My favorite poem...

I’d like to share our writers’ favorite poems — their finest works. So, please make yourself comfortable with a cup of tea or coffee, and embark on a journey of deep emotions, colorful dreams, and magic. Don’t stop reading — the cherry on top is at the end! 🍒 

Share your thoughts in the comments below 👇

Our first poem is a great example of how personification can create twists and leave a strong emotional impact.

The Temptress

Each morning, she clings like a second skin,

Soft and warm, she pulls me in.

Her breath on my neck, her touch on my chest,

She whispers, “Stay, you know this is best.” 

She flirts with fire, plays with grace,

A sly little smile on her half-hidden face.

She wraps me up in silky lies,

While I fight the clock and rub my eyes. 

I push her away, I have to go,

Though every part of me screams no.

I rise from the bed like tearing glue,

While she pouts and says, “I’ll wait for you.” 

And wait she does, but not in peace.

She stalks me all day, she will not cease.

In quiet moments, she slides in near,

She moans, she teases, she bites my ear. 

She leans on my thoughts when I’m trying to write,

Pulls at my eyes when I sit upright.

She says, “Just close them, a minute or two...”

She knows I want her, but I push through. 

But come the night, when I’m finally alone,

Lying in bed, chilled to the bone,

No arms reach out, no voice, no face,

Just silence in an empty space. 

I beg for her then, I whisper and wait,

But she’s not the same, she makes me late.

She leaves me hanging, lost in the dark,

Gone is her heat, her seductive spark. 

And just when my worry becomes too loud,

When thoughts swirl in a restless cloud,

She crashes down, no grace, no art,

No gentle hands, just a punch to the heart. 

She takes me hard, she knocks me out,

No kisses now, no teasing pout.

Oh Sleep, you’re cruel, a twisted delight,

You tempt me all day, then vanish at night.

by TorturePeace

Imagery can also enhance emotions and help the reader feel deeply connected to the speaker. The poem "There Was a Time" illustrates this.

There was a time

I was all sharp edges and hollow light,

a whispered wisp against the world,

bone and silence stitched in skin.

I wore hunger like a crown —

tight, glinting, heavy —

and I was beautiful in the way

wilting flowers are beautiful,

fragile and almost gone.

I used to glide through streets unseen,

a shadow thin enough to slip through cracks,

to weave between gazes without weight.

Every rib a prayer,

every jutting hip a blade against shame.

Now,

I drag my body like a heavy coat in summer,

swelling, aching, spilling over seams.

I take up space —

grotesque, loud, shameful —

where once I was barely there.

My skin is thick with regret,

my stomach a betrayal,

my thighs speak when I walk —

and I hate their voice,

their proof that I am here,

too much here.

I dream of vanishing again,

of carving myself down to silence,

to air, to ache,

to beauty sharpened by starvation.

I want to be

a whisper of bone again,

a slow, dying song,

a body so light it could float away

and no one would notice I was gone.

I used to be miserable,

but at least I was beautiful.

Now I am only seen

when I wish I was invisible.

By Snek whisperer 

Poetry isn’t just about beautiful words — it’s also about the feelings we try to convey. Some things can’t be explained in a casual conversation, but they can be expressed through poetry. What do you feel when you read the poem "Deep Sleep"?

Deep Sleep 

Tis not to be for you and me,

Sun and stars or placid sea,

Nor calm harbor.

Amid ravages of crest and gale,

Broken mast and tattered sail—

Vessel lost to the last man,

Fate’s embrace now at hand.

Breathe in the fathom’s breath,

Descend into its murky depths.

Our journey’s end, voyage complete;

Sandman calls from darkened deep.

Sing the song of eternal sleep.

No shallow grave shall there be,

Entombed beneath the waves—

Forever one with the sea.

I. W. Cain 

1-3-2024

Meet a master of assonance and consonance — a poet whose lines dance with rhythm, making every cell in your body vibrate. His thought-provoking works explore courage, humility, and love. Enjoy the poem "Kadab."

Kadab

God imbued me with the infinity I need to go forward through this life planting tiny little seeds

Every single smile, “how are you”?, and “how you been”? Is an action I intend to extend an open hand.

