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Emry Oct 24
I want to write, but what about?
I have nothing to say, no words to make.
Every idea is just a half bake.

I want to learn, but how?
I can't focus for long, my attention span fades.
Every idea it forbades.

I want to love, but whom?
Who would ever have feelings for me?
Doomed to loneliness for eternity.

I've put little effort into this,
But maybe that's ok.
I don't need to work hard every day.
Poetic T Sep 20
We spend to many fractions


taking away or adding up the
                              meaning.

Times are incomplete,
          but we must always
divide every moment so that

everything adds up to the equal
                         breath that we aren't

in control.


But we are but numbers,

                in an equation of now.
Eli May 15
My mind is a minor flutter;
Looping movies within ultimate stutters.
I'd tell you I'm feeling better,
But I am a stick of butter.

I look into gaze of grateful maze,
Only to pop amongst unholy haze.
My mind is beautiful,
But what is the craze?
My ego deserves to jump into my idiot blaze.
I hope this is a phase.

Little do I know that I am an end;
Whether I am today or tomorrow, it depends,
Though it will come soon.
The red blends with my toothpaste.
I am falling apart
I can feel it
How long will I last?
Let my stamina tell you when the time comes
Homunculus Mar 4
I.

Eyes taking survey
of immediate surroundings.
Habitable? Yes.
Presentable? No.
At least not to anyone
lacking the neuroses which
with such resplendent ecology
were given perennial bloom
in the mental landscape
of this peculiar creature. . .  

Dwelling, as he does
within plaster walls
upon concrete floors
beneath fluorescent lights, as they
quietly hum a low B flat and illuminate
filth and fur amassed in quantities
sufficient to reconstruct entire animals,
and perhaps even ecosystems...

Drugs in their various guises and dis-guises
paraphernalia indiscreetly proliferated
Musical implements, instructions, and instruments
supinely littered, almost as profusely
as the mountains of literature courting
avalanche from the rigid repose of
each supportive surface where they rest

Brooms weeping in neglect of their sweeping as
spiders nest betwixt the bristles, but
at least they keep the bugs out...

Records in crates and stacks with
no particular organization. Hmm.
That last line sums it succinctly.
"No particular organization."
Yet he still unaccountably knows
within this squalor where
the minutest of objects reside

His thoughts and actions
are sporadic, leaving linearity
in want of apt expression
For him, it seems the shortest
path between two points
is a frenetic scribble

Getting things done
in a timely manner? Possibly.

Getting sidetracked and forgetting
the original plan? Probab-  HEY
                                                         DID
                                                  YOU
                                                         GUYS

                                                  SEE          
                                                  ­       THAT?!?!?!?!

 

II.

                                And    ­                  
"Whoever lives this way, cannot be well!"
Someone might say, or, perhaps even yell.
Erelong might this assertion be dispelled
                 With them and their opinion. . . . .
                STRAIGHT TO HELL!

For now the music of Debussy fills the air,
  and now this vagabond has found a locus
  a flag and bond of jouissance and care
  arresting him  in implacable focus

Inhaling the aroma of the night
  he raises up his quill with great delight
  and sets the implement in fervent motion
  and bathing in the passions it ignites

He yields to it in rapturous devotion
  and as if under spell or magic potion
  his brain and nerves and muscles all engage
  in spilling forth the fury of an ocean

Society has trapped him in a cage
  ensnared him in frivolity, it seems
  but his ink abounds in freedom on its page
  and guides him to tranquility from rage  

As Luna pours her iridescent beams
  into this weary poet's dreary head
  his mind illuminates with fate's esteem
  and ruminates through labyrinths of dream

As everything he's seen, done, heard, or said
  becomes a tapestry of order, woven
  with chaos as the impetus that's led
  this blessed magnanimity has shed

A light to guide the way; a path to show him
  to Athens' martyred sage whom he's beholden
  who espoused the noble maxim he's now chosen:
"Look deeply in thyself and truly know him."  

Look deeply in thyself, and truly know him!

III.

