Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Time is a construct of
       passing frailties,
We cling to them more so for comfort.


Not realising that we're already
                an echo just rebounding off
the moments that have conceded
to a  passing that is bigger than us.

But still we live for those mere seconds,
                                                 for meaning.

And to show that even though we were
                         just a flicker,


                     we burnt brighter than a star.
Neon Robinson Oct 2017
Is burrowing a web
weaving a collection,
accumulating an anthology

For a far gone day
Stash them away
set them aside with a
what, when, why

rather than right
now ambitious zeal

discoverable.
findability.

Its the nature of the undertaking.
My minds an unavoidable reciprocal
Gratified by wasting time,
It’s just there filling space

Tucked away for a rainy day
In every nook and cranny

Tickling the fancy.

Affording a kind of intellectual gusto
that's borderline deplorable
accumulatively downright trifling.

Nonetheless,
even if it's unnecessary
I'll never get my fill
paper to hand typing away
uncovering all of life's mysteries
If I could collect every negative thought you ever had about me.
I would blow them away like a dandelion wish.
Sometimes I wish I could just start over with some people, the ones who judge me before they ever got to really know  me.
Deb Jones Jan 4
I am mercurial writer
Whatever comes to mind

Gritty, dire, ******, dying, loving, funny
I am a wordsmith and a wordwhore

Other people collect shells and coins
I collect words

I always say the words
They may not be appropriately used

But I love the way they feel in my mouth
And on my tongue

I enjoy my unfettered mind
It seems I ***** out words

I love the long walks
I take in other’s minds

I walk around untended and welcomed
Enchanted by your beautiful thoughts

I hope you enjoy the traipse  
Through mine
I am trying to justify how I jump from topic to topic. And I can’t.
I am ok with that. :)
Eleanor Rigby Oct 2018
If only I could collect the rain,
Put it in a jar
And take it to God.

Then I would say,
Here, I found your tears,
They made the soil breath.


-- Eleanor
poemsforthedead Sep 2018
Every night, six ten on the dot
came the weary woman, collecting fragments of thought.
She pulled her green dumpster,
always on time,
waiting for the dependable
same-old twelve chimes.
Only then would she leave,
take her uniform off,
then the next day again,
dancing with the clock.
But some days she'd pick up
litter from a genius's mind,
and astounded she'd be with
her new precious find.
She placed these in her lilac box,
saved for the best of the best,
then, preparing for the next shift.
she would take a much needed
rest.
caffeine is a drug
Lauren M Sep 2018
Fingers laced together, I am a basket.
Take parts to build a heart: you will need
wild things, beautiful things.

Mostly you will need
things that no one asked for,
that no one expected.
Things that have no reason to exist,
but do.

Netted spiderwebs and nettle fistfulls.
Fish scales and cotton cattails.
Dragonflies skimming across the water in the early morning
and fireflies imitating stars in the somber dusk.
The eddies behind rocks that jut brashly from the river
and the ribbons woven wreath-like through wrens’ nests.

Hauled up by handles, dump everything somewhere
you wouldn’t mind living.
Apply heat, settle in somewhere
you wouldn’t mind leaving.
Let sit two to twenty four hours, stirring occasionally.

Listen:
rhythm
one-two
one-two
it lives.
Pyrrha Jul 2018
You said I was a snowflake,
You told me that our love was rare and delicate,
But I've found that snowflakes collect together to become dangerous and cause devestation,
A force of nature.
You told me love was like a snow flurry,
But ours was an avalanche.
This was origionally only two lines.
Brandon Conway Jun 2018
A rapacious hand that collects
Often begets
Vanity
Envy
And
Ennui
Poetic T Jun 2018
It was 11.59 a moment before
       the afternoon of our lives.
But a finite moment of seconds
                  can collect on regrets.

What if I had told you the life story
of midday reflections was momentary.
I was nothing before you walked on the  
                                                          d­oorstep
of my heart, rubbing feelings on my heart.

Alas time will wonder on seconds
                       of inconsistent faults.
     Within those frail moments our
future was a shattered reflection below.

You were mine before midday, I'll hold
        every second before the moments past.
     Reflections of moments I'll collect,
      but I know after midday your just a memory.
Next page