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Midnight Writings

Posted by Rookie Wyze


Forum: Writing and Poetry

This is for people to share their poems, short stories, and other forms of writing. Stuck on writing? Need fresh ideas? Ask here. Share anything here. 

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Reply by Rookie Wyze


Slipping Through the Cracks
I mask myself with a thousand words, but you saw right through. Nobody else but me could understand the strong connection in the beginning. You lifted me up, and showed me a new world that I couldn’t yet understand.
I wasn’t ready to be shown the beauty that was held within you.
The vibrant radiance that beamed from your soul left me speechless. The smell of you still lingers in my memory, as does your touch still stain my skin. Your Calloused hands match your calloused soul.
Those bags under your eyes weren’t always there, yet they’re increasingly still getting darker.
We have never loved from a far. Always in close proximity to one another. two lost souls working their way through life with one another. It was destined to break.
Nevertheless, i stayed.
I always played in a minor tune, yet you always stayed in major. As much as they’re both beautiful in their own way, they clash when put together.
Kissing razors and singing lullabies. Hurting ourselves trying not to hurt one another. I slipped through the cracks in your mind, but you became easily stuck in mine.
Two different up bringings, and infinite outcomes to our lives separately.
You were always destined for greater things than i.
Hating me has helped you moved on, yet you’re still stuck on the same girl.
My toxicity,
Your rage,
And the stubbornness to forgive our parents; this is what lead to our downfall.

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Reply by Gareth the Poet


Way past the witching hour, the mind is still bouncing as the body fatigues. The coffee has run dry, and wave goodbye to insomnia as quietly it leaves. For time is upon me like a cat pouncing on a mouse, the yawns have produced a tear, outstretched arms reach for nothing of mine, the phsyical state is clear. A dream is calling like so many maternal seeking fawns, and yet I might stay awake, although slowly goes my sight, but this I do fake, the poet now sleeps. Goodnight.

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Reply by Shaunda


You play your Playstation and I'll play my music.

And yet I sit here...
You might coax a conversation from me. 
I might dangle a temptation in front of your eyes... a cheesecake.
But I still sit here...
The girl has your eyes, the boy has my temper, the baby has the best of both.
Again as they sleep we run to our fake realities, our peace of sanity, our pleasant prisons.
And again as always... I sit right here... 
So close, yet so far is across the room. I begin to wonder the whys. The soul screams inside...
But I still just sit right here...

WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO US! We used to raise hell! Now we raise children. We used to run the night! Now we run away to our devices! We feared NOTHING! Now we fear all we do in the sware of not being like our parents! The drugs, the booze, the chicks, the smoke drifting nights of lust filled sinful fantasies! Replaced with the huggs, the baby coos, the clock ticks, the sleepless nights of crying baby and child nightmares. 

We never thought the party would end... 
Funny how fast life in the fast lane really is....
I ponder this...
And wonder of all the what ifs...
And sit here still. 
A glance at you...
A passing kiss for my cheek on your way to the kitchen...
The baby starts crying and I realize...

I wouldn't change this shit for the world.

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Reply by bob e


o’dark thirty
october 2018

what happens at o’dark thirty
when midnight is hours past
and save for the light of a single lamp
the house is all dark and quiet
it's the time when you sit reading long into the night
and the words on each passing page fills your mind
with ideas images & thoughts that will last a lifetime
midnight- it may be the witching hour
but o’dark thirty- at least for matilda
is a time only dreamers know

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Reply by cxber_prxncess.exe


on thin lines, feeling myself fading like a light going dim. fading like the night sky on a warm summer night, fading. feelings running through my mind as i lie awake thinking. thin lines strung about my brain thoughts so simple yet so complex every thought gets deeper and more detailed. fading like an old drawing hung on the wall, ink fading away as it ages similar to thoughts of the mind. memories fading as my mind ages years of information fading away as time goes on. fading as the days pass, fading as minutes pass, seconds even. fading as writings you write and forget about but eventually find again years later and regret pouring your heart out into the single piece of paper thinking one day someone will find it and feel sympathy. fading as my mind slips into comas of sleep not remembering the day. fading as one does as years age you, fading away like everything else in the world.

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Reply by Katya Kisile


c and c and me and my life and my friends and my mum and dad and we're doing absolutely fine thank you very much

My parents moved here at the beginning of the year.

very exciting but I feel like my whole life is changing... not only
does it mean an additional hour on the commute each day but we've also
bought a house - a perfect little cottage with a garden.

