Confessional Poetry - Hello Poetry

Jul 2019

Graff1980

Untitled

Poor poetic friend
wasn’t self-respecting
kept on doubting
what she was doing
so, I told her,

You do quite alright.
As far as the amount I write.
Well, I do not have much of a social life,
because I like the quiet nights.
Plus, my job provides more free time
to create free rhymes
then most nine to fives.

Jul 2019

John Edward Smallshaw

Filling in the blanks

Snow and Jalapeno
hit them hard but
take it slow,
them things kills you
don't you know?

and Grammarly puts up a flag
makes it **** instead of kills
but
if I've been killed a thousand times
that's a lot of kills,
init Grammarly?

Jul 2019

beth fwoah dream

late night

there are no ghosts
in the sky,

my tabby cat wears the moon,
curled into the corner
like a sleepy fog,

the dreamscape is made
of silver and gold,

you (like always)try to get my
attention and i (like always) ignore
you, trying to write
my poem…

#loving #you

Jul 2019

Graff1980

Untitled

I adore your art form.
Each line is like rainbow paint
upon a rose petal canvass,
Each word a wonder
above and under.
Concealing whilst revealing
eloquent metaphors
With sweet allusions to
The illusions of life we
dance through
in poetry.

All-encompassing spring blooms
that blossom
bright flowers
letting little silk dancers
rise with the wind
and descend again
to the soft soil
of my mind.

Jul 2019

Graff1980

Untitled 247

What a shame
the people exclaim,

seeing sorrow
float up in smoke
as people in pain
just swim away.

With each
heart ache,
love break,
or big mistake

people take
a step in
the wrong direction
burning bridges
and building trenches
with a wall in the back
as they fight a war
and never come back.

Each day,
puts them miles away
from safety.
Till, all hope is gone
Till, even the brightest
right becomes wrong,
and the man
in the mirror
becomes a
bearded stranger.

Jul 2019

Graff1980

Untitled 246

Who am I?
Just a husk
that has a name,
just a moving body
that claims
some sort of
superior
consciousness.

Who am I?
All flesh and stardust
particles that
become all of us
susceptible
to the inevitable
when my flesh
will cease to mend.
Am I my mortality?

Is this body made
of American skin,
made from some
specific region
that denotes
the value
of my existence.

I remember this
fleshy prison
full of emotions
that I have been
caged in
even when I am
constantly changing.

Who am I?
A puppet on strings
who dreams
of one day being
a real human being,
or at least
a reasonable
facsimile thereof.

Who am I
but a product
of every previous
generation,
a foundation
fitted with
the artistic
endeavors
of the clever.

Who am I?
but a single
ballerina
twirling
on a spinning rock
wondering
which will stop
and drop first.

Who am I?
But a finger
that points towards
heaven's dream
smiling at
sharp clouds that
pierce
the day lit sky.

Who am I?

Jul 2019

Devon Webb

7 Reasons Why It's Hard Being a Poet

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.

We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

It's worth it though.

Jul 2019

Shannon Jeffery

To Be(20w)

To be what they want
Is to win a battle
To be who you are
Is to win a war

Jul 2019

Graff1980

Untitled

You are beautiful my dear,
and if it is not clear I fear
given less distance
between us
I would let you lie to me.

I would let you
string sweet syllables
of seduction,

till my mind’s reductions
causes me to collapse
like a black hole
devouring everything
that is us
and letting nothing
ever escape.

Jul 2019

Graff1980

Untitled 244

The green light lit
a pool of dog ****,
as I barely missed
stepping in it,
but managed to hit
a puddle of human ****.

Still, this is better then
the messes I’ve been
stepping in
my entire life;

Belt, boot, broom handle,
righteous salvation
in the distorted visage
of a vicious parent.

Locker collisions
as schoolbooks were driven
from hands to the floor,
cruelty that dulls with
time and distance.

Packaged pill urges,
dull knife intentions,
barefoot winter behavior,
death, the hopeful savoir
who never flew in
to save me.

Teeth grating
I have been hating
everything I ever was
because,

because,

because…

I can’t tell you why
cause now
I don’t feel like
the bad guy
who deserves to die.