6 hours ago      3 seconds ago

The scary thing about depression
Is that you can look alive
Enough on the outside
For no one to question
Just how much pain you're actually in
It burns the skin
Revealing wounds within
That you've worked so hard to conceal
Nothing feels real
There is just this daze
The daily haze, it comes in waves
And leaves the taste...of defeat.
But atleast defeat means
That you no longer have to try
And it's sad but this pain does not subside
Until you've destroyed
All that you've ever loved of life
...But then, what's the point?
In the end, your heart is dead
And not a soul will even know

depression is a killer. if not of life, then of pride and dreams, the most important things that life can even offer. rip my brother, i will always love you and the hue of blue that pulled you under.
Jimmy Hegan
Jimmy Hegan
13 hours ago      4 minutes ago

Whatever you senses and blows ideas,
                                             it  becomes talk of town;
Where ever you gossips your thoughts and ideas,
                                             it becomes talk of town;
Where ever you LOVE or ROMANCE with loved one's,
                                            it becomes talk of town;
Whichever condition you survive & remain stable,
                                            it become talk of town;
What  awards and goals you make or achieve in country,
                                            it become  talk of town;
Whatever  poems, thoughts, ideas , like's, comments  & Love you pass,
                                           it becomes talk of town;

The jester walked in the garden:
The garden had fallen still;
He bade his soul rise upward
And stand on her window-sill.

It rose in a straight blue garment,
When owls began to call:
It had grown wise-tongued by thinking
Of a quiet and light footfall;

But the young queen would not listen;
She rose in her pale night-gown;
She drew in the heavy casement
And pushed the latches down.

He bade his heart go to her,
When the owls called out no more;
In a red and quivering garment
It sang to her through the door.

It had grown sweet-tongued by dreaming
Of a flutter of flower-like hair;
But she took up her fan from the table
And waved it off on the air.

'I have cap and bells,' he pondered,
'I will send them to her and die';
And when the morning whitened
He left them where she went by.

She laid them upon her bosom,
Under a cloud of her hair,
And her red lips sang them a love-song
Till stars grew out of the air.

She opened her door and her window,
And the heart and the soul came through,
To her right hand came the red one,
To her left hand came the blue.

They set up a noise like crickets,
A chattering wise and sweet,
And her hair was a folded flower
And the quiet of love in her feet.

Nat Lipstadt
Nat Lipstadt
5 hours ago      18 minutes ago


my poems do not trend
go viral,
do they die,
fast and furious,

plain sight pebbles scattered upon the surface of the green earth waiting patient,
purposed for
itinerants bards to trip over on
some someday

somehow they accrete a readership,
slow stepping and steady from,
the seekers and the stumblers,
the droplet drinkers,
meanderers of the tomes and tombs of prior years,
miners for nuggets
in the poem pools that form
beneath the alluvial streaming
of the waterfall crescendo
of words

I like this

when another traveler sends me a like,
a petite amuse-bouche bite of appreciation,
for a long ago, barely recalled, writ,
allowing them to carve their initials upon the
roots of my tree trunk,
invading into me,
by darkening a prior tree ring
forcing me to look down, look back,
take measure of myself,
accepting myself as not wanting,
nor lacking in other's acceptance

these statements are neither
boastful or illusory,
yet still joyous, like caramel pleasures,
slow to chew, fast to the taste,
reminding me of old friendships,
well valued, though no longer fully employed,
their uncovering is my own refreshend exposure,
their discovery is my own re-discovery,
exposing flaws and fallacies,
even fallow facts
about me,
all of them,
a sundae of truths and lies,
sharing a happy laugh
with and
at me,
when I think to myself,

"damn, did I write that?"

copyright 2015 by Nat Lipstadt

all true.
sometimes I type in the search mode a word unusual, offbeat,
of my own choosing,
and let it lead me to the older nuggets of others,
familiar and unfamiliar,
from under the trees of their forest...

Oct. 7, 2015
Manhattan Island
Adam Cornelius Tuffey
Adam Cornelius Tuffey
6 hours ago      24 minutes ago

Ancient leviathan,
City in sands
Razed in a roar.
Now silence stands

Taller than your
Pillars did before
As the world looks on
It can’t but abhor

Let sleep find your
Great arches now
Though brought down
They did not bow

For their shadows
Outstretch the hand of man
And the rote of
All religion’s plans.

They did not destroy!
They have not won!
And in undoing

Poem written for national poetry day in the UK, I am an archaeologist, I studied Aegean archaeology, and covered the levant extensively, It pains me that ISIL are destroying these relics... so I wrote about it.
Dan Mills
Dan Mills
1 day ago      28 minutes ago

Sometimes people are deceived by the thought of time. They say life is short, but it isnt. They say we shouldnt take time for granted, but we dont. Its the thought of it that we never dare to embrace. We lose touch of reality when were existing. We end up losing minutes, we take our time over arguments about whether to wear black or white. We are never over mediocrity. We enjoy solitude too much. Too much that it embraces all that we are. It dances with you around spaces where only strangers meet to witness the lapses of your logical thoughts. The air we breathe linger around people. It plays around the metaphor of your inconsistence. Perhaps, how does the drizzle of wine taste on your lips? How does a cat see you at night whenever you crawl on your bed naked? I will never take your call whilst waiting for the bus to come. Ive read somewhere that we never really know when its coming anyway. I am somehow surrounded by people who dont find time appealing. It is never really moving, but we try to fool our heart that it somehow stops in a space between us. Its almost dark and I wait for a virgin suicide. Just how I wait for songs to end with a tragic simile. Just like a story about you and me.

I wrote this while I was in Bangkok few months back. I was inspired by the commute, the people I have met, the places Ive seen... most of all, how much love I have in me I never knew I am capable of
#love   #poem   #poetry   #time   #people   #travel  
Circa 1994
Circa 1994
6 hours ago      30 minutes ago

sometimes you ruin me.
you make me feel second rate, but you say i'm priority.
I want to nurture you back to health. I want to make a difference in the way you feel.
maybe that's selfish,
...yeah probably.
but sometimes sadness is selfish too.
We're victims to ourselves.
sometimes I don't want to feel better,
sometimes I need to feel blue -
and maybe so do you.
I will try to understand
even though there are things I never will.
like why it takes me feeling worse for you to feel better.
or why spicy pastrami can cheer you up more than I can.
or how oblivious we can be to the pain we subject each other to.
any effort I make is futile.
you undermind my attempts.
shame on me,
I don't learn
not to fix
broken things.

Maybe this poem will make it to the trending page; will you acknowledge me then?
#love   #life   #thoughts  
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