I want to live here - I want to get out

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Reply by Tavyy


It has been more than million words of pain and hurt to describe how broken I was when he left.

And that was never close to the real pain I was suffering at that time. It was like, there was a gaping hole in my heart and I was sucked in. Waking up was the hardest because all the reality seemed so bleak and void and life was just a series of constant suffering. I  didn’t even want to wake up. What was the point of waking up knowing someone you loved and cherished will no longer be there for . Would no longer be that listening ear or your safe space . Yeah friends and family always try to make you feel better . Telling you that you are to good for him . He wasn’t worth it you can do better . But deep down you wonder why wasn’t I good enough what does she have that I don’t  why did he pick her over me ?   Questions we will never get the answers for or every real want to know 

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Reply by Erok Beifong 🤘🏾


It's sad people SEE LLC an think it's long live HE

but in REALITY a LLC is whats u NEED to start a COMPANY 

Get that generational wealth for your FAMILY

So ya can be FREE instead of making MONEY for a white man named STEVE

Now I know I'm young shit I'm ONLY twenty THREE

And I work for the white man but his name is TRAVIS

An I'm not EMBARRASSED to say I work 50 hour weeks most weeks cause that's the reason I don't stay at home with my PARENTS 

An although I don't live LAVISH like your favorite rappers an insta stars taking trips out to PARIS 

I can say this 16 a hour puts gas in my mini van an allows me to hit the store an get a hot SANDWICH 

so before ya speak down on those working HARD to provide for the ones dwelling in there HEART 

Remember every dog has its day and every race has its START


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Reply by brucewaynee


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Reply by slayter


I still think of you every night while i lie in bed

all the unspoken things, that i should have said but wrote down in this stupid notebook instead
i still wear your clothes and search for your scent in every thread.

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Reply by ☆ Bunny ☆


I'm no good at writing poetry but I LOVE reading it. I hope all u poets have a wonderful day 💗 💛 

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Reply by ThatOneWeirdBish



She walks to school the same path and the same place every day


She isn't here today

Is she here, no

She is back! But she is different, her skirt just reveals her thigh,
I see cuts, 
and blood.
I love her,


He walks to school the same path and the same place every day

I skipped a few classes
I hate my life,
I hate every thing 


and my knife on the floor
I cry


I went back today, on the same path and place
I saw him looking at me
I gulped back my tears 



She wasn't here


She wasn't here
In assembly I saw her. 
She was pale and transparent,
she was next to her friends,
The head clicked on a video
It was her
They pushed her


I was walking with my friends,
I told them
They recorded me,
They pushed me

I loved him
I hated me
But he loved me
and now I can't feel anything,
But sorrow and despair.

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Reply by marta


i want to be devoured, consumed

served on a silver platter like a pretty little birthday cake with a bow on top

then taken apart by calloused hands, observed and analyzed by cold, lifeless eyes that feel no sympathy for me

devoured by pointy teeth, mixing in with the aftertaste of whiskey and rum on their breath

somehow i know i'll end up as scraps on the floor of a slimy dimly lit building

hollow, spent, and with nothing left to give

but there'll be hands trying to take whatever they can, happy to eat from the floor as long as it means they get to have a taste

i always thought i'd be a willing participant, licking my blood of their fingers and begging for more of my own destruction

turns out im more of a witness, sitting there pliant, soft, ready to be molded into whatever their deepest, darkest desires are, until i'm no longer myself, no longer more than a combination of my mutilated parts, cut and reassembled again, but all wrong: my hands facing the wrong side, looking like someone who didn't know what a human was put it together with only their imagination to guide them

and when i read this out loud people will stare with a disgusted look in their eyes

but how can they be surprised when the girls they conditioned to love their own pain, to see parallels between a hand raised to punch them in the gut and a hand ready to pet them, soothing and tender and patronizing, develop a taste for their own blood ? 

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Reply by deaven <3



Creeping out of the coffin called home, the crimson seeping from the sky. I hear the howling of her heart and know I am not alone. The whispers scream at me, but still I don't listen. Turning to the dark I feel the tight grasp of her leaving me behind. I am settling into the world without her. But still, she lingers.

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Reply by Saturn


My sunshine 

Cascading light burning my eyes,

I cannot look away. 