Any way you cut it I’m entrusted with a purpose. Encrusted in the diamonds lava brings up to surface.

Put upon this path to give my foe’s feet a bath. Have a blast and make em laugh, make em think that I am daft.

Maybe I am crazy pulling weight for the lazy. Hazy shades of pink and grey the spirit always pays me.

Even better yet I just might be the best. Passing every test I face with every hostile guest.

Really I’m just blessed. How could I have guessed? That once undressed and reassessed his love is in my chest.

So go ahead and call me out for petty blasphemy. If you ask me it’s decency to show an act of gallantry.

All I need to know is that the Lord is right here with me. Out my gourd my cup is poured, have a sip, so mote it be.

By NotOfYourKind3721

The atmosphere in the poem is very important — it helps the reader visualize and feel the environment. In the poem "The Men in Black," you can immerse yourself in the speaker’s world, which makes it easier to understand the message the writer is trying to convey.

The Men in Black:

I love the Old Town,

Beauty of the past-

Unmasked.

Walking the narrow 

Oriental streets

Silky textures, elegant sheets

Sit for a coffee feel, paper russle.

Watch life speed-bustle,

Effortless no muscle.

Entered the Tea house a shadow,

A computer, "Chai", I know

To these Men in Black

In modernity I wallow.

Their stares clutch,

No breath, swallow- met their:

Eyes, you lead I follow,

Opposite of me a man.

Two different worlds

Yet we lost in a tin can

Thinking he lost in a barrow,

Smoke fills the room,

I hear sorrow- I sip-

Chai, devour

By TMCFin - Tommi Mäntynen

Strong emotions and deep feelings can be a powerful source of inspiration for writing poetry. It’s also a way to relieve stress and ease anxiety. Over time, writing poems can become a form of personal biography. Let’s read this poem written by Creative_creature.

After two years, his phone chimed a sound...

No call, just a memory's notification found..... 

Past moments, and the sharp pain they could bring..... 

He reached for the screen, then froze mid-swing..... 

He'd begged, he'd cried, for one last chance... 

She walked away, not sparing a glance.... 

Those laughter, hugs and photos of hand hold.... 

Even years of strength, his body turned cold.... 

Those memories ,with pain ,stirred his buried fears..... 

And he spent another night drowning in tears..... 

      ---R.S...........

(By Creative_creature)

A poem is like a flower that blossoms when you share the deepest corners of your soul. A love poem is like a bittersweet memory or a fragrance you want to carry in your heart. The poem "The Impossible Girl" will surely touch your soul.

“The Impossible Girl”

Between a yesterday that has passed…

And a tomorrow that has dawned…

I contemplated myself…

Night after night…

Drowning in the seas of my thoughts…

Searching here and there…

Crying out loud…

Calling for hope to save me before I perish…

A hope that lifts me high…

To the summit of my dream skies…

Yet I remain lost…

Drowning…

As if salvation’s path

Is a hellfire consuming my life.

While I was absorbed in thought…

A light suddenly shone before me…

So bright it nearly blinded my sight…

Scattering my mind…

Unable to paint its image…

For its beauty surpassed imagination…

But it was a girl

Drawing closer to me…

Amazed, I stood still…

She took my hand…

And lifted me high…

Like a radiant angel…

From a world I once thought safe…

She asked me, “What’s wrong with you?

I see sorrow in your eyes…

There’s a story in your gaze…

And words that seem…

Powerless…

I looked at her and smiled,

And said:

You stand before me,

Yet to draw your image—my soul is helpless.

Shall I tell you that you are born of my imagination?

But I see you…

And my judgment did not rush…

Until certainty reached me.

As for the sorrow in my eyes—

It is far from a pain you think burdens me…

My gaze, and my words,

Are not weak…

But rather confused…

About what’s gripping my heart…

About what’s touched my soul…

I’ve often lost my mind…

Wondering…

About a dream…

That in this world

Became impossible.

