Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Zyxia Oct 2020
I want to write, but what about?
I have nothing to say, no words to make.
Every idea is just a half bake.

I want to learn, but how?
I can't focus for long, my attention span fades.
Every idea it forbades.

I want to love, but whom?
Who would ever have feelings for me?
Doomed to loneliness for eternity.

I've put little effort into this,
But maybe that's ok.
I don't need to work hard every day.
Ces Aug 2020
My words are born
Of self-absorption
This eagerness for
Transmogrification of
A self that constantly fails
At this project of conception...

To understand the world --
This grand undertaking
Nothing but motions of futility
Yet I can't comply
I cannot submit
For I am the personification
Of incredulity.
Sungmoo Bae Aug 2020
Batteries of the skies;
booming thunders, and so are you.
You, the whirlwind the most ferocious,
befit such name ever notorious—

    ever in a strife of your own
    seemingly unending.

The whirlwind strikes hard
and fast, and as such; angels of death
descending, striking from the faint heavens
to accomplish its sole purpose, destructive in nature,

beseeching its everlasting glory
that’d evoke the sun’s jealousy, even.
Alas! You carry out the task
that spares none of the land,

taking away the dearest one from another, weeping,
flipping cars and engines from where they're standing,
while plucking out the road signs once robust
and even the trees once deemed so ancient—

none is spared but wrecked
before the might of the whirlwind
the total annihilation being its sole identity—
the one that destroys in the name of thy honor

    and in the very name of glory in vain.
    You look around—

only to see none has survived
or has been left alive; spectating
the empty earth and the water
while being dispersed, scattered amidst the air,

lifted by the hands of thy maker
disappearing—joining the void specters,
and thus befitting the word, truly,
the vainglory.
(C) Copyright: Saul Bae (Sungmoo Bae)
Sushmita Apr 2020
Men from war never return
their mind takes an unusual turn

it's the shell shock they say
even the popping of a balloon sends chills down their spine
a swarm of bees appears as muzzling bullets in line

That's why I despise wars so much
even after so much pain there's absolutely no gain at all

there are no winners in a war
pointless casualties on both sides fall
wars were never for human sake
it was just for the lust of power take

~ S.G
11th April, 2020
This disastrous event called 'war' costs a really very heavy toll. Good, honest, brave and innocent men give all they have for the fight of power and they gain nothing out of it. I feel wars could be averted at many points if someone had taken the responsibility to do so. I just wish We see no such things in future.
fray narte Mar 2020
tell me,
if i tear my way out of this skin —
bash it, cut it all open
until all that's left
is a hollow beneath
a veiled sculpture,
if i peel these wound scabs raw
and adorn them with buttercups:
an offering to the god of death,
if i scratch on these wrists
hard enough,
long enough,

deep enough, they won't heal,
creating an outlet —
a crevice, nonetheless,
tell me,
can i finally escape myself?

can i finally escape myself?
Emily Mitchell Feb 2020
Circle round once more...
Perhaps it is different now...
infinite glass wall...
Inspired by of course a goldfish swimming around circles and it's bowl...I had several goldfish in bowls for a little while until I determined that it was too tedious to clean each individual bowl and bought a large tank to keep them in ...they were so happy to be transferred into the tank that they swam around together for quite a while after being reintroduced to each other.

This can also be read figuratively as sort of the futility of rote dull work... I don't know pretty much everyone's felt trapped in an invisible shell that they feel like they're running circles around in occasionally...

Either that or futility meets optimism hahaha

(05-21-2013)
Thomas W Case Feb 2020
She worries about
everything;
real and imagined.
"What if this?  What if that?"
I watched my
Mom
worry herself right
into the
grave one disastrous
December night.
My girlfriend doesn't care.
She wants me to
worry right along
with her.
And when I don't,
she gets angry.
My Dad used to say,
"They can **** us,
but they can't eat us."
I share this with her.
Nothing!
Just
worry, worry, worry.
"
Worry changes nothing.
Thomas W Case Feb 2020
Drinking has been an exercise in
lunacy and sorrow,
like jumping off a cliff,
for tomorrow's dead dreams.
The fruit of the vine should
be sweet and sentimental,
like mamas and moonlight.
With a fistful of memories and
a soul full of pain,
I try it all again;
I chase the phantom.
Alcoholism is hell.
Ron Sanders Feb 2020
Up with the sun, his mind razor-keen,
he hikes up his trousers and starts his machine.
Though barrels of funk feed their reek to the dawn,
he pays them no heed; the trashman rolls on.
Up alleys, down thruways, past storefronts and stands,
he guides his behemoth with rock-steady hands.
Though big rigs and small fry speed hither and yon,
he sticks to his creed; the trashman rolls on.
Down **** to Impostor, past each stinking bin,
he makes for the junkies and merchants of sin.
Though winos raise eyelids, though punks point and grin,
he straightens his shoulders and thrusts forth his chin.
******* and derelicts lurch from their sties.
Pimps and their harlots flash Jacksons and strut.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a pickpocket cries,
“What are you, buddy, some kinda nut?”
With hands on the levers, and brightly lit eyes,
The big driver leans out and coolly replies:
“No, sir. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the muck.
The gears maul the lowlifes, the fork rocks the truck.
Though hollers and screams shake his steel mastodon,
he longs to proceed; the trashman rolls on.
The truck passes perverts, creeps churned in its bile,
up Felon to Pusher, down Vicious to Vile,
where block upon block, where mile upon mile,
the hookers regale him with smile upon smile.
Near-naked floozies exhibit their wares.
But this man just glares while they trumpet in pique.
“Hey, you in the truck,” a drunk strumpet cries,
“What are you, mister, some kinda freak?”
His hands on the levers, with brightly lit eyes,
the big driver leans out and gently replies:
“No, ma’am. I’m the trashman.”
And down comes the fork, and up goes the slime.
The gears maul the contents to streetwalker chyme.
Though hollers and screams are distressing and drawn,
his heart fails to bleed; the trashman rolls on.
Pining for virtue, he clatters along,
up Bully to Bigot, down Trollop to Spawn,
past Conman and Cutthroat to Thirteenth and Greed.
He steadies, caresses, and readies his steed. Virtue, indeed.
The trashman rolls on.



Okay. NOW CUT AND PASTE THE LINK BELOW TO READ HERO, A SPRAWLING, GROUNDBREAKING FANTASY FOR GROWNUPS IN TWO PARTS. (BUT YOU MUST CLICK ON THE PROVIDED LINK AT THE CONCLUSION OF PART ONE TO ACCESS PART TWO! THAT’S WHERE THIS TALE’S AMAZING RESOLUTION LIES. But please...intelligent, soulful readers only!)
NOW HERE’S THAT LINK:

https://allpoetry.com/poem/14922744-Hero---Part-One-by-Ron-Sanders


Copyright 2020 by Ron Sanders.

contact:
ronsandersartofprose@yahoo.com
CUT AND PASTE THE PROVIDED LINK TO READ HERO, A GENUINE MASTERPIECE OF LITERATURE. IT'S EASY!
Next page