My love for you is a blue sky,

You’re my golden rays.

I have emulated the perfect mirage;

The beauty of your visage, resounding.

Your touch makes my heart sear.

Your tender voice in my ear, astounding.

Your skin on mine brings the sun to life,

Igniting flames of passion, forelonging.

Bodies woven, I muse to be your wife,

Thus comes inquiry dawning.

The sun setting in the soul’s window,

Vivid crimson dancing through my sky.

Watch with me under the old willow;

I want you by my side.

Viewing our past through broken glass,

Sentiments imperceivable.

Terrified of what’s yet to pass,

I know catching sunlight’s achievable.

When night falls and we burn no longer,

When my apprehension starts to roam..

Shine through the dark and somber,

Hold me tight til you guide me home.

And oh blazing sun, on the days you burn,

All I ask is that you keep me warm.

Because as the days and seasons turn,

Our journey must come to transform.

So let me be your moon tonight, 

Let me be the night to your day?

Be my confidant, keep every secret locked away. Tell me the things you’re scared to say. 

Shining sun, my only one,

Would you be my other half?

I know that if you shine your best we can make this last.

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Reply by Onix


TW: Implied s*icide, alc*holism

Number Three by Onix

Here lies a family of four

Made up of three sons and a father

Number One was quiet, captivated by his own world made up of books and a thirst 
for knowledge, treating people like a game and their problems like puzzles,
he thought that whatever life throws at him, there would be a book to teach him 
how to deal with it.

Number Two was loud, because when quiet pleads were never heard, he found
yelling makes people listen, growing up slamming doors and pushing away the 
ones who care, he taught himself not to get to close, or you'll get hurt. Not to help others who have done nothing for you.

For now, we skip Number Three, because there is nothing to be said, a small boy 
made of fire and life, holding onto no worries but what game to play next.

Lastly, we meet the Father, a man who lost and gained so much in seconds, when
a family of five turns into a family of four, what else can you do but be consumed 
be grief, so he raises his sons from a distance, watching them grow and saying 
"I love you" at arm's length.

As time passes and children start to leave and hair starts to grey, 

We finally make out way to Number Three,

A young boy made of ash and pain, who learned to never speak, unless spoken
to, to keep your head down and maybe they won't notice you, a boy who grew up alone,
who never learned how to live because no one was there to teach him.

No one was there that night, no one was there to hear the muffled screams and cries, no one was there to stop him.

Here lies a family of four, 

Made up of broken parts, and held together by rusted nails,

It was only a matter of time before it collapsed,

Number One was angry, and for the first time in his life he was loud. Shattering glass 
against the wall and yelling until his throat begged him to stop, his world came clattering
down around him, because there was nothing the he could've learned that would've prepared him for this.

Number Two broke down and found his life at the bottom of a bottle, hoping that one day he could forgive himself for what happened, hoping that when he would pass out, he would be greeted, not by the bartender telling him to leave, but by his brother, until then he had nothing to do but take another shot.

The Father, who was already living in a world deprived of color, he never thought that it could get any darker, he cries, and screams, and begs for the pain to leave, but there is no one there to hear, except the walls of a empty house.

Here lies a family of four, now replaced with three broken men.

May they rest in peace.

(One of the first poems I wrote, I don't know if it's good or not, so if you have advice, I'll take it! Hope you liked it!)

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Reply by adam


here is a story i was working on for a writing competition, but hit writers block before i could finish it. 

'   I thought that killing her off would've made me feel better. I thought that it would fill me with a sort of confidence, or newfound respect for myself, whether it be faux or not. Although it disgusts me to look at the words I had written, and I find myself humiliated by the fact that I had written them, I read them continuously, the feeling of despair I get while reading them being addicting.


   An ugly green shag carpet covers the floors of my bedroom, my office. In front of my desk is a Fleetwood Mac poster. I like to believe that it makes the room more comfortable; more like a home. Yet, the room hadn't been the issue. It hadn't been what I was writing. It hadn't been the noises, or anything, surrounding me. What had been driving me mad was myself. I had became my own madness.


   The dirty moss color of the carpet had seemingly followed me into my kitchen, as I begin to heat a meal for myself. I find myself attracted to the heat and fire of the old stovetop, the way a moth may be to a lightbulb. Though I tell that the enthusiasm I feel is fake, I find myself thrilled to have the chance of living the life I am now, and to have taken such a chance. 


