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We watch consumed,
by how he swooned
and soothed, the world around them,
making everything happen.

A knight in shining armour,
the first one to see her.
Even in a slow burn
we know he will return.

So I sink into my seat,
waiting for it all to repeat.
But then it's over.
When they only just got together.

I wanted to see more.
The lifetime they swore,
with every mundane moment
and hint of enjoyment.

I don't want to realise
that it was all just romanticised,
and in actuality,
they were never meant to be.

The meet cute,
a perfectly scripted route.
The first date
that changed his heart rate,

in a destined fate,
that finally lifted the weight
off his shoulders,
now that he can hold hers.

All spontaneity,
a Hollywood reality.
Carefully constructed,
harmoniously corrupted.

In the business
of making a buck off the Mrs.
Forever exploiting,
the love that they're taunting.

The hopeless romantic
made cinematic,
Love turned perfect,
for the sake of a profit.

Breakups and heart ache,
every little mistake
changing their minds,
unsure if they'll find

the one.
But the film has begun,
and we can see, just how clearly
that they are meant to be.

From the first kiss
that was pure bliss.
And coffee shop barista,
who finally slipped a

note on his cup,
to use that stupid pick up
he's been rehearsing,
when he thinks nobody is watching.

The time he turned a blind
when she wrote a note for him to find,
left on the work-top,
and reading it made time stop.

When she searched through the crowd,
but it was all too loud,
and he was nowhere to be found,
until his arms wrapped around,

her waist from behind,
and all the stars aligned.

We watch consumed,
by how he swooned
and soothed, the world around them,
making everything happen.

A knight in shining armour,
the first one to see her.
So now, somehow without ever having it I miss,
everything the romcoms promise.
i've bin wilting in the wings of half life
some kind of tinsel of decay
making chattering bids for attendance         but lack and fail                       
pimpling   and then deflating          
                                    
    tiny chasms visit me
chittering little wheezy ******* of creativity  spazzing                    
and then weary organisms spatter on the micro lens
gutted    they were shoddily made    they're to be  examined           
                   (after all that genetics..... what did go wrong ?)                              
a probing at discussion and decisions
tend    now     to a humiliating life                                                      
then  a step up   ; a weak and easy one                  
    followed by     ambition !         one to lift and give life
reactors in the gut with macerated heavings gunged our way
incisors and incisions rudder me
and  together with my nouveau umbrella family
betrayed from our hammocks, hummocks and  nooks
we queue on up   for 'the things'        
           in accord    with good society
self reprimanded   in defeat ?
Four young men on a rooftop in 1969,
Putting on a show for the very last time.

Not the last for any,
but this was the fab fours end.

Four old men under thirty,
about to start again.

People pointing fingers,
people laying blame.

Surely it can't be over
they'll Get Back again.

They'll travel back down that
Long and Winding Road.

Back to Penny Lane,
where it started so long ago.

Imagine the world without the Beatles,
I wonder if you can.

I remember four young men on a rooftop,
being great again.

Wanting to prove it to the world,
Before they let it end.

Before they let it go,
Before they Let it Be.

And that's the memory of
the Beatles,
I'll always choose to see.
I watched all 9 hours of Peter Jacksons
(Get Back) for the third time. And what always strikes
me is that The Beatles were just Kids not even 30 yet,
trying to find themselves, trying to live up to the expectations
of the world.
It's a hell of a documentary and a must see if you're a Beatles fan.

here's a link to the video on you tube check it out.
https://youtu.be/mLXbZf-rttM?feature=shared

Thanks.
Reece 6d
I may not be that old,
Been sixteen for a little over a week,
But I know,
That time is painfully fleeting.
Those routines I adore,
Grind life away to a paste,
Though I may deplore,
I don’t want all this time to be a waste.
Everywhere I turn,
Always pushing me to look to the future.
I see that I crash and burn,
Thoughts that make require sutures.
Forcing me to face the inevitable,
That my childhood will soon be gone,
I wish I could be a rebel,
Run away and come back at the dawn.
Time keeps ticking,
Time keeps slipping,
From me.
Keep growing older,
As time moves slower,
And everything I see,
Keeps fading.

Childhood memories,
Haunting me,
As houses are built,
On sacred land.
Two years left,
Till things start to leave my hands.
No amount of distraction,
Is ever enough,
It just delays the action,
And makes the truth more rough.
How it hurts,
To see my childhood drying up.
How it burns,
That expectations rise while I cry my eyes out,
Cause I don’t want to accept that time’s wasting,
I want things to stay the same,
And I hate that they are changing.
If I could stop time and keep everything as is,
You’d have to give me a good reason to take the next step.
For the fear of failure,
Outweighs all the good I see,
Too many possibilities.
People talk me up,
An excuse to disappoint,
Sometimes I don’t even know who I am,
Yet, they seem to have a point.
Days turn to weeks turn to months long gone,
Can never get them back,
And time doesn’t let you mourn,
We just keep on keeping on,
And hope you don’t get left behind.
All this fear holds me back,
Like the chains in my tower,
I want to break free,
But instead, I cower,
Tell myself I’m getting better,
While the results are nowhere to be found.
I stay looking envious at the ground,
While other people excel and move forward,
I’m stuck at the start,
Overcomplicating where to walk.
I’m up high in the sky,
Stuck in the middle of the beanstalk,
Too afraid to climb back down,
And too afraid to reach for the stars,
For what if I fall?
What if I fly?
Do I have the gall,
To even try…?

