lines under the skin
branching to finger tips blue
let cold no further
writer, poet, creator
How does it work?
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.
More stories from Oliver Kipp and writers in Poets and other communities.
A strange sense of limbo exists in bus terminals, train stations, airports, a waiting in the between places. There belonging,
By Oliver Kipp5 years ago in Poets
I can’t remember the last time I truly said goodbye. Or if I ever did— when would have been the moment? Was it when I was sixteen,
By Natasha Collazo5 days ago in Poets
"I am not here to be measured... By your RULER. By your comfort. By your fear. By the reality you name and rename at will,
By Kristen Keenon Fisherabout 11 hours ago in Poets
I'm thirty-one and orbiting the same few mistakes like they're landmarks. London is already awake before I am (or before I've slept) - sirens somewhere far enough to ignore, buses sighing at stops, people moving with purpose I can't quite borrow. I lie there for a bit, tasting last night at the back of my throat, trying to remember if I meant to drink that much or if it just...happened again.
By Stacey Vellaa day ago in Psyche
Comments
There are no comments for this story
Be the first to respond and start the conversation.