   I hate the way I have made myself.

   I, myself have blended my own parallels between right and wrong. I've began to believe that abnormal scenarios are normal. All of my thinking has been flipped on its' head, and I no longer fit what I used to be; what I should be. I am not myself. 


   Sometimes I like to believe that somebody is making me feel the ways I do; that I'm not at fault for what I have became, that all that has happened to me is due to an external force. That the reason all I see is only an idea of a person, a concept of a person, whenever I see my own reflection is due to someone else's input on my life. Although, I had found that I had danced too close to the fire, and I had nobody to blame but myself. Nobody was there to have a chance of keeping me still, keeping me sane. 


   I begin to feel ill reading the words I had written only a few seconds before, the descriptions of dark red blood and weapons used to murder people beginning to churn my stomach. Seeing what I had written makes me feel worthless, like dirt. It makes me hate what I was, what I had became; what I had decided to do with my life.


   I have began to spurn my own emotions. Though I knew love was fleeting, I had found myself feeling no love towards anything I previously had. Anything I had once felt strongly about, whether it be positive or negative, I now feel nothing towards. My thoughts and feelings that were once active parts of myself, are now secluded from the world; secluded from society. Secluded from the only people who had ever once cared about me.'

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Reply by JPYCE


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Reply by ghost girl


there for me

in all of my dark lonely nights, when i felt dead inside,

you promised you'd be there for me

and you were there for me

but now i drink too much and my eyes cry floods,

you promised you'd be there for me,

but you weren't there for me

if you could go back in time when i thought we were fine,

would you still promise you'd be there for me

and then not be there for me?

now i'm starting to feel better and i'm writing you a letter,

you promised you'd be there for me,

but i don't want you there for me

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Reply by Föxxyy!



(Written in 11/23/21)

Anything could happen everyday

Everyone has a story in their own way.

Everyday, the sun rises and then the moon

Everyday, time on the clock is ticking too

Everyday, the living come and go

Everyday, flowers bloom and grow

Everyday, birds sing their beautiful song

Everyday, the sky is almost blue all day long

Everyday has a new experience

Everyday, there are sounds or just silence

Everyday, we get to learn something brand new

Everyday, there's challenges that we go through

Everyday, we work and play

Everyday when the sun sets, we hit the hay

Everyday can also be a mystery

Everyday becomes history.

And the Earth spins just like a top

But it will never stop

Everyday, things around us change, but life still goes on.

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Reply by br33zzz <3


br33zzz <3

Who am I – poem


Who ARE you?

Are you the way your mother scolds and screams at you when

shattered the cookie jar?

It falling off of that shelf
that surpasses you but not your father.

Are you the over-seasoned,
burnt, and brittle food which she cooks.

You scowl at it while she serves it to you on a plate,

but you still gobble every bite.

Are you the knots your father leaves in your hair?

When tugging and pulling on the strands.


As you grow taller and taller and taller.

Soon YOU surpass the shelf and are now at your father’s

You look down while skywards and see yourself.

Minuscule, innocent, dirty and scuffed knees from playing in
the dirt.


You look down, from your father’s height and see broken
glass surrounding

a child’s fragile skin. Skin that if you saw harmed,

would make you weep,

like angels in heaven watching you commit a sin.


You look down, from your
father’s height and see a mother. Whom

 through the pitch black smog of hard labor
cannot see the over-seasoned,

 burnt, and brittle food which she cooks.

You look down, from your
father’s height and see a little girl

 Who retreats to her room, clings to her pillow
and cries.

Her hair is kinky and rough,
filled with

texture and culture unlike
the other little girls at school.

 So, her father patiently combs through her
curls as she sits on the living room floor

And he will not leave until
her hair is fetching, delightful and charming like the other girls.


You look down, from your
father’s height and see

A father and a mother. Who
would go hungry giving every

 crumb on their plate to their daughter.

Whom would rip themselves
open, to get a gold necklace tangled around their heart

For their child if she thought
it was pretty.

To see her smile, to hear
her laughter, sews them back together again.

And fills their bellies with

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Reply by wagonman



Wet like paint can't dry in the rain

Paint smudged over need a fresh coat

Artist with brush feels my pain

The canvas they see they loath

Still the canvas gets soaked in blood stains

One day will shine I hope

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