I sit waiting for the sun Far too tired to run And still fearing what I left behind A mile between But still that scene Playing on my mind Not one of blood But one of my love With someone who wasn't me My tears have dried No need for goodbyes I guess it wasn't meant to be.
Fleeting steps! heart beats wildly your hands the sun your feet the earth rushing water over cliffs are your movements etching the architecture of the universe the dance of Phi All daffodils remember (and you being one) the grace of youthful sun grasping when they blossom The seed not lost is transforming
No sir, no not me Come no closer, can’t you see? I’m freezing as the springtime frost So won’t you let me be? Wind tossed as the blossom Bleeding from the tree I am but a child; I’m lost I am wild, not dutiful Scarred inside; not beautiful My demon lover left me Underneath the cherry tree No sir, no not me
No sir, no not me Come no closer, can’t you see? I am not a fresh faced maid No sir, we can’t be Plucking cherries in the glade Walking in the evening shade I’m buried in the foetid earth Awaiting spring, denied rebirth In the soft sun, in the rain I shall never rise again No-one can ever set me free No sir, no not me
There's room to live. There's room to love. There's room to hate. There's room to forgive. There's room to change. There's room to grow. There's room to breathe. There's room to grieve. There's room to run. There's room to have fun. There's room for everything And everyone. You just have to make it.
I used to read your poems but lately you don't write you're silent and aloof you know that isn't right. You can't close a door once opened you can't abolish all your dreams you're a poet of the heart mustn't fall apart at the seams. Say what you can in words they speak the message true spoken from the heart the poems will see you through. A hermit's not your style a recluse, you are not never give up writing of things that you've been taught. I used to read your poems I'd read them once again if you would send them out (this one's from a poet friend)
With this string I do tie your world to mine With this ring I promise you will be mine With this ring I engage your world to mine With this ring I am marrying you With my heart I will always love you. By Connie Hopkins
They said, "The most beautiful art is looking into someone's eyes when they talk about the things they love." And I said, "Or looking at someone you love. Or maybe, just maybe, by looking at the mirror is the most beautiful art anyone should appreciate."
Appreciation post for myself; for you and for everyone as well. You deserve more than the world has to offer.
"Credit? Debit?" / "Mastercard." Card goes in. Entering PIN. BeepBeepBeepBeep. Remove card. Processing—I listen to the cold ambient music. "Thank you, and have a nice day." "You too." / The cashier sounds sick. I have nothing more to say. The same words repeated day after day. a ritual antipathetic display of our common plastic soul– lessness.
I failed to love round, but fallen flat, My head slumps down, over an ancient map, My eyes roll back, over the mappa mundi verge, Where waterfalls purl, and the sea serpent-sleep lies curled.
Mappa mundi are surviving Medieval maps of the world that often depicted sea monsters and dragons. In spite of a common belief, most educated Medieval classes did not think the earth was flat (known as the Flat Earth myth) nor did most scholars from the classic Greek period on. Similarly, no old world map contains the exact phrase “Here Be Dragons” to connote uncharted territories, though dragons and sea monsters often allegorically depicted the same.
You looked like a perennial, strong geranium blooming each year when it is the right time you endured the cold and were all green and bright even under a thick layer of grime there were always cherry-colored, ruby-red flowers that rhyme
Apparently, it turned out that you were a delicate poppy disappearing suddenly when the spring is over hard to find like a four-leafed clover with the change of the wind other plants have taken over so the cherries were all rancid and the ruby has been broken
like my heart in pieces stabbed by the ruby shards
Whether a comma, or colon: Punctuation slows my rolling I need no period. When I end no Capitalization when I begin Rulelessly I flow my art Not a single! Exclamation mark Are you not the one Who'll know? Where a question mark No longer goes
Warp the structure Bend the lines Put in repeat Let emotion unwind Make yourself Your poetry's the best Be your own ruler Pass your own test
Take your own road Where ever it leads Lover or hater It's all poetry!
Traveler Tim .
Hay No matter who you are You have my deepest respect!
Vanity All is vanity The meanings of passion The aesthetic expression The lines we draw and stay within Even love is beyond intent Vanity transcends Flowing from our pens And so we breathe again
- a tasteless empty word like numbness of the fingers like numbness of the tongue a numbness of heart and false plastic lungs - bland face bland skin bland stomach and bland eyes - gleaming with wax satisfaction in a false candle pose bland wax candle prose written by plain poet hands -
I am a wax figurine poet who writes beautiful but bland verses.
I love him I tell myself I know that We will be together forever I don’t believe that We could be separated My thoughts tell me that He’s the love of my life Sometimes my heart lies and says I could live an eternity Without him Like my friends say “We’re perfect for each other” And you can’t tell me He’s not the one.