Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
jdm Sep 2021
Abysmal adulation, my spinal cord reverberates harmonious change.
Obscure illusions immersed inside inquisitive provocative thoughts.
Who can deny such devouring primal endeavors of melodic balladry.
Beneath each aching desire—strangled deep in the memory I scorn.
Pen in hand, I hear the call, when one door closes my altruism is key.
James Rives Sep 2021
when a deep love grips you, you don’t mind—

you savor it and say thank you.

it takes you by surprise and suffocates you, hand on throat— callous, stern, kind.

at first it scares you, then comfort envelopes. possibility emerges.

you cough, your lacquer-coated, oak-like lungs tapped dry and somehow full, heart still deep, and thoroughly unsure which way leads home.

you’re still whole and never won’t be, but something tells you there’s another piece out there.

the hand on the throat; the shrapnel in your lungs; the serenity behind a contented chuckle at some half-assed joke.

all the same, it’s real. and you know it. and it won’t leave you, even if things don’t end the way you want.

it’s been said that it’s better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. I want to say it’s true.

cough as much as you need, ask for a drink, and speak deeply and honestly without losing yourself.
Not sure where this came from but it’s about time I wrote something different
C Biluk Sep 2021
Show me a circle,
and I will show you
one of everything.
SuperNova Apr 2021
All my heart has to give
while it's beating like a clock,
to share its warmth for when you cry,

to make you bloom inside
your deep blue mind

All the strength I can muster
before I can't walk myself,
to bring you back from beside the cliff,

to route your daydreams
back home

All the time
I don't have to spare,
to lullaby the demons away

even if it means
I'll be burned by flame,

I'm not here to amend for my past neglect,
but I'm asking for a smile,
I am yet to respect
ItxNotTrixh Feb 2021
she gives her hands
     but shes still left with her head
she gives that too
     but shes still left with her heart
she gives her heart
     but it still hurts like hell
so she gives herself
     and now there's nothing left
     to give.
i actually wrote a poem called “toss” a while back and its basically this poem but instead of the word “give”, it has the word “toss”. the poem always sounded a bit off to me so i decided to change that one word, toss, and now it feels like a whole new poem sheesh. the power of words amirite ?
d Aug 2018
My heart hurts and everything seems wrong.
Tears stream down my face right as time is frozen.
And you're the cause, I hate you for that.
The years I've spent hating you for letting our love die is now something I deeply regret.
I finally get that you sacrificed yourself just so I could be happy.
You let your heart break and shatter completely just so mine could heal.
But you also made me suffer something worse than death.
And that makes me hate you.
You let me cry and cry and cry for so long just so I wouldn't suffer, but that was my suffering.
I hate you for that too.
You didn't stop me when I yelled names and profanities at your face repeatedly as I in the hallway for 'cheating' on me, and people thought I was crazy.
I hated you a lot for that.
But mostly I hate you because no matter how much I try to forget you or our love, I can't.
You did everything just so I'd forget or hate you, but now you realize that all that suffering was for nothing.
I love you,
And I always will.
But we both don't deserve this.
Francie Lynch Apr 2020
I've passed the homeless on the street,
Wondering if today they'll eat,
And I cry, Why me?

I know plenty who attend AA,
And many who didn't make today,
And I cry, Why me?

I know there's millions unemployed,
As dwindling aid keeps them buoyed,
And I cry, Why me?

They're lonely and they're isolated,
The throngs, apart and dissipated,
And I cry, Why me?

Many friends and family die,
Yet still I cry, Why me?

Why me, indeed, a plaintiff wail.
Why me? Why me?
Until I fail.
It's a question many survivor's of disasters ask themselves.
Time to get out there and do something positive.
Francie Lynch Mar 2020
The Receptionist's counter is too close to the forever waiting room.
The Nexts are trying their patient penances;
Some seem to read;
Others appear to listen to the television;
There's no dialogue,
Except for the Dr.'s assistant,
And, the Receptionist.
Any conversation would be idle,  and not heard anyway.
They sit on pins, listening for their names.
Super Tuesday held no kryptonite for Super Joe, remarked the talking head.

The Dr. will see you in three years.
I fist pump and spin to leave,
Seeing a blur of corralled, bowed, preoccupied heads.
A frail face lifted up, and smiled for me.
Happy for me.
Truly the best medicine.
if i cannot sing
      and cannot touch
i will prove that
       i can heal myself
through the act
       of healing others
july 11th, 2017.

scribbled truths gleaned
from six years of recovery.

kalica delphine ©
Next page