Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Poems, sonnets, haikus, odes, songs, prose;
every one of them are trapped in a little black box—
a pen, the only key that unlocks my heart for everyone.

A box teeming with all my pains in it;
secrets or lies? There’s an eternity in that box- all my
verses are in it; some remain locked till the inevitable
death of another disregarded poet.

Oh, my little black box; filled with thoughts-
your love is less;- in an honest jest; laughing at most
of my secret ideas— ones far from their best, further less.
Writing something to forget as something less;
pieces I beget as children; I leave them so fatherless.

                                  Trapped in that little black box!
A full stop to the end of something worthy of time; -
a spot in the crowd, as a fool stops by feeling unwanted
here and everywhere else; - Less important than everybody
else; who am I if not a man silent most of the time; - sadly,
and greatly; his greatest work never becomes sublime.

Oh, it’s a curse; - that their eyes other face to
meet, but forget so rapidly an honest verse.

Still- he braves another line, despite what feels
like another pointless lie; - Still, he writes!

…as a violin with no strings,
…an endless sleep without beautiful dreams,
…a courageous bird with no wings,
…a mortal passion that never wants to die; -
              Still, he writes!
Sythin Voxe May 28
Hey there.
It's been awhile.
The ink dried out in the corner of your smile.
The pages got all wrinkled
like the edges of your eyes.
And it's been at least 4 years since I've seen blue skies.
But look at that there!
The pen is in bloom.
It's ink spilling out as the sun does at noon.
And I can't wait for you to sit there
in your rocking chair
and read Sunday's cartoon.
And you'll ask me what I've wrote
I'll give you a quick note
and we will spend the evening on the swing.
You'll drink your teas,
I'll watch the bees,
and we will spend our eternity in spring.
I know you are all cheering on for me. I'm glad to be back.
Nigel Finn May 25
I haven't wrote in quite a while,
So I thought I'd make this song,
But it's possible I've lost my style,
And my rhyme schemes gone all wrong.

The cadence is no longer there,
And the melody's gone flat;
Iambic's left without a care,
And this poem's turned to tat.

But perhaps it doesn't matter
Just as long as I have fun;
Though my words may clunk and clatter,
I'll be happy when I'm done.
Mrs Timetable May 21
My cat won't cuddle
Lost my car, too
Forgot where I parked
I'll just watch some
Jeapardy clues
I have no snacks
And my boots are broken down,
Mary Lou
hates the word slacks, and with mixed drinks, she goes to town!
I lost my dog
I lost my truck
I lost my girl
I wonder what's on Cozy TV right now?
Pretty sure it's Monk
Sorry, I got distracted, Mary Lou
Sad you're
Feeling melancholy and blue
I mean it's my only pair of shoes
Can you fix my boots, please ?
With some whiskey
Or some twine
She said
"Try some shoestring
Even try some wine"
Walking all over town
Pondering
Mary Lou
That's actually how my boots feel
Right now...
Very blue
And it's not
Not just my shoes
I asked some friends to contribute some silliness of writing a country song. 4 of us contributed. This is the finished product. *Names were changed to protect the innocent (Mary Lou)
Man May 15
What peace is spoken of?
What normalcy?
More war? Further widening the gap
Between the rich & the poor?
Another mean-nothing speech,
Full of thoughts and prayers
Never to be carried to term?
Bills brought to the floor
Only to be stalled by their authors?
Flirting with failure
From manufactured crisis, and with
Pointless battles over culture.
Never have the oppressive been more direct
In their inability to lead
Views, values, beliefs;
Scavenging their remains
Akin to common vultures.
Thomas W Case Mar 2021
Gonzo goes out
with a 45 blast.
He was kicking *** in Aspen,
we knew it wouldn't last.
The rambling, gambling
man of journalism
put Fear and Loathing on
the map,
but in the end,
he couldn't stay.
It's bat country.
check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2RTVZcWtVM
Thomas W Case May 12
Some poems don't
work.
No amount of
tweaking will
fix it.
You can't finger it until
it comes.

Push the delete
button and
start over.
You write because
you have to.
It's in your cells.

You're a salmon,
swimming up
stream to stay
alive.
You write because
the nuthouse yawns,
and beckons.
It waits.

The cage door is
open, and the
water is
tainted with
mercury.
Fly away, or die.

If the writing
isn't working,
go fishing,
eat a tangerine or
some brussel sprouts.
Be livid
Be silly.
Study the *****
and the orchid.

Think about what the
color black tastes like, or if
pink whispers or yells.
And write until
the trivialities take
flight from your
life.
In the surrendering,
triumph will come.
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=w2RTVZcWtVM&t=12
Check out my you tube channel where I read my poetry.
Zywa May 12
I seclude myself

in two rooms: one made of stone --


and one made of time.
Column "Derde leg" ("Third laying", 2021, Ellen Deckwitz, in the NRC on May 4th, 2021)

Collections "Death on Cast" and "WriteWiser signage"
SANA May 8
why do u always look up when u are sad ?
at least the starts will look at the tears
that people failed to see
Next page