I am not a good poet,
And I internally know it
Deep in my heart.
Even though people compliment my so-called “art”.

I am not that smart:
And it causes me to fall apart.
Today when I tried to take a test
I was quite a mess,
And distressed...
Mixed with “depressed”.
I was trying hard...
I still try hard
With my poems that are so-called “art”.

Art is magnificent.
I am not.
Some say I’m “falsely-modest”
Because I am a true “artist”.
I am not.
This is all that I got.
I can’t whip up anything new.
I can’t think any problem through.
I can’t see through another point of view.
I am not.

I am not a poet.
This poem shows it.
I am not an artist.
I am being honest.
I am not that smart.
Even if everyone says that I make words
Into works
Of “art”.

I am nothing.
I am not.
Publishing this little poem today because I’m currently feeling useless.
Anyway, this was created right after I took a test that I was supposed take two weeks before, but I was on vacation so it got extended. I accidentally took up almost 3 hours writing one test and basically missed my class after that class. I was quite stressed because I wasn’t understanding what I was doing. I got a good mark in the end though... yup.
Heart pounding
Hands shaking
b r e a t h e

Palms sweating
Still faking
b r e a t h e

Brain frying
Lips drying
Still trying
b r e a t h e...b r e a t h e...b r e--

...I can't breathe.
I wish I could sleep peacefully like a housecat,
snuggled into a reclining chair,
without a care in the world.
But instead
I toss and turn with the thought
that I’m not sure where I’ll be resting my body to sleep
6 months
or a year from now.
I lie awake with the worries
of missing home and feeling guilty
for leaving my needy parents behind.
The thought of distance separating you and I,
causing us to not be together
keeps my eyes open,
so that I cannot close my eyes to sleep -
not even a wink.
I had this tremendous fear.
The mist soon all around;
The water around capsizes.
Substance attends, a funeral of sorts.
I've never ventured this far.
Soon they return, looking back.
Fleeing wildish scream.
My former thought bold.
Such my hope.
Resurfacing the ill fated.
The thought of sinking.
Forced to roam in darkness.
Where would I place my feet.
Perplexed, nothing was the same.
Cold, unable to find comfort.
I drifted, longing to chance the size of waves.
Distant waters courteous in expectation.
I too braced for it.
Becoming motionless.
Awaiting descent.

Not all ships sink.
The voyage extended from strangers eyes.
When the wind stops and the sail settles.
Some peculiar gaze, heavily weighed in length.
The ship sinks.
But this I feel far too late.
I am at the bottom.
The bottom of her heart
Jack P Jul 7
and all these gods are in one place
conspiring and -
all your efforts are misplaced
whining like an -
off-key note in a seraphic choir
lamenting a -
weekend's bitter aftertaste.

here's a thing you can't avoid:
a war of worlds on a bedroom floor
the house is kept unlocked at night
and a crosswind billows through the door.

...and all his questions are ignored
he chipped his teeth cause he was bored.

we wrote missives to a shallow grave
dug with musicals we rearranged
to fit the arc we fashioned here
as we waltzed atop the sinking pier.

...I am prone to switching off
So I will never turn you on.
this is a song i'm writing, have a draft
rob kistner Jul 6
_

I lean upon my folded fist
hot against my temple
elbow solid on my cluttered desk

eyes droop and flicker
aflame with spoiled sleep

skull upon the finger bones
in weighted indecision
procrastination presses down

face slack
head now dropped
held in my hands
heavy with confusion

where art thou muse
I seek weightless inspiration
to be lifted up by you

instead
the hum of cooling bytes
drones relentless in my ears
impossible to ignore
no matter how I try

thoughts like digits on a dollar slot
spin unsettled in my mind

they neither click nor lock in place
they tumble in a jumble
to roll and blur just out of focus
lost in mental fog

sunken in my writer's chair
I remain immobile
paralyzed by perplexity
imprisoned by the chaos
awhirl in my mind

the freedom of decision
impossible to manage

I fear nothing will be written
no fresh ink will be shed this day

_


rob kistner © 2010
Agonizing writer's block.
yellow soul Jul 3
The girl in the red dress
The first time I saw her I was a little boy, she walked past my window.
She smiled brighter than the sun and all the burning stars.
I watched her walk past my window for the following ten years, she walked in rain, snow, and storm, always in her pretty little red dress.
Everyday I said to myself that today was the day I would talk to the girl in the red dress with the blinding smile. But I couldn’t my anxiety had taken over my body, I was so disappointed in myself, why was I like this.
One day she stoped walking past my window, I didn’t get it, I waited for days, weeks, months, until one day I looked in the paper, and I saw this big picture, it was the girl in the red dress with that stunning smile, I started reading, Emily Marie Anna Johnson, wow what a beautiful name, to a beautiful girl, I continued but stopped in chok, Emily Marie Anne the amazingly beautiful girl in the red dress, had committed suicide.
I wouldn’t believe it, so everyday I stared out that same window to see that pretty little girl in the red dress walk by...
she never did
julianna Jun 28
Alone,
Alone,
It’s happening again.
I’m alone in this body
And stuck in my head.
I’m irritable.
I’m worried.
I’m unable to cope
I’m filled with violent dread
And I’m glued to my bed.
I’m left wondering why this is happening again.
Freddie Ruiz Jun 26
I am no longer the past
wasted in a prison so hostile,
where these sad-looking eyes never saw light,
where every moment spent meant literally to die.

I fell into strangers’ arms,
whose smiles were too disguised.
Strangers who had the world mesmerized
and forced me to hide behind their lies.

No more mouth of hate to listen to.
I have just recovered what I had lost because of you.
My worth no longer depends on your opinion
and I no longer live in your dominion.

I thought my heart was made of sadness, but my spirit’s mending.
I fought through what I felt was never-ending, but somehow it ended.
I'm up here looking way down there at everything,
staring anxiously at the life that once was kept from me.
Written on October 11, 20011
Composition number: 400
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