Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Ant trap in the corner with snowy dust atop its peak
Unmarked by death under a green paint chipped sky
Because one universal truth has been passed down
Through generations of insects
Nourished by the fruits of my room
There's poison in the flowers under the mountains
And that's a reason I can live isolated
In conditions this vile
Any critiques, observations and thoughts welcome! I just want to get better
Shakytrumpet Dec 2019
I try to talk
and begin to stu
so much emotion and words
they clut
ter. Strings of thoughts tie up in knots,
a conglomerate of phrases,
I solve my sentences like
I can't talk to say my thoughts so I'll write them out instead
putting all my emotion out in neat lines straight from my head
i do not stu stu stu stutter... except when i do like a speech, my hands have like tremors and i can't get any words out. or when I talk to a certain someone
Also if you didn't like this i can assure you my comical haikus are much better some are a bit offensive so you've been warned
Peter Balkus Jun 2019
For only Love matters,
the rest is a clutter
you won't take with you
on the journey Home.
If you would like to support my poetry, you can do it via link:
Ed C Apr 2019
I got a new desk today,
I thought "HEY!
if I get a new desk
I'll be able to fix this mess!"
I put together the desk,
it wasn't hard,
I didn't sweat.
I put it in my room
and I got upset
because despite the desk
being beautiful and tall
wooden and long
perfect for that corner in my room,
it was not big enough for the clutter
and the mess
and the stress
and all the books and the stuff
that I need around me.
So now I have a desk and my things
and we all float together in my solitude.
Sometimes you need a desk and sometimes the desk doesn't need you.
Where am I, you ask?

Lost in the clutter of my mind

Thoughts all jumbled up
Like a spool of tangled thread
And just as thin
So close to breaking

Fingers get caught
And slowly turn purple
Once released, permanent damage remains

My conscience plays the fingers
My mind the thread

Pull to hard,
the thread snaps
Don’t pull enough,
and it’s forever knotted
Dominique Jan 2019
Beyond the sunlit smoke and spellbound parks,
Beyond the tongue tied smiles and piercing dark;
Beyond burning wrists and icy stings
Beyond poems that made love to awful things;
The story is painfully simple.

You really loved someone;
Someone didn't love you.
Inspired by a poem called "Beyond the Clutter of Poetry"
Nayana Nair Apr 2018
The colors that have drained
from the dreams of people,
lie cluttered on the doorway
of their homes.
Everytime they try to leave
for something more practical
and more safe life, that they chose,
that awaits them everyday
and does not keep them worrying
about what all they can loose.
Everytime they step out,
even in hurry,
they sidestep that clutter.
Look at it from the corner of their eyes
and for a second their heart seems aware
of the frost that is killing it.
For a second the reasons for the
sleepless night and blank gazes is recalled.
But the limbs keep moving
to keep a distance from hopes
that never materialize.
On their way back home
they dread to see
the clutter of discarded dreams.
But they want to believe
that ignoring and forgetting it
becomes easier with time.
Although it never has.
some days they will
clutter the page
with a massive catalogue*
of stuff
wading through all of it
is akin to strolling
among an endless ball
of fluff

to-day one couldn't go
venturing around
in the submission's
looking for that hidden
piece lodged under
the fully booked
metropolitan tram

tomorrow there will be
more and more
contributions on the listing's
it's a sure bet that
the sifting and sorting is going to
take quite a long
Next page