Yesterday, burglars attacked me
snuck in through my navel
slithered through the gaps under the door of my mind
tromped over and intruded my body
a heist of calm state and innocence
captured my breath, tamed my soul
ruptured my walls and windows,
cracks turned into sinkholes
aggressively pulling out my innards
my hefty veins
intermittently becoming violet and blue and violent
my heart was in a drag race,
in synch with my fingers
trembling of turbulence
but my brain is out of place
creeping in a fast-paced city
and I hear the world blowing their horns at me
when I’m at a march towards an imminent doom
deliverance comes in tiptoe
growing frail,
I gave birth to torment and fright
expelled the daze, exhaled the haze
my soul escaped, my breath smothered them
tomorrow is never an assurance
but I made it today

First published on by Eli…

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Loud as Love – Chris Nelson

Sing it loud

Sing it clear

From the rooftops

Through the tears

Lift your voice

Let it roar

The heavens shake

Still no more

Scream your name

Let it sound

Like thundered skies

Silent ground

Loud as love

Whispered words

Moving mountains

Seldom heard

Cry it loud

Let it ring

The love you have

To make me sing.


© All original writing copyright Chris Nelson 2018


If you enjoyed this, thank you! To read more please visit chrisnelson61

Anachronistic Rant – A.G. Diedericks


History void of sapience

I am the spectre

of regurgitated fallacy

I carve the crevice

in impregnable absolutes

The blood-spatter in the crevasse

of your ice sculpture

Where i birth postmodernism

and cut off the crimson springs

of solipsism

Children raised by the idiot box

extinction of libraries

words replaced by letters

A climate change

bonfire of trees

A nation impeached

acclimation to a blue bird’s speech

Hubris draped in white cloth

the sloth that doth not protest

Suffragettes suffocating

for egalitarianism

Robots dictate pedestrians

look to your alt-left

look to your alt-right

I know where i left my keys

can you help me find

my fucking mind?


people are busy doing chores and doing harm
running into and over
vacuuming and sweeping their lives
under the carpet
devouring the world’s resources and
their prey in one bite
hurting their children
losing their sense of duty, weight and battles
dragging their voids like wounded animals
diving in the shallow waters
raping my brain
wasting my time

I have been here before
I have seen
I have done
I know this man, his cat, his wife’s lover, their neighbor’s gun.
I know this life. This world. This moment. Frozen in time.
This overlapping of events. Repetition of sounds.
I am already gone
empty spaces echo with my shouts.


*You can read more of Bojana’s work at Blogging with Bojana

Introducing Samantha Rose ~ Chasing Ghosts

Rose-gold sunbeams set the autumn trees ablaze

under skies consumed by the pouring rain,

mind obscured in a silver haze.


I search for glimpses in the rearview mirror

and hold open the palms of my hand out the window

hoping to catch drops of nostalgia


that quench my soul like water.

I see drive by memories

strewn apart by the wind


and buried deep in muddy waters.

They swirl apart the tattered pages in my mind

but dissipate quickly on the tongue.


I try to capture phantoms in a glass bottle

but memories are not wine,

they don’t get richer as they age.


They haunt me,

and as seasons die

I try to dig up their bodies –


forever left

chasing ghosts.


© Copyright Samantha Rose 2018

You can catch more of Samantha existing at her blog, Existential Poetry.

The Library Bandit – A.G. Diedericks

She’s the clandestine love child
of Plath and Poe
Where it is dark
Her words will glow

You’ll catch her on every
Library’s most wanted list;
Armed with a loaded lexicon
Her paper cuts plagiarists
Nuances ciphered in arcane;
She transfigures
into the Bibliophile’s Cocaine

A Bonnie liberated
from Clyde
Enslaved by her soul..
She struts like a wildfire
at the ball of a debutante
Oh, the devil knows
she’s no dilettante

The pyrotechnics of her chaos
rendered the sun jaundiced
She surfs on tsunamis
and dances with tornados
Ravenous hurricanes hunt
to copyright her name

She pays the poet
with liquidated journals
of iridescent nightmares
& cremated reveries;
scattering her history
in depths of poetry

Her misdemeanors articulates
in solitude;
Where she silences her demons
Hush, it’s story time..
A martyr for literature;
She fights for that killer hook
that forces the page to turn..
For she’s the book
that you’ll never return.

Fire Beats Ice (Memory of a Girl I Knew)

Existential Poetry

She walks along the somber path by the light of the moon, chasing snowflakes with her umber eyes. She’s careful as she trudges across the frozen ground, so as not to lose her ever so intentional footing. She doesn’t normally get along with the cold, but she knows she needs to get out, to escape, to let the breeze find and untangle her elusive string of never ending thoughts. Snow paints the tips of her curly midnight hair, which bounces with every springy step she takes. She presses on, one step after another, crushing the ice beneath her feet and leaving a trail of glittering footsteps behind her.

You’d never meet someone as warm as she, though you may have to search the deep fires of her soul to find it. Others, those who are cold like the ground she walks upon, have a way of freezing the outer layers of sensitive hearts…

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Guest Feature: Recovery Looks a Lot Like Picking Up a Paintbrush~Samantha Rose

My skin isn’t paper
But that doesn’t stop me from carving the weight of the world
Into my wrists,
Crimson blood tiger stripes

Or from ripping apart the pages of a story
I never asked to be in
Don’t judge a book by its coverup
That is, pant legs and long sleeves

And betting on depression
Is like gambling with slits instead of slots,
The butterflies in my stomach
Are wingless wasps

But sometimes, scars do fade
And one day when I picked up a paintbrush
My story came back to me,
One letter at a time

And I saw my skin was flecked with gold instead of blood
The punctured veins on my hands became sapphire cracks
Ochre and acrylics filled my broken lungs
Instead of black tar and mothballs

And now, when I say my skin is a canvas
I mean to say
Not that I bleed in vivid color
But that I have paint running through my veins,

And you may often find me sketching ink roses on my wrists
And walking tightropes of guitar strings and poetry ~


*You can read more of Samantha Rose’s work on
Existential Poetry