs something, so I severed her wings. Horns grew back, because you fly or you fight. She learned that. So did I.

I couldnt be more proud to have contributed to a community of writers that has given me so much.

the no it doesn’t matter if she meant it softly or tried to spare me, the weight was still crushing. the body recoils, only feels the sting and the silence that follows after someone shuts you down. you breathe, pretending it’s fine, but the truth is you’d rather be punched

Born burning I was built on the edge of a fuse. the first sound I learned was the hum before something breaks. Anger isn’t a visitor in me it’s the language my nerves chose when they couldn’t find words for doubt. I use it to move, to light dark rooms where calm men wait for

The mimic some write from the vantage of who they want to be, not who they are. they so badly want to sound like those who clawed their way through the sand, but with clean hands and quiet nights. so they take what isn't theirs. a voice isn’t stolen. it’s carved in you, burned

the disconnect she’s told whatever she gives is enough. he’s told whatever he gives is the bare minimum. she decides what she’ll offer and what he owes. if he asks for more he’s selfish, controlling, nothing is ever enough. if she asks for more she’s honest, speaking her truth,

when I came back she was naked and I was envious so I took her face into my hands and destroyed everything in her that I wished I was.

the paved road one day you wake up and even the rebels look the same. the writers lose their edges as the machine smooths every word until nothing cuts. fashion repeats. voices copy voices. risk dies quietly under the weight of what sells. success shrinks to a formula. follow

So excited, not long now!! #WritingCommunity #authors #writing #poetry #love #life #publishing #editor @Prison_yard_DMs

Coming this Autumn, the debut Poetry collection from poet and author @Prison_yard_DMs #WritingCommunity #poetry #authors #poems #life #love #writing

Dormant under my skin there’s a thing with teeth listening. I feed it silence and a shrug at the small stuff. I let the world take its little cuts. I tell myself what doesn’t matter the traffic, the lies, the thousand paper cuts. but the beast is patient. it counts every crack.

the hunt she waited. eyes low like she knew what was coming. her breath hitched as if she was cornered prey. she arched. let out a snarl caught in the back of her throat between pleasure and pain. the thrill was always the chase. the kill was just ceremony.