Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
i see evidence of a life i used to live
everywhere i go

faces of what i think are people i used to
know, but are really just someone i do not
and will never know

remnants of memories scattered around
for me to find, a cruel scavenger hunt i
never wanted to play

the ghost of me lives here in my shadow
always here,
following me around

i think
some days it is the shadow
and i am left straddling the blurred lines
of who i used to be and who i am now
whoever she is

and some days i do not know
which one
i would rather be
i do not know
which one
i would rather be.
And what do I serve with tea?

Of a cake layered with words - a slice
A croissant with stirring smilies
Quiche with quaint archaic spice -
Fresh from a poet's repository.

In the clink and chime of quills and ***
And spoons that stir the brew of tea
Dark or creamed, winter or spring
Here's to a cup of poetry.
Please move the moon, this man is lost,
drunk with the sight of towering mountains.
With mute desire, ten years ago,
each bough of promise built an ailing tree.
But now that tree, it’s older now,
and stands on sinking sand, alone.
Old thoughts, why did you hang around?
Old thoughts, you’ll grow older without me now.

Who am I? You took me with you.
Next day my eyes didn’t open ‘til two.
Next time I’ll try to think things through.
Who was I? I thought it was me and you.

Two generations of mistakes
with lovers; those years wishing on a star.
I was satisfied with sadness,
but you wanted someone more.
Someone to hold your hand at night,
whom you actually wanted to feel there.
Someone who could stop you crying,
whom you actually wanted to be there.

Who am I? You took me with you.
Next day my eyes didn’t open ‘til two.
Next time I’ll try to think things through.
Who was I? Was it ever me and you?

Hey, Pretty Girl, what’s both’rin you?
I heard your phone-call by the fire exit.
Trust me, I’ve seen those Dollhouse Mountains,
so won’t you spend some time with me?
I’ll tell you loads of stories of
the days I only write about,
so smell the incense in the air,
and fall asleep under my arm.

Who am I? You took me with you.
Next day my eyes didn’t open ‘til two.
Next time I’ll try to think things through.
Who was I? It was always me or you.

Back home, closed off from this adventure,
his father sat still awake past midnight,
remembering his clever son,
remembering that time was gone.
Alone in yellow house, Ness Boy,
turned away from morning window light,
those words they stayed there in his head,
what the man on the little island said:

‘It’s not every day you wake up to a view like that;
doesn’t matter the weather, you’d never get tired of it.’
Dear Ghostly Boy. 7
The sea is still today
It's cerulean blue and gold
I think of the thoughts it carries
Within its hidden folds.
It's  touch is soft and gentle
It soothes the ache of years
And I wonder how many waves
Are made from fallen tears.
Dear everyone,

This is such a surprise! Thank you all for your likes, loves and responses. I have not been very active on Hello Poetry, but will get back in action soon. So much appreciated. Thank you Hello Poetry for selecting this as a daily. Thank you so much my friends and fellow poets for taking the time to read this poem of mine. It means the world to me.  Love to everyone **
lazy summer days of green,
with the scent of soft flowers
in dark hair & stones in tired
palms, always failing to skip
and yet still rippling, shifting,
breaking the surface of
the still glass blue before
our dancing toes;
and maybe that's all it's
supposed to be, really–
hearts wide open and
vivid in the simplicity
of blooming hearts,
a lifetime of memories
nipping at heels pressed
far into the dirt, & yet
we still run wild alongside
twisted branches that
sway to the music carried
upon wind and waves–
granting our permission
as it dares us to relish in
possibility, letting the
present hit us full on
as a true home is found
among other people
i love my friends and this poem is about our day at the park. they mean so much to me.
how maybe it’s strange that always we are surrounded by the stars
yet rarely do we actually look
yet rarely can we actually see anything more than dim sparkles
in navy blue like glitter spilled on jeans and. the moments
i’ve taken to stare for a minute get stuck in my mind
like permanent hot glue or gorilla glue or whatever that stuff is called.
and memories don’t leave, sometimes they say “hey do you remember me?”
laying on the trampoline when i was supposed to map the constellations
but i don’t think i cared.
there was so much to look at.
by the big loud lake at night, the brightest they’ve been.
by the less big less loud lake at night when no one wanted the day to end.
holding on to small time.
sometimes the stars stare back.
3:00 am cold driveway pavement and shivers and you
and you and you
and the time they danced for us.
the night said ‘here watch i made this for you..
while they sleep you are here wondering what is next?
what is next?’
all the times i really s a w the stars
she’s a flower, tall beaming and bold ready to take on the winter and summer as easily as she flicks her wrists to get ready to write that next stanza, a force to be reckoned with, kaleidoscope of emotions delving into personality traits you didn’t know existed but wish you had so you could understand that flick of the wrist that much better, secrets screaming through quiet whispers down the channels of her ears when she swallows truth like a multivitamin, filling her body up with things like horoscopes and music and the constant thought of an inevitable end

you like her sort of mystery, like her dark eyes because they remind you of the peaceful nights you had back home, her dark hair because it reminds you of the way nature somehow decided to bless her with those Balkan genes once again, hollowed out vegetables becoming instruments and cold soups becoming delicacies, you’ve never had it so good

dance to melodies only the winds of the mountains know, sing to songs only the shepherds might hear, grab her by the hips and sing and dance and take that hand of hers and kiss that tired wrist just so she can lift it again and hug you so as if to say thank you, thank you for staying whole up until now, thank you for finding me
started on a euphoric moment when I found out I got chosen as the daily poem, ended with some truths
please speak to me in a series
of sentences beloved + passionate,
this temporary oasis settling
into our curves and bones,
3 little words forcing a way out
from behind grinding teeth,
and the velvet of honesty
upon our hearts not shown.
it sounds ridiculous but after losing my first love i’m afraid to open up to someone new at the risk of getting hurt again. and i’m afraid to be honest about my feelings. i’m still so scared of vulnerability, i guess.
Next page