Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
H for the humility be it here or there
U for understanding  yet so  unaware
G for the good and also the great
O for opinions we insinuate
French man
Marie Lozada Aug 2018
I hate it.
I hate that we're a generation
that's caught up with our devices.
Eyes on the screen,
incase you miss out.
Keep scrolling,
incase you miss out.
Keep tagging,
incase you miss out.
Keep tweeting,
incase you miss out.
Keep posting,
incase you miss out.
Yet,
here I am.
In front of a laptop.
Making sure I don't miss out--
about writing about missing out.
Hannah Zedaker Jan 2018
Anxiety is a cold, lilac purple.
It sounds like a care siren going off on a brisk September morning
It tastes like orange peels from yesterday's lunch
It smells like burning rubber
Anxiety feels like motion sickness from being trapped under impeding waves, with you hands tied to a post
Hannah Zedaker Jan 2018
Infatuation is transparent red.
It sounds like the quickened pace of a fox in the forest
It tastes like metallic blood pumping in the back of your throat
It smells like three week old lilacs
Infatuation feels like burrs stuck in the sleeves of your tattered wool sweater.
young lassies near and far
were subjected to looking
at his personal bar

he'd stage the exhibits
on mobile phone devices
all those groinal tid-bits

exposing his wares
in a devil may care way
of indecency to the eyes
he'd frequently flay

on a particular poetry forum
the fellow can be found
advertizing his kit bag
so unedifyingly around

a sixty year old man
would in time be
getting a nab
for putting out there
his wayward
tab

somewhere inside
the Ohio state
law authorities
will pinpoint
the repugnant gate
sunprincess Jul 2017
Poetry, your Lips,
Your eyes, your smile

I can't get enough
Your poetic devices
Drive me wild

Poetry,
Think I love you
xoxo
alexa Jul 2017
Every time my mother tells me
"Go outside, talk to people"
I oblige, saying I will.
But the screen in front of me
is relaxing.
It holds music, silence, sadness, happiness.
Sure, it may be a measly electronic device,
but it's just occurred to me
that my friends are this device.
People I've met on here,
people I've known.
I can access them at any time in the world.
And it may be destroying our social interactions,
but don't you think
our social interactions are on here, Mother?
It was natural
Leaving him to his own devices
He would not bother her again
Her heart failed
Lowering his gaze
He saw no trace of it
On the tip of her tongue to say
He choked it back
He was so handsome
She was the most beautiful
He ever saw
She stood over him
She couldn't dismiss him
Beautiful
Uncomfortable
Carelessly
On the edge
They strolled along
Noticing something red
It was only natural
And yet
Far from it
found poem from the novel- To the Lighthouse by Virginia Woolf
Olga Valerevna Oct 2015
What if November is different this year
and all of the pain in your eyes disappears
something about it seems possible now
the past comes to reckon the sorrow somehow
And all that once was is becoming the seed
to what we've been growing inside of our need
Like futile devices that anchored our souls
the only way out was to simply let go
The troubles that followed us into our thoughts
have nowhere to live when our bodies are not
title and inspiration taken from Sufjan Stevens', "Futile Devices"
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them

I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair

Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry

I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair

Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude

Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.

Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
The liquors of poetry has stain my tissues
Next page