Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Strung Aug 2020
Chipped or ***** or dying
and you can't look past it.
What's special about new? Or is it
that it is
unused?
How much beauty
can you see
in damage?
In use?
I'd like to believe you see worth
in the imperfections
of me.
But what do I know
of your soul, really? And who is to say
you will leave me in any better shape
anyway...
All I can do is hope.
Harley Hucof Apr 2020
Spirits and shadows living in obscure extremities
I move freely among them since i was a litlle kid

I am familiar with their world just as they are familiar with mine
Funny mysterious entities looking out for me in the most critical times

And they stare at me, but not with their eyes
Just as i see them without using my sight

And their voice springs out from my belly
Telling me to chase my desires endlessly

I obey and i am awed

For i traded my senses to a merchant disguised as a god

I chase the serpent and i consult death to my left
My time has not yet come , the spirits smile and i know i am blessed.


Words Of Harfouchism
Meaning nothing
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
A Surfeit of Light
by Michael R. Burch

There was always a surfeit of light in your presence.
You stood distinctly apart, not of the humdrum world—
a chariot of gold in a procession of plywood.

We were all pioneers of the modern expedient race,
raising the ante: Home Depot to Lowe’s.
Yours was an antique grace—Thrace’s or Mesopotamia’s.

We were never quite sure of your silver allure,
of your trillium-and-platinum diadem,
of your utter lack of flatware-like utility.

You told us that night—your wound would not scar.
The black moment passed, then you were no more.
The darker the sky, how much brighter the Star!

The day of your funeral, I ripped out the crown mold.
You were this fool’s gold.

Keywords/Tags: surfeit, light, presence, chariot, Thrace, Mesopotamia, silver, gold, platinum, antique, grace, heirloom, diadem, crown, tiara
Michael R Burch Mar 2020
At Once
by Michael R. Burch

Though she was fair,
though she sent me the epistle of her love at once
and inscribed therein love’s antique prayer,
I did not love her at once.

Though she would dare
pain’s pale, clinging shadows, to approach me at once,
the dark, haggard keeper of the lair,
I did not love her at once.

Though she would share
the all of her being, to heal me at once,
yet more than her touch I was unable bear.
I did not love her at once.

And yet she would care,
and pour out her essence ...
and yet—there was more!
I awoke from long darkness,

and yet—she was there.
I loved her the longer;
I loved her the more
because I did not love her at once.

Published by The Lyric, Romantics Quarterly and Grassroots Poetry. Keywords/Tags: Epistle, love, antique, prayer, pain, shadows, lair, touch, heal, healing, share, sharing, companionship
See a rich goblet of gold
Empty and ready to receive
Ancient in style, yet shining bright

This antique treasure of old
Belongs to you. Trust and believe
And claim your prize in calm delight

In your mind
Become the goblet
You are precious indeed
Your lasting worth decreed

Feeling your worth
Made from riches of earth
Fully fulfilled every day

Spark of divine
Your wealth is a sign
Of life surely flowing your way
This is Prosperity Poem 62 at ProsperityPoems.com and you can see it displayed on a beautiful background (copy and paste the link below). https://prosperitypoems.com/delivery62GobletOfGold.html
You can sign up for free weekly delivery of poems at Prosperity Poems (.com)
Moeshfiekah Nov 2019
Round and round the graveyard.
Like a headless bear.
One slit , two stabs.
Raise him from the dead.

Mo_poet
Twist to show a different perspective.
Hope you love
Moeshfiekah Aug 2019
My sun ,
My brightest star.
You're 147 million km to far.
Although I'm out at night ,
And you at day.
Eclipse in my arms you'll lay.
The only time our love doesn't burn the cornea.

Mo_poet
Anna Mar 2019
I’m whirling about
There’s fruit I’ve never seen
And chainsaws
Hanging from the ceiling
Collections of rusted
And nostalgic
Remnants
Playthings of my
Past memory
The people here
Mimic the eclectic offerings
Every part of the group
Teems with
Individuality
I feel cherubic laughter
Quiver my lungs again
I head for home
Clutching a book
I acquired
From this impeccable
Trove
A wonderful friend of mine invited me to the local flea market, and I couldn’t resist writing about it
Sky Sep 2018
i swallow hard and the act breaks me in two, a deafening crack and the crease on my neck gives way like grandma's Russian doll i thought would never open again
Next page