Growing older isn’t fun,
But it’s just a part of life,
Don’t know where I’m going,
I’ll find out in due time.
inspired by tony labrusca's portrayal of josé rizal

babae likes me contained.
me—a tupperware full of lumpia.
i'm soggy, *****.
*****—inday—i'm gwapo. fried uy.

sorry. soggy.
druggy. sorry.

my chest tattoos?
yes, they can be removed.
will that be provided in my—

nevermind. thank you.
she opened her purse.
hard candy.

waving me away.
sorry carb-eating lad.
she is just ******* hard candy.
cgeh. babay. cgeh bi.

jose, they say you wrote novels.
but i wonder—
did you ever write yourself out?

did you watch your own ink
bleed into the soil?
did you wish for something softer?

in the way i am devoured. hero forgotten.
in the way i am swallowed
whole—one piso coin
by lovers, by history, by a name
they gave me before i ever
spoke too. ii
This poem weaves together personal identity, societal expectations, and historical resonance. The imagery of food (lumpia, hard candy) juxtaposes with themes of erasure and visibility, tying into both personal struggle and the weight of history. The references to José Rizal invoke a parallel between artistic creation and self-sacrifice, questioning how much of oneself is lost in the process of being seen.
Lemon Black Mar 19
Dare I tell a tale, oh so eerie,
faces go pale, senses are lost,
as knell overflows the hearing,
unheard, hair fall tossed,
blood brought to a boil.

It opens with moss and greenery,
hinting a shallow soil,
painting the scene peaceful, serene,
but the coating is fresh and thin.
Like something was quickly covered beneath,
the way you'll surely hide behind a grin
the grinding of your teeth, in just a moment.
"Why the rush?" comes a thought—
good, nicely caught, but no spoilers.

The deed that's done here,
spawned by a curse like no other—
It cannot be cured, and only endured
siphoning the life of another.
Cruel is fate of those who astray
and open up hearts to darkest of arts
allured by their offer.

Reading through verses of old,
they want to behold the world
through the eyes of their foul sires,
and learn from grim tomes
the knowledge untold, until they’re absorbed
and molded akin, so they, too, may sin
with the same sins, following the same desires.

Now, I'm really sorry, but here ends the story,
my gourmet hunger satisfied, you were most kind!
You see, I'm of such readers, I am accursed, and I've rummaged
through the purse of your lifespan for quite some time.
But this was much needed! I hope you don't mind!
Just please turn the page and I'm sure you'll be fine!
Jesters of all kinds, poets included, fight for the attention of innocent people and strive to steal some of their time, a moment of their life. Exactly the way they have been played and robbed once. Which, why, of course, inspired them to learn the craft and try for themselves. An almost vampiric cycle of trickery: life given, life taken; with the trick as old as eyes and ears—create expectations and clear progression for the audience to follow, then suddenly surprise with a shift. Somehow, we like to get ahead, certain of what’s coming, only to be fooled. But we don’t mind as long as it was worth it.
Lynn Mar 14
She smiles because she's your go-to child
The one that gets all the praise
The one who accepts all your rage
Even as she's growing
You won't ever know it
Because hormones are bad
And mood-swings won't ever be had
Even though she hates it
She smiles as she fakes it
Her facade or innocence
Is quite actually painfully brilliant
She has everyone around her finger
Though the tightness of it always stings her
She smiles as she's called sweet
Kind and lovely
Smart and hardworking
Honest and trustworthy
Strong and preserving
Beautiful and genuine
Because she's not she's
Mean and unlikeable
Dumb and lazy
A liar and unhonest
Ugly and fake
But somehow no one sees
Her broken and horrid self
Through her sickly sweet
Kind and innocent
Full of joy and love
Fake facade
Lostling Mar 2
If I betray my freedom
I betray myself,
Becoming a stranger in my own skin
Quietly echoing the voice of the crowd.
But if I betray the rules,
Break free and stray from the paved path,
I betray my comrades
I betray the people I lead
If I break free, I stand alone in exile
But if I conform, “I” do not exist anymore
Archer Feb 13
We come into this world
Expected to find our way and fight
So that’s what we do:
Meet expectations.
NF Feb 5
Constellations of expectations
My shackles— my only relations
A walking canvas of self-destruction
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