Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Three little words,
and I can
not say them.
I try constantly,
but the words
do not come.
She wants them,
but I can't
tell her, these,
three little words.
Any other combination,
and I can
do it easily,
but not these,
three little words.
The reason is
I do not.
These three words,
mean nothing, when
they are untrue.
So I shall
not say that,
I love you.

As much as
you beg me.
As much as
you flood your
eyes with tears.
As much as
you scream in
pain and agony.
I cannot say,
I love you
I took inspiration for this poem from Gossip Girl where Chuck Bass is unable to tell Blair how he fells about her.
To write true
You must bleed,
but to bleed
leaves you empty.
It is a risk.
For if you
truly bleed,
you will die.
but your fame
will live on.
Why? you ask
because only the miserable
are remembered.
The sun beamed down on the sand,
with an unforgiving frown.
For it knew we would drown.
In the blood of the innocence,
and die in foreign land,
for a war caused by man.
Who care more for the oil
under some man's soil,
Then for his lover,
or even his brother.

We had believed them when they said,
"You, are fighting for freedom from dread"
"You, are fighting for liberation of the dammed"
"You, are fighting for future of democracy"
but alas it was all a lie,
for which we died.

They did not care when the news came,
to them it was always a game.
Money, Money, Money.
More, More, More.
Mine, Mine, Mine.
It was never to save,
or for freedom to the slave.
It was a just greed that sent us to the grave.

For only if they had learnt to give,
then maybe we could forgive.
but instead they were for themselves,
and never for others.
we shall not grant them the forgiveness,
that they beg for in an unconvincing lie.

For they cursed us to die,
fighting for the wrong side.
And now we have gone.
we shall not forgive those,
who lied, posed, convinced us to go,

We ask now,
is the forgiveness of those.
who we harmed, we are sorry.
We didn't know,
but we understand that forgiveness,
is hard for we have not yet forgiven
those that told us it was good to go.
If only we spent more time Loving,
then Hating.
More time Laughing,
then Crying.
More time Fixing,
then Breaking.
More time hugging,
then Hitting.
More time Kissing,
then Biting.

For when that day arrives
we will be able to hold each other,
hand in hand,
arm in arm.
And we will be able to love each other,
Like we should have been doing,
from the very beginning.
As the whistle blows,
We stand too.
An order is bellowed,
Fix bayonets!
The time has come,
For our last breath.
As the whistle blows,
We go forth,
Into the mist.
As the whistle blows,
We die well.
A poem about WW1 and the trenches
I write to express myself,
I write to be someone else.
I write to numb the pain,
I write to feel again.
I write to forget my disgrace,
but really I write to imagine your embrace.
You said hello,
And so did I.
All with such great ease.
Yet now I find,
The word goodbye,
Can, no longer be said
Next page