Narrative Poems
#narrative
Narrative poetry is a style of poetry which tells a story. Narrative poems aim to draw the reader into the imagination of the author, to immerse them in the story being told. Narrative poems are usually written in metered verse, but do not have to follow any particular rhythmic pattern.
Indie
Miss Indie
Miss Indie
Poem Published
26th Apr 2025 4:35am
26th Apr 2025 4:35am
how to steal a necklace
One
The first thing to remember
is that here
everyone is out for themselves
altruism doesn't exist
nothing is for free
Everytime I stay to drink
smoke free weed
I know I'll end up
in someone's bed
Getting off is never a guarantee
and I don't generally care
as long as I can get high
space out
spin out
laugh into the abyss
as my reflection shoots me
confused glances in a filmy mirror
Here I'm not really me
here I'm not really anyone
here I'm a version of...
The first thing to remember
is that here
everyone is out for themselves
altruism doesn't exist
nothing is for free
Everytime I stay to drink
smoke free weed
I know I'll end up
in someone's bed
Getting off is never a guarantee
and I don't generally care
as long as I can get high
space out
spin out
laugh into the abyss
as my reflection shoots me
confused glances in a filmy mirror
Here I'm not really me
here I'm not really anyone
here I'm a version of...
#memories
#narrative
81 reads
2 Comments
doreenheimer
Aether
Aether
Poem Published
19th Apr 2025 5:20pm
19th Apr 2025 5:20pm
Entry 3
I’ve seen friends go mad trying to fight these beasts.
I’ve seen comrades tear gas-blind, screaming at riot shields.
I’ve seen friends vanish into the psych wards and come back stitched together wrong.
I’ve seen kids in drag beaten by priests.
I’ve seen anarchists arrested for throwing a single rock,
while fascist militias march in broad daylight with iron crosses and icons held high.
At some point, you stop asking questions like
"Is it getting better?"
or
"Will voting change it?"
And you start asking...
I’ve seen comrades tear gas-blind, screaming at riot shields.
I’ve seen friends vanish into the psych wards and come back stitched together wrong.
I’ve seen kids in drag beaten by priests.
I’ve seen anarchists arrested for throwing a single rock,
while fascist militias march in broad daylight with iron crosses and icons held high.
At some point, you stop asking questions like
"Is it getting better?"
or
"Will voting change it?"
And you start asking...
#memories
#myself
#narrative
#nonfiction
#prose
55 reads
0 Comments
doreenheimer
Aether
Aether
Poem Published
19th Apr 2025 5:16pm
19th Apr 2025 5:16pm
Entry 2
There are things I still don’t know how to write about.
Not because I don’t remember them—but because memory feels too small for what they carry.
I was only a child in 2008, but I remember the sounds.
The deep, mechanical thunder of tanks rolling through Gori hills.
Russian ones, crawling like steel insects across the land, dragging fear behind them like smoke.
Mother told me not to look, but I did anyway.
I had to.
Some part of me, only being nine years old, already knew—I needed to remember what war looked like if I was going to survive in the shadow...
Not because I don’t remember them—but because memory feels too small for what they carry.
I was only a child in 2008, but I remember the sounds.
The deep, mechanical thunder of tanks rolling through Gori hills.
Russian ones, crawling like steel insects across the land, dragging fear behind them like smoke.
Mother told me not to look, but I did anyway.
I had to.
Some part of me, only being nine years old, already knew—I needed to remember what war looked like if I was going to survive in the shadow...
#memories
#myself
#narrative
#nonfiction
#prose
54 reads
0 Comments
doreenheimer
Aether
Aether
Poem Published
18th Apr 2025 12:12pm
18th Apr 2025 12:12pm
Entry 1
I never quite know how to start these things.
For all the hours I've spent alone with notebooks and loose scraps of thought, non-fiction—if that’s even what this counts as—has never been my strength.
This isn’t a memoir. It’s not an autobiography. And it sure as hell isn’t a diary. But I digress.
I’m just some punk in my late twenties, born and raised in Georgia, right by the seaside banks of Batumi.
Living in what I often call a post-Soviet dystopia, something I’ve repeated many times to my comrade Marsy—more about them soon.
Like any proper Anarchist,...
For all the hours I've spent alone with notebooks and loose scraps of thought, non-fiction—if that’s even what this counts as—has never been my strength.
