The best part about poetry
Is not even having to write ourn own poem's
But just relaxing back.
And reading all the other amazing poet's on HP....
Lovely indeed....
And so
Inspiring.


©Lonesome poets poetry
©Brandon nagley

She is a mystery,
A mystery that no one has been able to solve.

There is no telling what happens when her eyes distant itself from the world, looking and longing for something deep within her thoughts.

When her deadly silence creeps over her, leaving everyone far away from her wrath.

When she finds herself alone, blocking and pushing anyone trying to get in.

When she bottles up her emotions, leading everyone to think of something far away from what is genuinely happening.

When she strides past those who oppose her way, acting with no care in the world.

When she abruptly smiles that brightening smile of hers, and laughs that fascinating laugh, causing everyone to wonder what's going on behind her display.

When her style doesn't suite anyones, unique and different from the rest.

When she is understanding of anyones situation, curiosity spiking in everyone as to how she apprehends.

And when silence and stares occur every room she shows up in.

Everyone looks to her, baffled about this young creature.

Everyone asks her, yet no reply is answered.

She gives out the littlest emotions and information, yet only that tiny grain of salt intrigues and bewilders everyone.  

Everyone knows of her, they just do not know who she really is.

And as I said before...

She is a mystery,
A mystery that no one has been able to solve.

wandering aimlessly through the halls
or tears in the bathroom stall
did anyone see her fall?
no, no one at all
she's not that tall
you see the way she hides between the walls
it's not ok
what you say makes her feel like ****
you would never admit
so she stays alone
it's easier than let them know

Consequences in life, privileged and denied.......
Immortality torn and treated as a *****.....

To give, give, give.....
To take, take, take....

In a life full of mistakes, what does it take.....
To break the grips, of life's horrors.....  

We wash ourselves away, in this sea of time......
It seems that one swims, to every obstacle....

Not knowing the facts,
one's life can get very tiresome......

Can one break this rhythm in time,
Can one stay true to their mind.........

But tell me,
oh wise one.
With all your
superior knowledge
and hidden powers.
Are you genuine?
Or are you playing make believe?

One thing I'm sure of is;
you're rather convinced
that you know my soul.
Better than I do.
That my dear Mystic is debatable.

tell me how beautiful is the stars
and how the moon shines so bright
explore every inch of wonders,
embrace the night sky

whisper your wishes
turn off the lights
tell me how your mind
floats in the darkness
when slowly,
you are suffering inside.

When things go wrong…

We cast blame,
We heap accusations,
We shovel suspicion,
We hurl abuse,
We point fingers,
We spit doubt.

Oh God, why war?
Oh God, why ******?
Oh God, why famine?
Oh God, why sickness?
Oh God, why poverty?
Oh God, why injustice?

When things work out…

We award ourselves,
We praise ourselves,
We celebrate ourselves,
We toast ourselves,
We pat ourselves,
We acknowledge ourselves.

I did it,
I did it all,
I did this,
I did that,
I did,
I did.

Did you, really?

I found comfort in your presense
I found purpose in your eyes
I found a place to rest my head
until the sun would rise
I found a place I could call home
I found a place I'd never known
I found a place I now could hold
I found a burst, a flare,  nothing no words to compare
I found my happiness in your expressions
your small quirks the left me breathless
I found you but at the wrong time

write a poem everyday
make it a daily habit
note whatever you've to say
the bitter or the sweet.

stare at the screen before you
or the page if it's so
there's always something new
awaiting your ink's flow.

some you've to dig not much
a few need delving deep
some may feel like feather touch
a few would make you weep.

sometimes the hand would just not move
at other would run like horse
sometimes the words would sing and groove
cry out like waves' roars.

while you write you may bleed
or kiss the blue like bird
jotting down is all you need
the inner voice that's heard.