Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Annie Sep 30
Sometimes love and hate are hard to differentiate.
They both give me sensory overload,
Even when there is nothing to
When there is nothing to
Silence can turn into screaming when I think about you.
I am bound to go deaf.
i hate a good love, and i love a good hate
Blind Pathos Sep 9
Working martyrs of the boulevard un-ring bells
Over bleachers in heaven and box seats in hell
While the simple saints with time to serve
Just hold their hands up on all the curves

My blue Jesus take a look at me
And whisper to me what you see
Bind me up and draw me near
Make me strong enough to hear
There must be an entity that dictates the hubris. Life consists of wandering through the known and unknown, waiting to see witch gets us first.
Charlie Rose Aug 9
Home smells like ****
And lavender and jasmine smoke
Heady and warm and welcoming

Home tastes like coffee and ***** seltzer
Tempered by cool water from the tap
The broke *****'s daily festivities

Home sounds like rock music and obscure indie songs
And old jazz on college radio from two campuses
A strong beat to dance to and lyrical sounds to compell your soul

Home feels like the fabric of my Goodwill bedsheets
The ease of my beanbag chair, another luxury I spent for
Soft and welcoming away from the world that shuns my kind

Home looks like the ripped out communist punk pamphlets
The pride flags that grace my walls in beauty
Reminding me of my own strength, keeping me safe

Home is what I have made it
Through the mad run in the dark and my own heartbreak
To a place where I am free

Home is my chosen family
The ones that treasure me for who I am
Without clause or abuse

Home is the arms of my lover
Watching the same show we already know
Even mundanity is treasure with them

Home is what I have fought for
A place where I can be myself in peace and safety
A place where I am found
OJ May 4
I've always had really bad wax
Still do
I use q-tips
to pull out bits and pieces
and I can hear the world
Hansel Apr 8
What sense do you consider the most precious?
Among the five: sight, hearing, taste, smell, touch
The four-year-old me would say it's taste
Upon licking her first mango-flavored ice popsicle

When she rode the bus and watched the sunset,
It's sight because it reminded her of some crush
And when they reached a mountaintop
There'd be no better view than city lights at night

Teen days came and she discovered emo music
Which she blasted through earphones for hours
This, along with her cat's meows & purrs
Comforted and made her say "I'm glad I hear"

At dawns on weekends, she strolls the coastline
Sniffing the scent of the sea as it kisses her soles
Or she'd be on the neighbor's garden
Finding the healing smell of a flower or its roots

Tomorrow, she'll find a lover thoughtful of hugs
She'll admire the sculpture of their nose bridge
The sensation when their lips touch
Smiles between kisses, making her the happiest

I can't choose one
My favorite sense changes with time
With new situations, with new discovery

When I hear the ringing of tinnitus I get anxious
That I can't sleep with the drizzling rain again
That when allergy stuffs my nose before sleeping
I can't wake up to a friend's gift - aroma diffuser

Only after sore heartbreaks can one appreciate
How lulling it is to slam the keys of the piano
How satisfying it is to drink water after starving
Locked in the room, crying over past pictures

I  love them all equally
With each passing minute, observe them
As they occur naturally in everything
a poem of some of my favorite things and experiences: mango flavor, a particular plant's roots..
Embracing the symphonies of midnight
Carefully sewn in between silence's guise
As salvation from this perilous plight

Shallow breaths as they clasp their bent knees tight
Crass caprices brim their minds in surmise
Embracing the symphonies of midnight

Ardent baton flicks to get them just right
Quietude, serenity—ode in reprise
As salvation from this perilous plight

Tinkering bells escorted by dim light
Yet shrill shrieking with menacing disguise
Embracing the symphonies of midnight

Soft, steady beats aloud, to hear I might
Lone martyr forgives in between my thighs
As salvation from this perilous plight

In low weeps, choruses of tears recite
Here I stand, dawning upon raven skies
Embracing the symphonies of midnight
As salvation from this perilous plight
Day 7 of #NaPoWriMo 2020. Been practicing fixed verse forms and today's a villanelle. Prompt is writing a poem with three things you hear at midnight.
You Never Listened
by Michael R. Burch

You never listened,
though each night the rain
wove its patterns again
and trembled and glistened ...

You were not watching,
though each night the stars
shone, brightening the tears
in her eyes palely fetching ...

You paid love no notice,
though she lay in my arms
as the stars rose in swarms
like a legion of poets,

as the lightning recited
its opus before us,
and the hills boomed the chorus,
all strangely delighted ...

Originally published by Contemporary Rhyme. Keywords/Tags: ears, hearing, listening, eyes, blindness, unseeing, unawareness, insensitivity, rain, stars, lightning, thunder
Glenn Currier Mar 21
Like fingers running across a harp
from shoulder toward feet
I fall deeper into you.
My fingertips pause
here and there in their journey
to feel the sweet vibrations
of your body
and in these small silences
I enter your divinity.
Jonathan Moya Mar 11
My silent little dear
snoozes in his cradle
beyond the noises
I can no longer hear.

The quiet drip of
rain and sink,
the swoosh of
inside air circulating,
the vibrations of life
I can hear only with
mental captions on,
are the inaudible sway,
that separates you from me.

Can you hear my smile
with closed eyes,
will you love the
silence or the noise?

Will you delight in
birdsongs or  
in fluttering wings?

Will you laugh at
the music of the spheres
or delight in quiet
thoughts and contemplation?

Child of my April dreams
and September haunts
who breathes in the
whitewash walls of my soul,
what you choose to see or hear,
at first walk, I will protect  
under the signing of my hands.

*This is a poem about my looking back at my baby self, before I contracted Scarlet Fever and became  near deaf, wondering what I would choose if I had the option to hear or be deaf.
Next page