This isn’t a memoir. It’s not an autobiography. And it sure as hell isn’t a diary. But I digress.
I’m just some punk in my late twenties, born and raised in Georgia, right by the seaside banks of Batumi.
Living in what I often call a post-Soviet dystopia, something I’ve repeated many times to my comrade Marsy—more about them soon.
Like any proper Anarchist,...
#memories
#myself
#narrative
#nonfiction
#prose
90 reads
1 Comment
Ashtal_Leb_Azure
Poem Published
3rd Apr 2025 11:28am
3rd Apr 2025 11:28am
Carol of the Creator
(Hush, hush—do not call,)
(Hush, hush—do not fall,)
(Still your breath, still your step,)
(Lest they wake and take you yet.)
They who carved the sky from ink,
Set the sun and stars to sink,
Spun the thread and wove the lines,
Wrote the names and shaped the words.
(Hush, hush—do not gaze,)
(Hush, hush—shun their praise,)
(Turn your eyes, bow your head,)
(Tread too close, you’ll join the dead.)
Words unspoken, worlds unseen,
Maps erased and hands wiped clean,
They who build and they who rend,
Minds...
(Hush, hush—do not fall,)
(Still your breath, still your step,)
(Lest they wake and take you yet.)
They who carved the sky from ink,
Set the sun and stars to sink,
Spun the thread and wove the lines,
Wrote the names and shaped the words.
(Hush, hush—do not gaze,)
(Hush, hush—shun their praise,)
(Turn your eyes, bow your head,)
(Tread too close, you’ll join the dead.)
Words unspoken, worlds unseen,
Maps erased and hands wiped clean,
They who build and they who rend,
Minds...
#death
#God
#horror
#narrative
#rhyming
61 reads
0 Comments
Mercurial
Poem Published
18th Mar 2025 7:38pm
18th Mar 2025 7:38pm
Little Spark
I see you my love, here from above,
My energy coursing through, there's nothing to do,
Im your life and strife,
I know your pain and joy.
We were together deep in the fabric of time,
Making our story together in space,
The little whispers we experienced,
Left a trace along the path we created.
I saw everything in you, and you in me,
I couldn't do anything so i created you,
My angelic necessity from the centre of my heart,
From the light that glows in and echoes from eternity.
You are my little spark, we ride...
My energy coursing through, there's nothing to do,
Im your life and strife,
I know your pain and joy.
We were together deep in the fabric of time,
Making our story together in space,
The little whispers we experienced,
Left a trace along the path we created.
I saw everything in you, and you in me,
I couldn't do anything so i created you,
My angelic necessity from the centre of my heart,
From the light that glows in and echoes from eternity.
You are my little spark, we ride...
#dawn
#inspirational
#narrative
115 reads
0 Comments
Pishashee
Poem Published
6th Mar 2025 9:49pm
6th Mar 2025 9:49pm
A Writer
A willingness to sit with truth—
to name the shame,
to name the silence—
is a testament to bravery.
Here, in the marrow of unspoken things,
is where the most powerful writing lives:
not in the shouting,
not in the chaos,
but in the quiet reckoning.
In the way ink bleeds truth
onto the pages.
to name the shame,
to name the silence—
is a testament to bravery.
Here, in the marrow of unspoken things,
is where the most powerful writing lives:
not in the shouting,
not in the chaos,
but in the quiet reckoning.
In the way ink bleeds truth
onto the pages.
#mystery
#narrative
103 reads
0 Comments
MalcolmG
Poem Published
5th Mar 2025 00:47am
5th Mar 2025 00:47am
SHATTERED & UNNAMED
Who am I?
Not formed of parts,
but a fracture,
splintered by the weight of forgotten names,
the weight of nothing.
An assembly of fragments
swallowed by echoes,
sunk into the hollow of things never spoken.
TIME, split by fire, veins dripping with prophecy,
shivering in the hollow,
a forgotten scream,
shouting at empty rooms
(what have we become? WHAT?)
THE BODY, bent under the weight of hunger,
muscles wrapped in rust,
aching for truth
that is never here.
DESIRE, liquid and restless, ...
Not formed of parts,
but a fracture,
splintered by the weight of forgotten names,
the weight of nothing.
An assembly of fragments
swallowed by echoes,
sunk into the hollow of things never spoken.
