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Lyda M Sourne
It's 3am

I'm on the phone
No one's awake and I'm alone

It's 3am

The radio's on
Songs are played on lonely station

It's 3am

I'm in my bed
My eyes are open and sleep has fled

It's 3am

I'm on the balcony
The sky is dark and just quite scary

It's 3am

Some windows have lights
Could they also not sleep tonight

It's 3am

I'm still awake
When will life ever give me a break
Insomniac nights are the worst. And it's been going on like this for quite awhile.
Emily Miller
My father walked me down the aisle,
But my mother held my arm.
He went with me,
But we went not towards the altar,
But towards the door.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And the organ rang through the church,
Humming through the elaborate crown molding,
Carved by my ancestors.

He went,
Not beside me,
But before me,
And I watched,
As he was illuminated by the bright,
Texas sun.

My father walked me down the aisle,
But I did not wear white.
My father walked me in silence,
And I shed tears not for a man standing at the altar,
But for the one I would never see again.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And no veil obscured my face.
All eyes were upon me, but not for my pristine beauty,
Instead for my clenched jaw and furrowed brow,
Severe and fierce to distract from my glassy eyes.

My father did not leave me at the end of our walk to sit beside my mother.
She clung to me for support and sobbed breathlessly,
And I carried her with one hand,
My sister the other,
And walked towards my future.
A future family,
Not one person more,
But one person less.
I walked,
One final time,
With him.

My father walked me down the aisle,
And I will never forget it.
Hundreds of eyes isolating my family from the crowd,
Slow and muffled sounds drowning in the deafening beat of my heart,
Blurred faces staring,
Black heels clacking against the cobbled path from the church,
The anguished wails of my mother,
The whimpering of my sister,
And the wooden box that glided before us,
A string tied to our patriarch,
The pin key of our family,
Pulled taut and then snipped with the slam of the hearse doors.

My father walked me down the aisle,
Before I had a chance to grow up.
He walked me,
Out of the church,
Away from the altar,
Never to be walked again.
people change everyday
so i vow to fall in love with you
every time the sun rises

If I die today,
Would tears flow,
like a rushing river?
Or the clouds weep,
screaming in thunder?
Would the earth break,
shaking in anger?
Will the world care?
And for a moment,
forget laughter?

If I'm down
to my final heartbeat.
Will anyone be there,
sitting beside me?
When I draw,
the very last breath.
Will you hold my hand,
and feel upset?

If I go,
without saying goodbye.
I want you to know,
that I really tried.
To live and love,
to endure and smile.
To find the truth,
in this realm of lies.

If I'm fated
of leaving soon
to talk with God,
in his glowing room.
I'll be rejoicing,
when I face my doom.
Even I end like a flower,
that withered,
before it blooms.

If inside the casket I lay,
Would there any heaven for me to stay?
Or will my sins, demand me to pay?
Don't even know, how much this life has weighed.

If it's my time, to step on the scale.
Done of my part, in this play.
A lot of regrets,
but nothing more to say.
Wish me luck.
If I die today.
Shae Nicole
We can't go backwards
But if we could it would be
To that very night

Holding each other
Time standing still
And a blissful,
Extremely tender
Loving innocence
Surrounding us

No passion
Just simple love
Where a simple touch
Can sing a hundred songs
Patrick Edwards
I guess I'll have to make it up.

    A bird came to me, she did not chirp
    And he did not whisper.
    The wings sheathed on its back                  
    Were in no disrepair.

    Was it blue? How hard to tell, for its
    Skin and coat were of glass, but

    This bird a flower.
           So far from bloom.
           So frail i'll keep it, to nurse in

Not all birds need sun, nor all flowers flight.
But this of mine will soon have both, for mine must wrest day from night.
phil roberts
As I lie here
With eyes closed softly
I think deeply of you
And I inhale stars
The scent of twinkling light
So fresh and alive
Sparkling gentle inside me
And I want to write this feeling
So tentatively
As it must be
Like writing words on bubbles
Delicate and precious
Begging them not to disappear
Like dreams in the morning

                                        By Phil Roberts
This may well be my last poem here.
The remnants of my life
Will soar high in the sky.
The remnants of my eyes
Will visualize the unbuilt Taj Mahal.
The remnants of my heart
Will open it to the heartless beings.
The remnants of my legs
will travel the world.
The remnants of my hands
Will work for peace.
The remnants of my voice
Will sing forever in this globe
The remnants of my mind
Will think high to shape a new blooming earth.
My remnants will lie forever
In the soil, mingling with nature,
Even after my last breadth,
To fulfill my immortal desire.
I have written the poem in the emotion that what if my life proves to be too small to accomplish my high ambitions or desire...plz make an effort to read it..
the girl
she makes the world so beautiful
she had come to rule
but she was never given the chances equal

she was forced to silence
forced to smile
give those people another glance
even when she will be overlooked this while

the girl did it all
she made big from real small
learned the smooth and the rough
but she was given another bluff

her, she was thrown around
laughed and joked about
but she smiled throughout
her tears for herself when she drowned

she went ahead, even behind at times
she fought for herself at every step
her words and thoughts, her lines
well thought, did had a bite.

the girl,
her success was a victory
not hers alone, from all bulls
she rose to make a history
Amidst the smoke and light and laughter
Along the smiles and cheers thereafter

A sound is bled, wrung free from strings
It bounds and treads and wholly sings
Inside each song, a secret’s moved
Not right nor wrong or frequent proved
The message dances from bow to ear;
A coded trance of love and fear
From left to right the story rings
Of Death and light the Cello brings
The covert tale engulfs the room
It vibrates truth to those who loom
The Cello knows for why it’s played
Its secret lost, both gone and stayed

In the smoke and light and laughter
Music lies and cries thereafter
i find it, like a book finds its reader.
like the reader finds an old friend between the pages.
and the friend, their love returned in full.
and love, its givingness become relay.
and searching, its pilgrimage.
Like seeing the ghosts of the people I loved
I scan through crowds and avoid their faces
Faces as magnets attract my eyes
My vision is blurry, it's time to go
I stumble through hallways
My head hangs low,
Avoiding those faces as magnets.

The girl with the piercings
The guy with tattoos
That person whose hair is a dark grayish blue

Those people have faces as magnets.
A poem about my anxiety of running into old friends and making new ones.
tired because of the things he does,
always remembering where i was.

these fickle things nostalgia brings,
icicle fingers touching ribs—stings.

— The End —