A dream of a girl I once saw…

I thought I had renounced love forever…

Believing the universe held no space for me…

But when I saw hope in her eyes…

The whole world felt narrow—yet complete…

And my pen returned to write…

Words…

And poems, inspired…

About a dream…

Awaiting me in her eyes.

She is an impossible girl…

With beauty that captivates all eyes…

But by her soul…!

My heart became powerless…

And even if she is far from my sight…

And I never meet her…

The eye’s vision is one thing…

But the soul’s vision—is a true encounter.

Then she interrupted me softly:

“What a strange girl she must be…

She breathed new life into your body…

Turned you into someone else with no memory of the past…

Whose mind no longer dwells on what once was…

Your words of love in describing her…

Show me clearly that the look in your eyes…

Is nothing but love hoping for her heart…

And fearing… (that I may be)…

An impossible girl whose heart you may never win.”

So I smiled…

And looked at her…

And the light revealed her face…

And I saw that she was right before me…

That impossible girl…

Who captured my heart…

And claimed it as her own.

By Taha

Have you ever tried to express your feelings to someone who once hurt you? Sometimes it's hard to do, but poetry can be the best way to let it all out. Ask the questions you never dared to ask. Say everything that's been on your mind. Here's the poem "My Doll."

"My Doll"

I remember wanting to throw you

In the trash, and even more, I remember

The day I actually did it, and ever since,

Every day I rejoice, every day I regret it,

My doll, my doll, my broken, broken doll

You want me in your room, in your bed,

I want you on your knees, on a leash,

Are you good? Are you bad? You're the one

I left behind, and the one who further broke

My soul, my soul, my broken, broken soul.

By Seamus 

Would you like to share your observations and wisdom? You can do it through poetry — and you will be heard! Here's a thought-provoking piece written by Shimer.

Living by the sea, how does it feel I asked? 

Where waves come and go but don't stay

They touch your feel and bring life but you never try to hold them 

You just enjoy the gradual flow of life

It doesn't define you neither you define the waves 

It's just a moment that we live 

The waves and me meet and then we part ways 

We never think of holding on or to never return 

We only have a hope that we meet again someday 

We only have memories that brings me smile 

May be the waves smile too to have a new life 

They must be happy too to know what's being alive mean 

They must be feeling the love that those feet feel 

They must be blowing the stress away that those feet deal 

Living by the sea is not devoid of expectations 

But it lives without the label of forever and still feels like eternity

By Shimer 

Do you ever feel like no one hears you, as if they’re pretending to be deaf? You're full of frustration and bitterness — but what could be better than a poem to deliver your message? Here's a poem by the young and talented writer, MangaObsessed.

Everywhere I look around I see people,

Blind to their own beliefs,

Deaf to the cries of others ,and,

Mute when seeing injustice.

The people see the world 

But refuse to see the state of it,

Refuse to learn from history.

By MangaObsessed

Writing poetry is like breathing for a poet — just as painting is for an artist. Here's the story of an artist and his painting. You'll find imagery, symbolism, allusion, and many other poetic devices throughout.

An Old Painting

Green strokes, touched by Chronos,    

Swirling cracked paint, brushed, burdened, weathered class,    

Encased lovingly, a copper shrine of lamp grease and sweat.    

Hopes of the maker, not for the fruit of Adam,    

Nor for the eyes of Olympus,    

But for the loving eyes, even in a muddy peasant,    

Fearing his heart would be put on a pedestal.   

Among high beaks of noble eagles.   

That could tear his flesh open,    

Bleeding oil from whence they could light their game.    

Does the bone and skin of his matter?    

For his love flutters in his chest, eyes twinkling,   

Stroking the canvas from which he drew his mind.   

The bits of brains and color swim in the hills.    

His blood strokes up the windows' sky,   

Creating such vibrant blue hues, rich in eyes.   

His eyes are heavier than gold,    

Put up in encased glass for all to see.   

Sadly, rats—his fellows, mites both his foe and friend—    

No man is his companion,     

Living in the dusty antique store in Versailles.

By Pengwings_Areangry

Love is a beautiful feeling, but when trust is broken, it leaves deep wounds in the heart and soul. The pain is so real, it makes us suffer. Here's a beautiful poem written by PriestOfPlague.

