Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 Aug 17 Bella Isaacs
efni
your name is on my mind a lot
but not enough, i think

it’s only whenever my pen touches paper
to journal or write poetry, and
whenever my mouth opens to speak.

it’s only what my ears can’t help but hear
between the lines of love ballads and,
what my eyes search for in the morning,
the moment that they open.

08.16.24
chelsea.
When the sun is down
The moon comes around to try & hug her
Night & day are lovers
Forever chasing each other
An endless endeavour like no other
They are meant for one another
Hiding their feelings behind the Earth's cover
During dusk & dawn, they blend their colours
It's their love they utter
The moon adores the sun more during summer
In awe of her in her element
Surrounded by stars, he stays celibate
Astounded by her being above par
Far above, yet still with benevolence
No one comes close, they're irrelevant
Shines so bright, she must be heaven sent
Packages arrive, a scent of dreams unfurled,
The world spins on, secrets tightly curled.
Whispers of truth, in wrappings they disguise,
Promises gleam, beneath deceptive skies.

Like wishes granted on a winter's night,
Deliveries dance, bathed in fleeting light.
Clues unfold, a trail of hopeful signs,
News glimmers bright, where fortune aligns.
Difficult ditches
Beautiful angles emerge
Viewing stars better
At least when you are in the gutter you have a better view of the sky
We continue to argue
In our back and forth
With what little we have
For all that we’re worth

In this do or die
Of choosing sides
In the right side of wrong
On the wrong side of right

No one round here
Wants to hear the truth anymore
My best guess is
That’s what poets are for

We’ve opened a chasm
Then fell into it
Never learning our lesson
As we’re still arguing

Not really sure why
Because there’s no prize
But when you’re deaf, dumb, and blind
It’s hard to see the signs

No one round here
Wants to hear the truth outright
My best guess is
That’s why poets write

Where’d we get the REF
That is keeping score
I’m really not sure
I want to play anymore

Everything I find
Is a waste of time
If their lips are moving
Then I know I’m not buying

No one round here
Wants to hear the truth being said
That’s what poets are for
Would be my best guess
You cannot waste a word
it is made from breath
released as an airy nothing
an elusive shy and singing bird
that only lands
once it is seen or heard
The declaration of love is
a confession of madness
Next page