TIME, split by fire, veins dripping with prophecy,
shivering in the hollow,
a forgotten scream,
shouting at empty rooms
(what have we become? WHAT?)
THE BODY, bent under the weight of hunger,
muscles wrapped in rust,
aching for truth
that is never here.
DESIRE, liquid and restless, ...
#narrative
#SelfReflection
#TruthOfLife
107 reads
3 Comments
fianaturie8
Fia Naturie
Fia Naturie
Poem Published
17th Jan 2025 7:46pm
17th Jan 2025 7:46pm
Life Lesson Part 7 UK (f**king Ang)
It has been a while since I wrote a life lesson. I want to remind you that the year is 1989. I just made it back to the UK because my mother was not in the mood to deal with me.
I believe it was a chance for her to get her groove on without prying eyes.
My sister and I have been in the UK for over a week, and I started to feel…antsy. I wondered what David was up to.
I called the number he gave me the last time I was here, and his mum answered. Why did I call?
“Hello, is David home?” I asked
...
I believe it was a chance for her to get her groove on without prying eyes.
My sister and I have been in the UK for over a week, and I started to feel…antsy. I wondered what David was up to.
I called the number he gave me the last time I was here, and his mum answered. Why did I call?
“Hello, is David home?” I asked
...
#narrative
235 reads
11 Comments
fianaturie8
Fia Naturie
Fia Naturie
Poem Published
13th Jan 2025 2:25am
13th Jan 2025 2:25am
Sunday Night
You are my Sunday night.
Monday begins a grind of necessity.
Tuesday are meeting ‘s of improbabilities
Wednesday is the hump that is starting to maim
Thursday is the breaking point of talking in vain
Friday is the day that will relieve some stress
Saturday waking up in a tangled mess
Sunday night is where my heart lies
Staring and knowing I will continue...
Just as you look at me that way...
with those eyes.
Monday begins a grind of necessity.
Tuesday are meeting ‘s of improbabilities
Wednesday is the hump that is starting to maim
Thursday is the breaking point of talking in vain
Friday is the day that will relieve some stress
Saturday waking up in a tangled mess
Sunday night is where my heart lies
Staring and knowing I will continue...
Just as you look at me that way...
with those eyes.
#narrative
254 reads
16 Comments
Betty
Poem Published
27th Dec 2024 4:16pm
27th Dec 2024 4:16pm
In a world of Juliets, call me Lady Macbeth
I had to sub a Sophomore Lit class
when the professor was out
with COVID
And my inner literary snob
screamed a thousand
deaths when the 20-year-old zygotes
romanticized about
Romeo and Juliet.
I smiled and fluttered
my eyelashes
and smashed those
cute little bitches
who thought they
invented thought
with actual arrogance.
You see children,
Shakespeare...
when the professor was out
with COVID
And my inner literary snob
screamed a thousand
deaths when the 20-year-old zygotes
romanticized about
Romeo and Juliet.
I smiled and fluttered
my eyelashes
and smashed those
cute little bitches
who thought they
invented thought
with actual arrogance.
You see children,
Shakespeare...
#dark
#narrative
#lover
#revenge
#identity
381 reads
28 Comments
PAR
Poem Published
4th Dec 2024 4:06pm
4th Dec 2024 4:06pm
Babuska's sarmale
In a snowy Romanian village, during Christmas cheer,
my Babuska spun tales, both delightful and queer.
The tradition was sarmale, a savory delight,
Cabbage wrapped treasures, cooked all through the night.
Meat and rice nestled in leaves so green,
simmered in tomato, a feast so serene.
But woven in laughter and holiday charms
were Babuska’s stories with their quirky alarms:
"Behave well, dear children, lest you wish to be seen
in the pot with the sarmale, simmering and lean."
The children would giggle, eyes...
my Babuska spun tales, both delightful and queer.
The tradition was sarmale, a savory delight,
Cabbage wrapped treasures, cooked all through the night.
Meat and rice nestled in leaves so green,
simmered in tomato, a feast so serene.
But woven in laughter and holiday charms
were Babuska’s stories with their quirky alarms:
"Behave well, dear children, lest you wish to be seen
in the pot with the sarmale, simmering and lean."
The children would giggle, eyes...
#children
#Christmas
#culture
#family
#narrative
124 reads
9 Comments
DU Poetry : Narrative Poems
