Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
People do like mischief and chatter,
Really, what does it all matter?
It is only about chaff and stuff,
In 100 years, we shall all be dust,
This is what makes me meaner,
As I empty more dust from the vacuum cleaner,
We shall all be a little pile of dust,
And our pets, a tiny heap of fluff!
Feedback welcome.
Cassia Aug 14
What if you were here now?
What if you laid beside me?
What if, when your dreams haunt you, love
I could calm your fears?

What if you could hold me
Not quite knowing why I cried?
What if, if you called me your love
I could call you mine?

What if I could trust you?
What if I could pull you near?
What if I looked into your eyes
And saw your love so clear?
Ahhh… what if.
I laid on my bed one night for an hour writing this. I almost expected someone to be there beside me.
In your mouth lies a graveyard of broken hearts.

Your tounge has stolen words once spoken by other tortured lovers.

Its wraps itself around them, sends them through your lips as if they themselves carry kisses.

These words you never understood. They are empty when you speak, like the only love you know how to give.

Selfish, superficial. A vacuum set to devour anyone who strays to close.

And like the nights sky, I still see your soul is littered with stars.

Ill sit in the cold and wait.
Wait for the sun to rise again, to warm your heart or envolop my own.
Being in love with your best friend is a hideous situation. Resistance is futile.
am i something other than the scoff of thunder?
other than the whimper of the wind?
do my words mean more than the weeping of a storm?
or am i the same as the breeze out of reach of the hurricane’s rage?

shall i linger like ash
or drift like sea-foam?

what matters more
how loud my song
or how long it echoes?
or how long it echoes?
Amanda Brown Aug 3
Does your heart still flutter every time you think of me?

Do you think of me every time you see a couple holding hands?

Does your stomach drop at the thought of us never being in each other’s lives?

Do you miss me?

Does your mind still race like a track star when you think about how we ended up like this?

Do you want me back?
Processing thoughts and unanswered questions.
Liz Alvarez Jul 2
Tan with bright blue and purple lines on my wrists
My fingers so ready to grasp what should be rightfully hers
Eyes filled with joy before, now begin to drown in a faze
Blinded by fog
My fingers floating to find a grasp
I'm surrounded in pure darkness
The only way to see is a faintly lit light
A sudden brush of goosebumps slither up and down my tired body
I recount feeling the firsts to feel something again
Admiration
Comfort
Warmth
And feeling
Loved
A distant memory only comes when in true need
Approaching the light, it barely flickers.
Hands suddenly touch the light
Grey with a faint of colorless veins barely breathing
I realize these are mine
Suddenly realizing it's not a light there touching
A reflection of myself
These lifeless hands touching my chest
I am a ghost
of what I was
Not my most creative to date, but Ive had to get this off my mind. Questioning the purpose of my life, is taking me to a place that seems to want to take it into action for the worse soon.
“I love you.”
“I know.”
Between the highs,
And the low,
In the times
When I’m alone,
That’s what love does.

It comforts,
And hides
In the corners
Of your mind,
Yet surprises
Just in time.
That’s what love does.

It takes
The chance
The percentage
Of circumstance,
The sacrifice
In glance,
And does what love does.

It conquers,
And pays
The cost,
Without delays,
As if it’s not much,
To stay,
Because that’s what love does.

It hugs,
It kisses,
It sees you
And misses,
Yer true love,
Rarely disses,
Because that’s what love does.
5/7/19

I haven’t written poetry in a while, even the silly, cheesy, lovey stuff. Even that used to be so simple and easy, but I haven’t done it in a while, primarily because of the most cliché reason: I’ve been too busy. My Love reminded me of what loves means, and how it supercedes that of any excuse. He does that a lot. He reminds me of the simplicities in life and helps me enjoy them. It’s just a funny coincidence how he said something that inspired me to write a poem about just that: “That’s what love does.” It wasn’t until after I wrote this that I realized all it takes is just a little of my time... If you truly love something, more than likely you can make something happen of it. I’m proud to say this was a result. Here’s to hoping that I don’t lose sight of the simple things in life, and Lord help me if I do forget by placing people in my life to help me remember.

This was written in just 7 minutes...
Smoke Scribe Feb 2015
can't imagine it ranks high up
on any list of any deity,
*** and God ******,
probably don't make the cut,
on a relative basis,
but ya never know...

looked around,
couldn't be found
any mention of who he roots for,
or if it's ok to ask for intervention


but
if you ******...
if you behead...
claiming with perfect
human vanity
his name as your own
for justification
in ignoring
Thou Shall Not ****,
know this

you're a commandment breaker,
having taken god's name in vain,
vain like vanity,
the sin unique to only humans

we cannot divine the divine,
sure wish it was my NY Giants
were today bowl-occupied,
why he chooses me to suffer
someday will surely be explained
or not

but you murderers,
easy rest assured,
taking his name in vain,
you won't be forgotten,
cause and effect
spelled out clearly


*“the LORD will not hold him guiltless
who takes his name in vain
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Next page