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 Jan 2016 Breakella
Ami Shae
unfinished
is how i feel
whenever I think of me--
it's like somehow I've forgotten
who I'm supposed to be.
Sometimes I just feel so  "Un"
 Jan 2016 Breakella
The Dedpoet
I walk between life and death,
The hours when the days are like
Stakes to the nocturnal heart.
   And I know a walk among tombstones
Is a like a fresh death when the earth
Is covered with scarlet and scenic
Flowers,
    I can already write my death on
The slab as clearly as I see the onset
Of the dusk upon my sun.
   And I know to be dead is but another
Interminable word,
   Like the carnival rides of my childhood,
Lost in a crowd but thrillingly unknown.
   Tonight the stars speak a hope
In a new year, and all the years disappear like
Geese to the North,
   Like Gnarls of teeth locked in a mongrels
Cry behind enclosed yards.
     I am ready to die,
But instead I will write death and
Write a verse to make one think
One knows the true beauty of life,
    Like the insufferably brilliant
Deaths of heroes told in myth
And legend,
    A dissolved illusion to the real illustration
Caught between worlds of perceptions.
     I see death on a dance floor,
A psalm sung and written by me
As my soul whirls the words in spectral
Atoms and lost in the momentary
Eternity.
       And I remember I'm a just a man
With Latin blood spitting
From the womb of my mother.
    And I am on the same side as my heart,
The hourglass fades,
The brutal eyes of truth facing me,
Fierce and unredeeming,
I dance with death,
And there is nothing I can do now.
I have nothing to prove I was here,
Except the poem
And even the words will fade.
Except the song I wrote for death,
It plays over and over
And death dances eternal.
 Dec 2015 Breakella
Isaac Peña
This one goes to the real poets.
To those who decide to carry the world on their own.
To those who carry hell in their head and a graveyard of lost love stories in their heart
To the brave ones who fight darkness with darkness.
Tho those who the only answer they seek from a god is if there's eternal life for their loved ones, because they know there's no space for them in that paradise.
To those who know that suffering is the most humane feeling there is.
To those who loved and hated the wrong person.
This goes to Lorca isolated, hiding in a closet in New York.
To Unamuno craving to believe in something impossible.
To Quiroga drinking the poison of his sorrow at a hospital.
To Becquer and Espino for dying so young.
To Neruda for cheating on himself so many times.
To Machados' lost spirit.
To Marquez and his melancholic ******.
To Poe's tormented soul and his raven.
To Shakespeare and his Juliet.
To Dante and his story of woe.
This goes for the only beings who can live with a hell inside of them, and still manage to write heavenly things for those in need to read.
This one's for us.
 Dec 2015 Breakella
XIII
They have killed the poet
With the now-dead memories still alive in them
The poet's wrist drowning in blood
For they have bitten their feeder's hand
And now the poet dies little by little by seeing his poems.
 Dec 2015 Breakella
Kaela Warner
I long for his lips on mine
yet when our soles intertwine
I go numb
My heart screams out
yet all that's left is an echo of what once was
a shadow
darkness filled with knives
scraping away form the inside out
in the deepest and utmost corner of my heart
the pain is being hidden

and on the outside
you will witness
my sweetest smile

if only
you will catch a glimpse
behind those eyes
is the loneliness that being kept

if only
you will stop and stare for awhile
you will find out
that i am in despair

i was wondering
if the saying

"in the eyes you will see the real feelings of a person"

is true

because why can't you see?

that i am

alone

crying

and

dying

inside?*

©IGMS
the twin of love is pain
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