Aug 1st


By Arik Fletcher

A picture speaks a thousand words and words can paint a scene,
Alas when put together they are often stuck between,
For beauty in a work of art need never be defined,
Nor should the deepest words be shaped or in a frame confined.

This is but my opinion though it has been shared by some,
That words alone should be enough for poets yet to come,
For images can set a tone not found within the verse,
As words in turn change context and more often for the worse.

It is a modern folly to combine these works of art,
As in so doing meanings change and truth will fade in part,
For each must take its audience into a private dream,
Where they can seek what meaning their own heart and soul can gleam.

So heed my call dear poets and refrain from present form,
Allow your work to find a voice within the growing storm,
Your ink can tell a story without need for sketch or picture,
And you in turn will better write without this ill thought mixture.

Jul 27th


By Dori Wheeler

She wasn't dealt a royal flush
Drugs and alcohol stole her blush
Haunted by life, praying to die
They misconstrued the reasons why
Death was her friend, her lover too
Suspending in dusk, there to woo
Taunting desires, endless needs
Captivating and sowing seeds
Dance in seclusion, shades of night
Clandestine meetings, far from light
Anticipation, what will be?
Wicked enchanter, sets her free
She slipped away holding his hand
The pain now over, life's demand
Suspended in dusk, through the veil
With sheer delight, final exhale
No worries of those left behind
Eyes wide open, yet they were blind
Keep your flowers, it's way too late
No mournful tears can compensate
Where were you in her solitude?
Claiming it was but attitude
Haunted now by September sun
It's too late, what's done is done....

Jul 21st

Blackened Night

By Depth Writer

The illusion is shallow, un-moving, unaware,

but its edges are distinct and forebearing in hastes doorstep.


Ago's coffin half buried in moss lined tomb, enshrined in cerise

and pale pink lashes. Such beauty surely must exist. Even in darkness.


Ballerinas glide and soar across slippery floor. Just as they've always done. Yet, everyone hungers for the leap of fate to surcomb their paths.





Jul 20th

No Repeat

By Arik Fletcher

Real music is emotion,

Raw feelings from within,

A glimpse into a dark soul,

Exposed with every spin.


Each song is a reflection,

Of secret thoughts and dreams,

A story with true meaning,

Between the words and screams.


Deep lyrics are addictive,

A drug we must consume,

They cling to every dark note,

That calls us to our doom.


Each melody is sacred,

Despite what chart it tops,

And we will sing the chorus,

Until the music stops.

Jul 20th


By Dori Wheeler

Waning moon submits to twilight
There is no primal fight or flight
This is when magic transpires
My body aches, it requires...
I scream aloud without a sound
Unrighteous tease, for I am bound
Quivers from your salacious touch
You shall never be way too much...
Innuendo with just a glance
Wild in the wind, take that chance
Sweet surrender in Venus dew
Incantation, a bit taboo...
Bodies entwined ignite the skies
Illuminate like fireflies
Impotent thoughts of turning back
Clenching my nails, under attack...
Wild in the wind, let it be
As dawn arises, you shall see
You and I can be nevermore
It's late my love, I've had the tour...


Jul 16th

I. O. T.

By Depth Writer

Time is an illusion. It has never existed, but in the minds of keepers, who invest their lives daily in our existence. You see, they needed an equation, an object to disclose a 'way of life' and in this, they performed and endured daily numbers to equate seconds, minutes and hours. Soon all of this led to days, weeks, months, years, decades and of course, centures, but still it is wasted away. There is never enough to distinquish between the other. Is there? Or have you deciphered the tones to replay continuously into your own lives?

Jul 13th


By Dori Wheeler


Without fail, she adorns her mask
It truly is a daunting task
Fearing people will see within
As if conducing mortal sin
Unable to see her appeal
Carnal passion she yearns to feel
No Prince Charming to the rescue
Fairy tales are the Devil's due
A citadel surrounds her heart
Affected from the very start
Bohemian with wander lust
She leaves her suitors in the dust
Raven locks and emerald eyes
Captivating to her demise
So agonizing in her skin
Wonders if she'll ever win
Reflective night scenes, all alone
Time to uproot her comfort zone
She's resourceful, plenty of tricks
May be time to tear down bricks
Bid farewell to the saline streams
Time to embrace some gypsy dreams
No longer in need of disguise
Bewitching woman, oh so wise...


Jul 8th


By Depth Writer

I have slumbered and slept for a decade

Because, you remind me of the Autumn,

your hair spins webs of gray around stemmed

tree trunks and those eyes, they sparkle like

stars above our faces.

As high, as one can see without touching, the sky

blazes around ago and reaches for afar and ever-more.

But the edges of petals bleed of charcoal and blackened

nights where daytime should be. It is the moon that pales

to its knees when the sun appears, as if, to worship the

warmth etched upon your own skin. 


Jul 6th


By Depth Writer

Are you a believer of ups and downs and all-arounds?

Do you feel the heat of sun, as it softly warms the pores of skin and multiplies the ground below?

Can you imagine the persistence, people endured as they carefully cultivated the ink, as they delicately laid it to rest in a well of charcoal?


All around are the pores of nature, the faucets of endless spigots, the entire world at odds over? What?

I ask you to open your mind, unlock your most inner thoughts, to pull from the inside and paint what is before you.

Around, below, charcoal, what, you

All ground over before

And wells at odds is

Down in a world, we attempt to paint

Up at rest- entirety, inside believers laid spigots inside

A skin delicately - endless, to pull from

I ask have ya seen the inside of a yolk? Noticed its substance after the death, before the birth of chick?

I wonder if, you can accomplish such simple tasks?

Jul 6th


By Depth Writer

Old friends

Girls and boys

Bouncing from soil to shore

Touching tightropes and strength

Dawn blinded by moonlit memories

Racing through an illusion

Burying thoughts in sea bottles

Darkness swimming within artifact

Old girls and graceless aorta

Consume thy being, hunger its lips



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