Broken Lies

We whispered vows beneath a silver sky,

Our breath like smoke in midnight’s fragile hold.

You swore the stars would never lose their gold,

And I believed—too soft, too quick to try.

Your voice, a lullaby I drank to die,

Each word a petal, perfumed, warm, and bold.

But promises, once sweet, grew sharp and cold—

A kiss, a curse, the silence in reply.

Now broken truths lie scattered at my feet,

Their hollow echo bleeding through my chest.

You left, but left your lies where I could hear—

Each whisper etched in bone, not yet complete,

Still haunting where your touch once came to rest—

A love that rots, but will not disappear.

By PriestOfPlague

Similes and metaphors work like magic — they breathe life into your poem. Want to feel delight and forget your troubles for a moment? Then read a poem by I_Only_Know, a member of WisdomWriters known by several nicknames (you can ask them 😉).

I saw your light in the distance

You were there but far away

Then, like a comet, you entered my small part of the universe

I was able to see your sweetness and kindness as you moved closer 

Then I reveled in your beauty

I got caught in your gravity

I tried to hold on as you flew by, but I learned your light was not meant for me

So I had to let go

And fell back to earth, never the same

Your light and beauty are forever burned in my soul

Your gravity no longer pulls me

But your essence remains

By I_Only_Know

A simple yet deeply meaningful free verse poem by Schlickbart will make you believe in yourself once again — and in poetry’s power to heal. Embrace vulnerability and listen to the message within these lines.

The Devil waits,

complete the square,

there is no truth,

without a dare.

Fine then, 

Cool, 

I’m ’m not ’t scared ‘d,

its not like I have never dared,

Lucifer, Lightbringer,

brave to fall,

Morningstar,

Still feeling a bit… sinister

The 5th dimension,

Oh Jesus Christ!

Look! Non-Dual,

Starseeds: 

UNITE !!!

Are we really taking flight?

Waking up all open-eyed,

Are we really at our best?

Zero purpose, endless jest?

Mighty roars in stillness sound,

but emptiness is all around…

Well what do you expect to see,

when we unite in unity,

(one is (one is all)) is all,

separate we rise and fall,

and then we started feeling it,

higher up,

next level shit,

hey, whats up?

yo, we lit?

overrisen infinite,

rooting past unlimited,

let go for now, 

thats not it…

What’s never left does not arrive,

What wasn’t born is not alive,

The starting line can not be reached,

The truth of it can not be preached,

Still non-existence takes no time,

moved from resistance to divine,

through loneliness, 

through guilt & shame,

but those are all the devils game…

The jig is up, 

fear or remorse?

Pale Face, Skeletal Horse,

grinning, morphing, toxic fangs,

the rope, it moves! parting sands,

into the weeds by frozen dice,

slithering through paradise,

unaware, blind to it,

Of course the apple has been bit.

And ever since,

we whine and wince,

feel hate and stone,

break heart and bone,

play this holy devils game,

and curse their sacred form and name.

It’s us, 

you fool, 

think it through,

who told you that this thing is you,

split you into

ME and THEM,

made you start imagining,

listening to all that noise,

tone deaf to the selfless voice,

rationalizing recklessness,

Countenance! 

Don’t make a mess,

sweetened deal, promised threat, 

what you want is 

what you get:

Like …

Hells unfulfilling royalties,

Self-sabotaging prophecies,

self-made into helplessness

hinting at our hindrances:

Like…

painted corners,

rock and hard place,

so confused!

what is myspace?

why unseen

in plain sight hiding,

that's not life,

that's slowly dying,

it's not fair -

Right now we Dare:

This,

right here,

is you,

my dear,

the fog is doubt,

the chains are fear,

thoughts are clouds,

and feelings…

come on…

come near…

open now,

let it flow,

the truth won’t hurt,

I know you know,

know your knowing,

cosmic joking,

see me smiling,

feel us dancing,

eye to eye,

when two are facing,

truthful

faithful

leaping

melting

feel yourself und dare admit,

this is true…

and you are it.

