Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
S Bharat Apr 2019
The Roses

O, the Flowers lying
On the bed!
Never blame the Roses
That rise far afield and fade.
For they never lose
Their grace
Like the Flowers wilted
In the vase.

S. Bharat
myranda Apr 2019
what's the point
when your caged up
with nothing to loose
no light at the end of the tunnel
no home to sleep at
just nothing
wanting to run away from the pain
the blame is on me
what's the point
Poetress2 Apr 2019
Within these lonely walls of mine,
sometimes I wish that I could die;
I curl up in my Mickey Mouse sheets,
and quickly pretend, that I'm asleep.
~
Just like the nights I've faced before,
I hear them open up my door;
They quietly lay down in my bed,
and I truly wish that I were dead.
~
I push their hands down, everytime,
but to no avail, they begin to rise;
The shame and guilt seems all too real,
for that is almost all I feel.
~
They leave me torn,
they leave me shamed;
They leave me damaged,
yet it's me I blame.
The prophet was waking up
Asking his God to guide the gentiles

He met them with great happy
As they were rich and masters

While he met the poor speedy
The God blamed him for this act

He returned and smiled to the poor
As the guide with the hand of his God

The God told him not blame his act
As the only and only fact

The guidance was the hand of the God
So he did not blame your act

You do your effort
And the rest at your God
the mercy of the prophet was obvious for all people as the sun
The prophet was waking up
Asking his God to guide the gentiles

He met them with great happy
As they were rich and masters

While he met the poor speedy
The God blamed him for this act

He returned and smiled to the poor
As the guide with the hand of his God

The God told him not blame his act
As the only and only fact

The guidance was the hand of the God
So he did not blame your act

You do your effort
And the rest at your God
the mercy of the prophet was obvious for all people as the sun
Loser Mar 2019
Is poetry not enough? Do my songs still not help? The ghosts that I've conjured scream no. Writing always made me miss you more clearly; but it never made me stop missing you.

And I think I’ve managed to **** up every good thing that has happened to me. My vocabulary is becoming strictly “I’m sorry” And I am. But I’m sorry doesn’t fix everything. And sorry didn’t fix us.

I always say that I write to confront my fears, but I’m starting to think that I’m just writing to myself. And poem after poem I only become more aware that the almost inevitable self destruction is my biggest risk.

I’ll pound knuckles into walls, I’ll etch pencil into paper, and I’ll stay in the same spot for what feels like forever. I’ll conjure more ghosts. I’ll scream “I’m sorry” and in the end I will be the only one to blame.

But In the end I’ll still blame you.
Poetress2 Mar 2019
Can you picture Jesus, on the Cross,
where He laid down His life, to save the lost;
Can you see Him hanging, on that Tree,
where they strung Him up, for all to see?
~
Can you imagine, the pain He felt,
when into Him, they drove three nails;
And from the beatings, of which He took,
Human was not how Jesus looked.
~
Can you feel the betrayal, can you understand,
why His flesh, it hung in ****** strands;
Can you hear within your own, small mind,
the crowd as they called out, "Crucify?"
~
Can you see Him suffer, could you watch Him die,
would you turn your head away and cry;
Do you think you'd remember, the reason He came,
"twas to set the Captives, free from blame.
AuEcologica Mar 2019
A dead leaf in the wind
Two mountains they’re twins?

Who could imagine?
Who could imagine,
                                it’s so small?
Who could imagine?
Who could imagine,
                                   it’s so tall!

So black, so dark, so white such a shark
                              It is eating me
                                     eating me
                                            apart.
So vicious, so lovely, so deadly such a warm heart
                             It is eating me
                                    eating me
                                            apart.

                        Apartment class,
                                a castle vast.

Who could imagine?
Who could imagine,
                               it’s so small?
Who could imagine?
Who could imagine,
                                  it’s so tall!

I love what I hate
I hate what I love.

Isn’t it strange,
        isn’t it?
                 isn’t it?
       isn’t it?
                 isn’t it?

So black, so dark, so white such a shark
                              it is eating me
                                     eating me
                                            apart.
So vicious, so lovely, so deadly such a warm heart
                             it is eating me
                                    eating me
                                            apart.

I’m a crime; I’m a shame; I’m to blame, lovely.
                                           lovely,
                                    just lovely,
                                            lovely.
I’m a crime; I’m a shame; I’m to blame, lovely.


You cannot describe me,
   except it hurts so good.

                              So good.
julianna Mar 2019
It’s not always me
Me me
Sometimes it’s you
You you
Next page