Leaving for the colder time
the poet's friend begins to climb-
that staircase of reform.
But in the creek the poet thinks
when did our time begin to shrink-
o our bond is now deformed.
Age in it's wicked heart-
tipped and teared us apart.
I never took you as a ghost.
In youth I would always say,
"Can't wait to grow and move away",
never should've left the coast.
I miss you my old friend.
I know it's been awhile since then,
I ensure you my love is home.
But we will never be same again,
we will be away my fiend,
drift apart you talented beast, may you roam.
Not the best word choice I've ever used. Not the best structure I've ever used. Not the best concept I've ever used, but **** I love this poem. Hope you enjoy it half as much as I did writing it.
Taunt my precious ways with visions
Propose a chance of euphoria
End or fix this heartbreak
This mind ache o' mine
Chirp a sweet old song
on a white porch
decorated with nature
A breath of purity
Forget all I did wrong
And I'll forget soon
Apologizes all mailed
in letters by noon
No one knows peace
except the wrong
And the wronged know
only sad songs
A barrel filled with eyes carries one hope.
A rather gruesome and unpleasant hope,
that feast upon the living and the live.
For the barrel hopes of death.
The death of love, life, and everything in between.
The barrel asks for life, no matter rancid or clean.
Ringing on heavens portal there is no consideration.
For love is not its first mutilation.
frays from ripped pages
forced cover up art
wrinkles from excess ink
all to hide
hide everything i wish to forget
everything that was worth writing down
omitting names to avoid writing them away
or into existence
code words i'll never remember
because i don't want
imagine lying to yourself everyday
imagine teasing yourself with the truth
imagine covering reality with stickers
i have kept a diary for all four years of high school
i started re-reading them and found i censor myself
as though that'll stop me from remembering every moment
Whispers of laughter fill the emptiness,
pitter patters of throats distract voids.
Rain-filled calms pour until they are gone-
as an echoed call traveling beyond.
Oh acceptance. What a pure sound
that lays forever in good,
withholding kindness behind cabinet doors
and pleases the beast within.
Hanging over a wood shed-
You explained it all.
The shot the finish-
The silence and the call.
A tongue of truth-
An orchestra of teeth.
A surface of symbols-
With answers beneath.
You built us a Kingdom-
Founded upon woes.
To know we are here-
And to be here to know.
You are magic, you are fine-
Blessed be your spoken flowers.
I'd share your honest throne-
And be the prince of nothing that matters.
I'm on the verge of restlessness-
but I feel so new.
I'm on the end of righteousness-
could I live for a view...
or a moment.
Eating, sleeping, repeating just to hear some moaning-
where does the end feel fine?
When do we know it's calling time?
Do words last longer when you write them in rhyme?
I sure hope so.
I really wish so.