By Schlickbart

Love is about allowing someone to be exactly who they are, without restrictions. It’s like a bird — free to fly away, yet choosing to return each day. This beautiful piece by Nin explores the theme of true love.

I want to make you free from all the confusions and confessions. 

I want you to have wings of a loving dove.

I want to let you fly like the happiest bird of the sky.

I want you to have stable wings and you can always rely on them.

I want you to have the golden bird of your dream.

I want you to be the breeze on your lover's hair and the wonder of her eyes.

I want you to shine exactly like the sun in hot summer. 

I want you to be like spring so that peace never fades and pain never touches you.

I want you to be the witness of all kind of beauty of this world.

By Nin

Here’s a poem by another young and talented poet, MelancholicMuser. His work is known for powerful imagery, a rich use of poetic devices, deep emotion, and unexpected twists. His poems are like mazes — with something new and surprising around every corner. Are you ready to step inside?

Among the Stars Pt.II

Once, a planet wandered among the stars,  

Rouged alone, quiet through the silent wars.  

The fate ended its state when faded into dark,  

Yet what it thought — a journey rises to stark.  

It feels, sees, and hears, but its form never seen,  

Like a faded ghost inside a simulated screen.  

It sees itself in a mirror by thought of mind —  

A withering tree to be seen alone in a barren line.  

It sees another — an insect drowned in a puddle,  

Rising and flying to the withering tree in huddle.  

A boat far from the skies brought water of rain,  

The sun, its friend, rises to shine through pain.  

In the darks, the moon sighs the dreams of night,  

But it also sees itself as a star shining with might.  

It faints for a universe filtered with different lights —  

The world's a mirror; it saw itself in various fights.  

It cried, screamed, but none to be heard;  

Its sun, moon, everything's gone without a word.  

It then saw a forest — the withered tree gone,  

The bug nowhere to be seen, but a swarm in dawn.  

A wooden house from which a boy comes out —  

It stuns in awe, a world created from a growing sprout.  

But then it realised: the tree, bug, boy, and boat —  

They were itself, just under different forms and coats.  

Then the universe breaks into strings — some straight,  

Some circles, some undefined, yet it was bright.  

The planet smiled and faded into the cosmos,  

Forever existing as a part of the universe.

By Melancholic Muser 

Everyone has reflected on life and why we're here at least once. We are born to be free—and there is always a choice. Let's dive into this philosophical and reflective piece, 'Angels Collect.'

Angels collect

The angels collect  

the thoughts of people serving their desires;  

gathering to extend their precious circumstance.  

Under the earthshine moon,  

I am resemblant of a mosaic—  

the pieces imbuing.  

Colloidal,  

they harbor me with skin that is numb to pain.  

Or is it just my mind?  

I couldn't tell.  

We wait in lines,  

and if we are going anywhere,  

the line started the day we were born.  

But if you listen, there is music bordering our bodies—  

the ancients resounding romance  

and languages of colors that have passed through.  

Our ancestors weep and cheer for their cause.  

Liberation:  

it is there that I would like to be seen—  

that lovers never tire of this age,  

in which they always engage,  

blind and blissfully,  

grasping deep into a mode.  

That there is a touch that they have never known,  

infinitely beautifying everything between the chaos—  

and nothing has ever felt so fearless; Gale.  

Make me.  

We are here until we're not.  

Angels never fail to collect;  

they keep the things that can't be bought.

By Kaijusoo

Here's another reflective piece of writing by SpongePants — a poem full of symbolism, allusion, metaphors, and other poetic devices. It tells a personal journey of failure and recovery. You might find it both relatable and thought-provoking.

Fable of Reflection

As I see the sunlight shine through the curtains , 

As I imagine myself sitting by the river

and when the silent streets remind me of home 

 I sit and think and keep thinking through

And brush past the questions that ask me what is true

The times were not the same, when catch was a game

But life now is a catch , where one starts from scratch

The good , bad and ugly also had its time 

but that felt different and things resolved in mime.

Now that I am here I look back upon

all the happenings that brought to this point

and feel a stillness that scares me a half

and puts forth the good upon the other half.

