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Aubrey  Mar 2011
Poety Haiku 1
Aubrey Mar 2011
Too introspective
to write novels; pondering
self takes too much time.
wehttam  Jun 2014
6 Ducks
wehttam Jun 2014
So writing less
and less than before.
As is losing a cressindo
is the score
of the symphonies
rhapsody.  Musickally
non talented, has magic
left the air.  
Assuming we are
all homeless and
treated by the
dust, reason.
Just completely out
on the dolly I trucked
the word Laureate in on.
Parting furnature with
lasting thoughts of
desire, for a thesourus
or a dictionary for
holistism.  The unholy
dead have starved them
selves after dieting on my
quarrel similarly, I may
need to be an action star
to recieve the spirit of
entrepidness again.  
Laziness has met the design
of my libido, and I can not
ever imagine being single.
No face to book, unless of
course to reprove prophetering.
And No, seems to be the
one and only world,
I had to be in.  Hittin it like an
old cloud with silver linings.  
Like slang.  Not really having it.
and *******, sexism, troubled
teens, the things of this world
that bother the US Marshals.
Actually begging the President
let me have his job and Joe's car.
What person uses the word
chortle to get through a
chidleish man.  Anyways,
heres to thinking of writing
poetry and leaving the under
world to be a monster,...
Anyways!  
I so much prefer to not over
write a zeal such as a poets.
Super trusted, trusty,
like an understanding
about cowboys with guns
in hip holsters, working
cattle and brushing
there teeth twice daily.
Yea, there teeth,
some here on the bottom
and not many on the top.
But ya no, not many
people think about tooth
brushes.  Teeth brushes
thats like a scratch on
the chalk board with out
finger nails.  I'll be the
poety lauretey kind of person
that loves to die young
and get old.  Ill be the
most misunderstood
thing on the face of the
earth and have to eat
a ham sandwich or
something.  Ill be the kind
of person who just
doesnt get some relationships.
Like, peanut butter and pickle
cereal.  Or socks made with
holes in them.  ***, sir,...
what are you writing?
Ill say poems, they say you
are not a poet, and Ill say
try some pocket lint to
clone a poodle or something.
Most of the time,
Ill crack a huge smile
and simply pleasure some
one and they will say 'What."
With out a question mark.
Then for some reason
punctuation is a majorly
late subject to emoticons
and dragon lords in
movie scrips.  An now, meeting
the reason that I felt no muse was
that I have been laughing out
loud at intellegence as is the
genuis of carisma.  Who cares
if Im not smart?  Graduating
is such a bore.  Gum is not ever
a turn on, and some way watching
people chew it is rude.  Comparing
two doves to each other is Darwinism.
Living alone with my mother and
step father is not going to last long.
But serves as the most important
thing to do now.   Any of the promises
of reading dedicated poetry is
almost to much favor.  Is there a
way to stay the allostatic load
of a perfectly running deisel
engine.  Where do poems find
gas?  or fuel as sir does say.
And now, what to do with a
wonderful heart.  I am pleased to
say that I am almost the King, but
must impress the most boring
people on earth without the
giant panda bear of a
poet that has made me
love this song.
Kevin Williams  Oct 2017
Untitled
Kevin Williams Oct 2017
I want to write fantasy
I keep writing poety
I want to write something bigger than the truth
I write things small but heart felt
I want to write fantasy
teach lessons elusive
I want to write a story that lasts
and find these simple words
I want to write fiction holding secrets
buried links for the dedicated
This is what I write
I want to write poety?
No, no I want to write fantasy
Right?
Marian  May 2013
For ~Hailey L~
Marian May 2013
For a sweet friend to me,
A better friend she could not be,
I give her my friendship and love;
As she is my gift from above.
She is a friend sweet,
I am glad we both did meet,
Here on HP;
And I look forward to reading her poety.
I love you,
For my friend in the sky of blue,
I shall love you forever;
And we love one another!

