Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Darkness divine,
walk beside me.
Can we revive
what we don't see?

Through misty eyes,
we see the lies
that they disguise.
Such fallacy!

Obsessed with the shade of the night,
Blinded by the fear of the light.
Can anyone tell me oh why?
Why do we pretend to not see?

Everything's an illusion in the broad daylight.
Confusion created by the distorted lies.
Haunting us every day and every night.
Truth is an ideological sacrifice.








Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2019.
All Rights Reserved.
I have tried to do a few things in this poem, let's see if you can spot them.


Hint: Look at the metaphors, progression, flow and the syllables.
Silverflame May 10
Like many before me
the mirror is my enemy
it shows me things I don't want to be
it shows me a twisted image of reality

It haunts me from within
by planting hoaxes under my skin
burned to my core is the malicious grin
hatched from the depths of my mirror twin
Miss Fit Apr 20
There are days when the music is too loud
And the grass looks too green
There are mornings when the **** crows too proud
And mama's cheerful wakeup call sounds too mean

There are days when my dreams seem too blury
When past nightmares seem too scary
There are mornings when my goals are too high
And my arms are too tired to reach for anything but the nigh

There are days when my head is too heavy to lift
When even my eyelids are too heavy to lift
There are mornings when my eyelashes are forced to sweep
My cheeks and be drenched in the tears I weep

There are days when I wake up and wish I had stayed asleep
Remembering how I didn't sleep last night counting sheep
The drowsy feeling of last night lapses into the insomnia of today
And the dreams of yesteryear bounce off my head like a faded light ray

Only on those days when the sweet music doesn't speak to my soul
And the green of the grass might as well be grey,
Do I shamefully and pitifully wallow
In the sweet, sticky, dry tears on my pillow

Only on those mornings when the **** crows continuously, monotony its tone
And mama calls for me to wake up, a few hours after my first wink, in a
voice that's a slow, dull, monotone
Do I shamefully and pitifully wallow
In the sweet, sticky, dry tears on my pillow

Miss Fit
If you've ever cried yourself to sleep thinking that by daylight you'll be okay, just to wake up crying still...then you'll understand.
c Apr 16
We are bending light
Allowing this
Distorted Reality
To appear somewhat
Normal, almost.
The floor beneath me is melting like a painting left in the rain
The more I try to claw my way back to consciousness
The more I drift away from reality
The deeper I sink into the place of distorted horror
Where static shapes are able to twist and turn
Ears are able to see and smell
Brains are scrambled and tangled
Words are formed but cannot be spoken
Thoughts are burgeoned but cannot be controlled
The venomous voices have all the power
Dare not to feed them with positivity
In darkness they are determined to rule

27/03/2019
Jodie-Elaine Nov 2018
On the creaking wooden chair in the corner, hanging on the scaffold, in the circular mirror, distorted and twisted and folding. It stands in the shadows. It lurks in the school playground while parents wait for their children, it’s a runaway train, and it’s the ink streaming down the window pane, it’s the clock melting inwards.
its golden fluidity and baby blue subtleties.
It’s the reason why you wake in the middle of the night,
gasping into darkness and grappling with loose ends... it was just a dream.
The reason you turn a corner just to look back behind you, why you double-take in the mirror, question where did I go?
Looking at nothing, staring into the bleak dark, it lurks. Awaits.
It waits in the form of a child holding a red balloon, staring into our blind spots.
Like shadows, when the sun rotates away from behind the playground wall you know, just then, now, in that full circle...
it’s about to run out.
You bend over backwards to relate to the moonlight dancing on the floor of its own reflections. It shows itself on beer bottles from better nights, you cross one leg over the other, position yourself,
folded linen.
Rushing to endless deadlines for nowhere o’clock, last call for the runaway train, struggling with human concepts.
You’re simply a sum of parts: an addition of flesh, limbs, old and broken battered bones, blind spots.
All the places you can’t see, can’t feel, can’t reach.
Loose ends meet themselves in the corner of that same old dusty room,
the folded linen crumples to the floor,

the red balloon bursts.
Another April 2015 one
buckettears Aug 2018
living is like being chained
at the bottom of a shallow pond
with my eyes open and no air
i can see distorted images
of happiness and light
even hear muffled laughter
but everything is out of my reach
as i lie in suffocating agony
if death is the opposite of living
then i hope death is like floating
Gale L Mccoy Jul 2018
voices sound better
in descent / in distance
cut off from the source
distorted / dissonant
unsalvagable from another
  
i listen to poetry in stairwells
paint faces from sounds
so the real thing never compares
day 2 of 31 days of poetry
Jay Dayz May 2018
Inspired to write by whispers around
Inspired to write their stories and tales
I may be one person
But inside I'm more
I'm more than a feeling
I'm more than one soul

These words I convey
Explain my reality
Where things are distorted
in the eyes on humanity
I may be one person
But inside I'm more
I feel more than normal
I'm more than just plain

Behind endless walls
and infinite halls
I hide from humanity
inside my reality
I may be one person
But inside I'm more
Your arrogance pains me
and your selfishness more.
It hurts to see the people around you destroy your home for selfish reasons. I don't understand how people can do it, so that's why I think I'm more than just human.
Next page