A cold winter morning with chirping in the distance

the misty clouds spreading over existence,

makes one appreciate the omnipresent beauty

realise the truth and your pending duty

while your ambition and unkempt look in the mirror

puts forth a striking , distinct mismatch.

What is lost and what not , you know as well

recounting the errors , undo the ominous spell

a lot has happened , a big tale to tell

 the bigger they were the harder they fell

If life is your target, you must be William Tell

Let me commence the story to divulge 

of a little black seed that turned to a bulge 

and even though one knew of its baneful effects

curiosity got the better , submission got the best

and to the seedling ,burgeoning, was given the rest 

Only if one knew that life had put you to test

Erratic , erroneous , enthralled , estranged

an abstract version of Bellatrix Lestrange

is what I believe had taken control 

over your mind specifically and life as a whole

such efficacy , such slyness , 

internal chaos , unabridged grey mess

What had become of you , from what was

to the scrupulous knacks from the innocent guffaws

the moral fight for long could not subside

turning more intense like Jekyll and Hyde

the eyes and the reach open far and wide

what had to remain hidden could no more hide

you shrunk your world , and hollowed inside

the cries for help is what your eyes implied

the tears on your cheeks touched sodamide

because the linear path to follow 

instead turned to exploding thoughts 

lying alone on the edge of a cay ,

freeing out streams from my eyes unmanaged

in sims position and having blurry vision

rethinking all my decisions thus far

and noticing that they , had made a bad scar

For the seemingly magical beanstalk had grown big

and the giants had come tumbling downwards

waking me up from the fever dream I had

putting into perspective this parasitic fad.

And so I was confirmed of my exaggerated gig.

But still my evolved lizard brain ,

refused to let go of the source of pain,

I had to work harder whilst I must refrain

but neither was done , conversely putting a vizard 

and I returned back to being a dizzard

It felt as if the strings of my mind

were controlled through air by a species of other kind

the springs had supercoiled , it was time to unwind

I lived the life of not who I was

but a person who existed only, lived as figment

the eyes looked different now , contained a mysterious pigment

playing the fall guy , never really helped

only the heart later repented and welped

It only made you more cold and indifferent 

the truth that now strikes has no response apparent

as you have brought yourself to the standpoint

where you can see the afferent and the efferent

But you must remember that no matter what

the times will be as you truly mould them to be

for life is mostly like a bonsai tree

which is short and rewarding but not carefree

Now uproot the weedlike beanstalk , plant the bonsai tree

The petering of chattering , sounds of glass shattering

thoughts now scattering when the mind gets a battering

only boils down to the end of the tale ,

where we learn that the end never comes

For it goes until you do , into the perpetuous

and you shall keep writing as long as you keep fighting

and you must ease it down and not be nail biting

follow the golden path for that alone is enlightening

and keep yourself hustling, always sport ivory.

By SpongePants

Here’s our cherry on top — a rhyming story by our experienced writer DungeonMarshal, known for thrilling and twist-filled tales! I invite you to embark on a mysterious journey that might give you goosebumps… or even lead to nightmares. Are you brave enough?

Candy Corn

If you go down this road and past the old mill, you'll see a little gray house up on the hill. The windows are all broken, and the door hangs from its frame. The frontyard is tall weeds; the backyard's the same. The chimney is crumbled into a pile of dust, rusty red. The only tree in the yard is twisted, blackened, and dead.

It was once the home of Ichabod and Emogene Corn, who they say went mad after their daughter was born. It was late October; if I remember it right, she was born in that house on a dark and stormy night. Emogene screamed, then lightning struck that old oak, and Candace Corn was born at midnight's final stroke.

The next few years seemed normal, I suppose. That is, if you don't count all of the black cats that gathered beneath their windows. At first it was only a couple, then it was more than a few. Where they all came from, nobody knew. Thirteen in total, or so they do say. And they circled around Candace whenever she went out to play.

Her first day of school, oh! what a mess! The children all laughed at her name and made fun of her pretty orange dress. But the meanest among them was a little boy named Paul. He got the other kids to say, "Nobody likes Candy Corn. Nobody at all." He giggled at his joke and thought himself real bright. Some say it was no coincidence that Paul's home burned down that very night.

