Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Go where the sunsets spill from sapphire skies,  
Where mothers are rewarded for how hard they try.  
Where parakeets dance and sway as they fly,  
And where men are punished for the lies they supply.  
Please take me to the place where we play in the rye.  
I want to go where crows no longer cry.
The embers of my bitter revenge burn low,
leaving me with lingering anger and disappointment.
Their hatred for me fails to approach
the profound self-loathing that plagues my conscience.
In a final, desperate plea, I raise my gaze skyward.
Although I have received exiguous compassion in my life,
I implore the divine power of God,
a figure known for his mercy.
If the gates of Heaven are closed to me,
where shall I go when I plunge from this cliff?
Does damnation await me?
The verdict I have reached is clear.
I shall surrender to the flames that burn within
and embrace the infernal fires of Hell.
There, her warmth awaits to thaw my numb heart
and eternal perdition grants me respite
from this world's relentless torments.
I leap.
This is my choice, my final act of defiance
against a world that rejected me from the moment of my creation.
Just as swiftly as life had been bestowed upon me,
it is seized, like a candle flickering briefly
before being perpetually extinguished.
This poem is inspired by the death of Frankenstein's monster in the novel "Frankenstein" by Mary Shelley
145 · Jul 7
Summer Days
The sun will set
And the rain will fall
The clouds may come
And the wind may call
But through the fog
And through the storm
A bright new day
Will begin to form
The sun will rise
In summer days
The rain has come
But never stays
This poem is about the rain that must fall before the sun may shine again in life.
53 · Aug 12
Incantation
Mockingbird, your twisted song
Of love, and dance, and mirth
Tinge my scarlet heart with white
And give my soul rebirth
Rest my mind with naive dreams
Give me once a cotton bed
Tell me of my unlit means
And rob me of my dread.
Once your song has finished fast
Leave me on my own.
Give me hope of death at last.
And so my fate be sewn.
After writing single poetic lines of nonsense for a while, I pieced this poem together. Its title was given after the tone reminded me of a witch's incantation.
Watch the weeping, wailing willows;
Washing their plump and puffed-up pillows.
Playing with fine and friendly fellows.
Beating their branches, blowing in billows.
Chanting while chaps charm on their cellos.
Yelling at years, yielding their yellows.

...

What was I talking about?
29 · Sep 23
I am Hope
I am hope.  
I bear the marks of struggle.  
I carry the weight of bruises.  
I am hope.  
I have faced powerful blows  
and been dragged through the dirt.  
I am hope.  
You may think I have fallen,  
but I am still standing.  
I am hope.  
I am not elegant.  
I am not flawless.  
I have fought fiercely and endured pain.  
I am Hope.

— The End —