~Marian~
For Hailey L!!! Thanks for being my friend!!! :) ~<3
Kay  May 2015
A letter
Kay May 2015
To anyone who has cared,
I'm sorry I leave you with this burden upon you now. To bear the weight of another lost cause. I am sorry I left you with so much mess to clean up. Clorox removes the blood, but the image is still there, isn't it ? I could apologize for everything, even by existence truly. But I am tired. I have exhausted all that was in me. My soul is tired. Tired of being strong. Tired of trying to please everything, and everyone. I am tired of being who you want me to be, I am tired of being misunderstood. Of having no one care enough to pull me back in when I needed it most. You made it obvious tonight, that you were tired of me. Tired of me, and my emotional baggage. Of my demons, of my problematic life. Trust me, I dont blame you. Anyone would have exhausted faster than you did. You pushed til it was evident, you were running on your last bits of sanity. I am sorry, I did everything I promised that I wouldn't do. I've made it harder for you; although so many times, I've tried so so much harder to make it so much more easier. I always failed. One of the many things I was never good at. Although, I'm staring at my screen, the luminosity hurting my eyes, wishing you'd try and push and care. I put myself in this position. I lied and said I was okay, I wasn't. I was breaking, being torn apart into pieces so unrecognizable. I was crying, I was heaving, and you pushed. I saw, but I pushed back. And i guess, Sweetheart, I guess that you simply couldn't take it anymore. I dont blame you. I'm horrible, a mess. You deserve better. A girl who would sing you lullabies with her smooth soft voice. Someone who threaded easily and gracefully. Rather, not a person who cried and screamed in agony because of her own personal torment. Not a girl born with two left feet, so clumsy I was in everything. I say was, and not am, because all I feel now is the dying embers of a soul that once was. And not is. All I feel is the ashes of a life that could have sprouted vibrantly and beautifully, but rather allowed the weeds to consume her. You were never one for poety, and I guess you'll never understand what I say, would you ? I guess I could apologize for that too. Even when I'm gone I'm confusing you, causing worry and doubt and hurt. What a sad excuse of a life, right ? I'm sorry I let you in so much, only to bring you so very down. I should have saved you from the fall. Who knows, you might just never read this. And all my words, my inconsistent, depressive ***** would be lost to times. I am a waste. A sad shell of a girl, a ghost of a pretty face. I left you without a warning, without a whisper. Without a sound. Im sorry my love, for the incomparable grief that I have ensued to your sensitive soul. I hope you do find someone better, I hope she treats you like I should have, like I couldnt have. I could have heard you said, I pushed you away, it was my fault. But you just wouldn't understand how depressing it could get. How ******* sad I felt. I haven't talked to anyone in the past 3 days. I lied when i said it was just today. I lied because you had exams. Maybe one day, you'd find this, and you'd hate me even more for the fact that yet again, she's hidden something from you. Yet again, I have lied.
I'm sorry.
Maybe the ***** would hit my veins before I do. Maybe the meds would.
And maybe, you'd be happier eventually without me around.
I'm sorry love. I'm sorry.
And maybe you'd figure out that I'm gone when you're done taking your space as well.
First the sky
lets loose a cloud,
suddenly I'm drowning
in the emptiness of shadows,
the silence of alone.
Vacant now
but revisited often,
the space within
once occupied by you.
The love we shared,
a beautiful mess
of memories
I can't forget.
A grievance of time,
I waste days and nights on you,
pen of black ink running,
writing poety
to express how much
you meant to me.
Truly
words fall short,
a fraction of these feelings
of love,
fragments of heart
devoid of you
yet hopelessly devoted to you.
It is an odd thing
to fall in love with Winter,
the realization
moments are now memories,
a beautiful tragedy.
In the end
what was once freshly beginning
is now rotten and stale.
I stink of regret,
an ache with a desperate wish
I could forget you.
As the night drags on,
the hole within me deepens,
a hollowing sound,
the echo of the moonlight
disappearing into the sea.
Chill wraps around me
an avalanche of snow,
like all flowers destined to decay
without light,
I sink into cold shoulders
of midnight blues.
Missing you.
Is there no fate worse
than death,
except in the suffering
of the living left
grieving the loss of what was
or what will never be?
Perhaps
someday
the sun will see it fit
to shine again,
revive the dead,
wither the pain
within me;
place my heart
on the pedastal
of love's elusive bloom.
Im not sure what's worse, the breaking or the tedious journey of putting the pieces back together again. The end of holding on, and beginning the process of letting go.
Mike Essig Sep 2015
Out of the depths I cry to thee...*

wake into difficulty
from lovely sleep
of night's negation

to news from the
bird world sung
and insects that know

what finds its way
early into this
familiar room

two of gloom mornings
in glued sequence

sunrise of grey
clouds scudding

of light opaline
through windows
diffused

are windows only
worlds of open

is rain a form
of loss

and truth but
power moving

all melts and
can be replaced

the soul sinks

a day of grey
makes a day
of blues

death spiral
         of the spirit

when did I
become so weak
against the intractable
what is of daybreak

cruel the new has
become

and terrifying
and
continual effort

time not a friend
as clocks threaten
actions untaken

the mereness
of mortality
disappoints

sand mostly gone
to the final
hourglass' bottom

distance incomprehensible
away a way which way

each day a fainter path

fading notes of
unstruck chords

save me from

this cruel unwritten
poem of morning

this syntax of unbidden
meteorology

oh lift me up
and desire
make young

break my human fall

beauty and joy
cannot be sundered

we live by grace
or not at all

allow me survive
what must arrive

for every broken
poety fool

that famous final
Day of Decide
I do not write poetry
because
Great dead men on my shelves
have done it

I must be busy with
something that's mine.

I do not write poetry
because
Birds by the millions fly
north to their own preachers

I must fly to my own east.

I do not write poetry
because
The sun dances in the sky
on a flower-filled day

I must be there to watch it.

I do not write poetry
because
Though the dogs in the yard
Have not bathed for ages

They ask for a hug
and I must give it.

I do not write poetry
because
The wounds of my past
fester now and then

I must be there to bind them.

I do not write poetry
because
The father of my children
is the best cook in the world

I must be there to love him.

I do not write poetry
because
The child wants boots
to scale his own mountain

I must be there to free him.

I do not write poety
at all--
because I live it.
First uploaded to Instagram on Nov 1, 2017
Nicole Ormerod  Dec 2013
Untitled
Nicole Ormerod Dec 2013
I hate to say it
But reading his poety
Breaks my very heart

— The End —