When Candace left for school the next day, she merrily skipped by the smoldering ruins along the way. Paul and his family made it out of their house not a second too late. But they had to move in with Paul's Aunt Martha, who lived over in another state. I'm not saying that little Candace was involved, but it is a strange mystery that has gone completely unsolved.

A few years later, when Candace turned thirteen, her father was committed, and never again was he seen. Her mother acted nervous, and her fits of laughter were not rare. But Candace always smiled at people sweetly, as if she hadn't a care. I'm not sure why Ichabod and Emogene went insane, but the townsfolk all thought Candace was the one to blame.

"Something about that girl unnerves me," confessed Mrs. McGrath. For those who don't know, she taught junior high math. Then in the teacher's lounge, rumors started to spread, all about the strange pictures Candace drew and the weird tales that she read. But the teachers did nothing; I suppose there was nothing to do, but things were quite different when Candace turned twenty-two.

She was now a young lady who lived alone on the hill. You see, her mother was finally committed to a place for the mentally ill. The townies all knew she was conducting strange spells in the night. Mr. Franklin reported seeing her house "bathed in a most unusual green light." And strangers were seen leaving her place. All with long coats and wide-brimmed hats that covered their face.

"We only see them leave there but never arrive. I have an awful feeling they aren't even alive," Mr. Clemons expressed. Then he sipped from the flask he kept in the pocket of his vest. "We should do something before it's too late! You know, the other night I caught her skulking around the cemetery gate?"

The townsfolk all gathered at *Wilbur's Bar and Grill*. It was there that they conspired what to do with Candace, who lived on the hill. "We'll need some proof that she's up to no good," came the suggestion of a lady named Wilma Wood. "What we do next, I really don't know. I guess we'll just play it by ear as we go."

They all drew straws to see who should visit Miss Corn, and the privilege was given to the skeptical Reverend Lemuel Borne. "She hasn't done anything to warrant mistrust. I'll gladly pay her a visit, if it should quell all of this fuss," he said in a voice, self-possessed and loud, hoping to be heard above the roar of the crowd.

The next day he found himself at her front door. He knocked once, but there was no answer, so he knocked one time more. When he left that morning, his hair was raven black, but it was white as snow when he came back. Nobody knows what got under his skin, but he left town that very day and was never heard from again.

Soon, the figures in hats were seen in the streets at night, and the people locked themselves in their homes out of sheer fright. They spied on the figures through their curtains and blinds, in hopes of answering all of the questions that weighed heavy on their fevered minds. But no clues were discovered; they were still in the dark. "We'll run Candace Corn out of town," came the suggestion of one, Mr. Clark.

What happened next, I'm not glad to say, because it wasn't this town's proudest day. When thirty-four angry people, and many of their children too, rallied together, and their confidence grew. Up on the hill, they all gathered in her yard. About that time, black clouds billowed in and a cold wind started to blow hard.

Despite this ill omen, from the crowd there came a shout. "Candy Corn, you're no longer welcomed in our town! We want you out!" The ghostly moan of the wind was the only reply, so a boy chucked a rock, and through a glass window it did fly. They say that was the catalyst for the other events so extreme. People of the town still remember hearing the scream.

Imagine the panic when everyone learned, of all the people who went up there that day, only six of them returned. The townsfolk all left for destinations unknown. They decided it was better to leave Candace alone. So they left this town once and for good. None of them ever spoke of Candace Corn, and none of them ever would.

So now the town is empty, and you say that house looks empty too. You want to explore it, but be warned before you do. Whatever happened to Candace, nobody can say. But there are those who claim she still lives up there today. If you value your sanity, soul, flesh, and bone, then, for mercy's sake, leave Candy Corn alone.

By DungeonMarshal 

Thank you to everyone who read the blog post till the end. I hope you enjoyed all the poems and got to know our writers a little better. Let’s continue sharing our work and supporting each other. I’m also grateful to everyone who contributed their poems — and I hope we’ll create many more amazing ones in the future. Happy writing!

I'm looking forward to your comments!🌷

Written by marine_0204