Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
 
Days turn into nights.
You're not here with me.
I'm a little child lost.
Frightened by all I see.
Angry words were said.
Our love is not in vain.
We must look ahead for now.
Outside I hear the rain.
Come back Into my arms.
Whisper that you care.
Make me feel the world is ours.
Kiss me if you dare.
You're not what I see
Dark and sordid history
Just a mystery
"These days
I'll sit on corner stones
And count the time in quarter tones to ten, my friend
Don't confront me with my failures
I had not forgotten them"
Jackson Browne

<>

these days,
you can come by tween
the mostly soft warming cracking of Dawn,
and the early born-ing of
the first peek of a full grown
but yet
sleepy sunrise,

you'll find me siting on a
asshard dock,
two seagulls staring at the
human interloper,
alone with the threads in my
hardened head,
beating time in casual rhyme,
because that's what poets do,
to warm up their
tongues & toes,
clear their eyes
and
sniffling nose,
their partly opened,
party closed,
throats, eyes and
give up, sacrifice
the longest list of little lies,
that makes (forces) us to get up  in the undimming earlies,
when it's just me, the gulls,
& the minnows poking around,

the fluke,
smarter but not wiser,
further out in deep water,
waiting to be caught

and
the cool blood barely flows,
until the rising orb warms
our fragility,
and we review the stories old,
that make us cold at night promising ourselves that
today you'll do that thing(s)
you've been putting off for years,

"Don't confront me with my failures"
Jackson pleads, but I concede,
thinking tell me them
one
mo' time,
make me unrighteous,
make me whole,
then take me,
holy displayed fully,

and the
first poem of the day,
will be my
confession total,
without reservation
and yet muse on
honor
something I thought I knew,
but needing a
closer examination
it might've been
dishonor
that was what
I was truly
knew
<>
Sunrise
July 5
'25
sitting on the dock
by the bay,
would I

lay down with a lie?
A tough outer shell
Soft inner core, within
In crevices deep
Lies sweet water still

Calm and swift
The duck glides by
The pond
Where predators lurk

Like the powerhouse
Its energy source, profound
When it lights up
Brightens the whole town

An inspiration
Lies in the unlikeliest of places
Manifests itself
In Petals of lotuses

Sometimes in life’s unexpected turns
Time unveils
Solutions right
Hidden
In plain sight
Was inspired by my friend’s words

“Something’s really bugging me…
and since I know there's no solution
I’ll just keep it all bottled up" - Priti
It does not take much.
To give a kind word or two
Compliments and such.
 Jul 5 Druzzayne Rika
Ash
these echoes are still in my mind

(that look in your eyes,
the one you gave across the world)

scraps of you torn apart by time

(the promises we made,
wavering like a conquered flag)
this one is very visual to me in a way I can't communicate in the main body. the words are on a battlefield, but few in number - they're the wind, the ashes, and the last remnants of a war long past. it's the quiet that is the strongest emotional pull. the silence, the little remains of a destruction that was once there.
isn't it strange, that you meet yourself in different people, in new faces,
The person you witness and become, the imprint remains
It is part of you, subdued but brewed like cyclonic wind
Decode others with empathy, look beneath the eyelids
The door to the soul, it looks just like mine
From the exterior, what is, all these coverings?
We have hidden the warmth quite beneath everything.
In this reality
Her and I never met
In this verse my path
Bypassed that regret
Yet only to fall
For another one
Who'd break my heart
Before she's done
And on to another
Setting sun
  Of another multi
Universal conundrum
...
Traveler Tim
You have to let go and not hold on
When life's past has cut you to the bone
Cast away the anchors
grasp
Cut the ropes , drop sails on the mast
Check the weather that the sunrise casts
Let go , Let go ,
. . . the ugly past
 Jun 29 Druzzayne Rika
Lily
Simply words, without meaning,  
in a partly empty book.  
An empty page, not yet written,  
takes its time to fill the look.

Naming past and naming future  
the pain, the joy, the tears.  
And always, in some fragile echo,  
My deepest pain appears.
Next page