"If a cluttered desk",
a man once asked,
"Is a sign of a cluttered mind?"
"Of what, then,"
he continued,
"is an empty desk a sign?"
I have ADD or ADHD or whatever they're calling it these days. I was diagnosed as a child, and the condition has persisted with me into adulthood, presenting undeniable challenges and difficulties. This piece is an attempt to illustrate the manifestations, both outward and inward, of what it is like to live with this condition.
Noah Oct 2019
If my train of thought were a real train,
It'd be a high speed bullet one
whizzing by
to fast to see the people in the window
to fast for them to see me
Or else it would be an hour late already
and will it ever come?
ask the people on the platform
as they check their shiny silver watches
It's the third time this week
Left Foot Poet Sep 2017
The muse inquires,
knowing that a question such as this is
cannon fodder, an off-the-shoulder-blouse tease,
just a hint of cleavage, a whiff of parfume,
something to make poet sneeze,
ejecting an answering essay
without a clue where to go, but,
now the fifth gear engaged,
compulsion full,
immédiatement, en ce moment, laisser's aller!
and he knows exactly what to say

what if poet possessed a special character,
to define the sadness that reflects that
summer has had its memory card wiped,
and even though today,
will be a Saturday of
jeans shorts, a halter top, sort of day,
the chill of dreaded winter is not coming,
already present and accounted for,
enchanté, déjanté,
has already encased his heart in ice so thick,
that even if poet drank a Joni case
of his fav summer quaff,
un provence rose,
his seasonal loss cannot be overcome,
the summer man~king is dead

all that in but a single character, a precise capture,
a labor and  time saving device, but
a character with no character
for the labor would be love lost

yet you swear by your succinct emojis,
their immaculate efficient composition,
and I would not trade one accidental,
just-slipped-out I love you
even for ten thousand disheartening heart symbols

would you prefer
|£%!<#
instead of:
I love you so much it is
driving me batshit crazy!


I'm stuck with my troop of twenty six
and their multiple endless quilted rearrangements

call me old and out of fashion,
to your question,
this poem is my ask and answered at 5:13am
In Autumn

Mark Irwin
When within ourselves in autumn we feel the autumn
I become very still, a kind of singing, and try to move
like all things green, in one direction, when within ourselves
the autumn moves, thickening like honey, that light we smear
on faces and hands, then touch the far within one another,
something like autumn, and I think when those who knew
the dead, when they fall asleep, then what, then what in autumn
when I always feel I’m writing in red pencil on a piece
of paper growing in thickness the way a pumpkin does,
traveling at fantastic speed toward orange, toward rot, when
in autumn I remember that we are cold-smitten as I continue
smearing red on this precipice, this ledge of paper over which
I lean, trying to touch those I love, their bodies rusting
as I keep writing, sketching their red hands, faces lusting for green.
ADD
There was an H
Added to my disease

I liked it more
When it helped me see

There is value added
In quick thinking
Reclamation Project
When you're feeling so cold and dull
And when you look in the mirror
  and it's not what you wanted to see
Just sit down and sip some coffee
And put on your favorite socks
Just remember you're you, you're loved,
  and everyone wants you to succeed
So as long as you try, then you'll be alright.
Yeah the results don't matter,
  And there isn't a score to life.
So just try
  and you'll be fine.
motivational dialogue from my eventually successful attempts at getting up and doing things on my to-do list
Malavika Vipin Feb 2019
When
We meet
at the horizon
Pls support
My poetry book is now available
Titled: "When We Meet at the Horizon"

Amazon.com
Notionpress.com
allure Feb 2019
Once a little girl
with chocolate eyes
full of bright determination
and so full of tries
opportunities taken from the left and the right
newspapers
radios
she had so much delight
"You are so bright"
"You'll go far"
"C'mon girl, you know you're a star"
but sometimes you get taken by surprise
and all of a sudden
problems begin to arise
out of nowhere you can't seem to get out of bed
you can't sleep at night due to thoughts in your head
your mind starts to race
like a horse on the track
but instead of running forward
this ones running back
so fast you can't catch him
you're fate's looking grim
your cup was once filled up to the brim
now running on empty
but cannot give up
because soon, my love
you will grow up
almost too fast
but one day
you'll see
you'll be able to say
take that, world,
I am me.
and I am okay.

c.p
This is a poem about Mental Health, coming from a personal perspective.
Remember, it always gets better. Things take time, and everything happens for a reason. When one door closes, another opens. You just need to find your door!
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