Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
She held her other hand and intertwined her fingers.
she had him in mind. stuck in her own bubble of thoughts and imaginations.
She imagined it as his hands.
she doesn't know who, though. But she loved the thought of someone's hands intertwined with hers.
At night, she would talk endlessly into her phone.
It's not open, though. But she still talks and talk and talk until her story is finished.
She likes to think that she's talking to him on her phone.
She's not. She knows that.
The act just makes her feel less lonely.
It makes her feel as if someone would just love to listen to her rants and never ending stories or even about
how her day went.
She types her thoughts in the notes of her phone.
Thoughts that never made it out of her mouth.
Thoughts that she'd like to share with him.

And every time she does these things, reality slaps her hard in the face.
"Wake yourself up. It's never gonna happen."
And a tear always makes itself known as she opens her eyes.
And her happy fantasy crashes down as her heart did.

-F.T. 06.04.18
she felt as if she doesn't deserve any of it.
I had a fun night with two.
One died and the other is starving.
They came to see me
like the mysterious sea about to vomit,
the kind of sea where often in the evening a dozen clairvoyants fucked by every other god
come to drown!
I had a fun night with two.
One died before I could hold her and the other, I starved her to death.
Honey! Could you please get me my vegetarian horse.
I need to catch a revolutionary jellyfish then feed it with my idea of religion and let it dissolve in the mysterious sea.
You are stupid and so is your god!
I had a fun night with two...



- Samar Charulingah Godfrey
Em Oct 2
To write
And express
And share
an idea
or a thought
or a memory
or a romanticized past

...Is it all that?
haha im suffering from boredom
Wandering aimlessly with stormy souls
And
As the sprout of a plan, golden
Strikes lightning into departed holes
Flare hopes piercing the sands of Eden

Till confusion knows no home

For 'tis we've brightened eyes
And faces
For that that graces our gentle hopes

The fire in everyone of us
Blazes
With this sword
Gentle hope

Of what we will be
Tomorrow.
28.09.2018
Man I suck at writing poetry now. You can see how bad cuz I look up to my 14-year old self.
'The only person you need to be better than
Is the person you were yesterday'
I either nailed it, or failed it. I'm thinking the latter.

Anyway, through the poem I was implying the fierce hope and certainty (of the fact that we actually have a plan) that you know, we feel when we get an idea and place our fingers upon a good-looking plan.

I have a plan and I'm just over the moon cuz my plan is that I'm gonna be RIZNA just the way I want me to be!
(Just be yourself, don't care what ppl say)
All I want is to always be very young, with no worries of tomorrow. It'll just be the vitality in our bones as we dance to our tune of childlike bounces. This is where my dreams align and present-high dimensions seem so bright. Where I pocket my enthusiasm in a tight knot and play with it every-time my brain tingles with an idea. I want to recover my childhood with a pop!...
To my friend who have looked at me in all my childlike personas, you are a sport, you are a dancing pal.
I guess I'm just stuck in the old ways of thinking
that true love is still out there.
I know how I feel but I guess you had a different idea
My vision was to create a new language for literature-
But now not only is every solution nonsense & every poem agonising,
I am a child reading too many of today’s poems realising I’ll also be writing long sentences with the purpose of deconstruction & decoration.

I rest in between my own letters of ‘a’ & ‘n’, where I can sit I peace.
Because when I’m doing that, even the spaces will become part of the essence of the work. Say, (if you calculate the movement of this earth on its axis you’ll see its beauty equates to something like the beauty in poems) It is in the essence, we have beauty in the first place.

You see: seeing patterns is the only way around this world. This idea is as flaky to me as a chocolate bar. I’m gonna write and drop my laptop two times before I get it right. I will fail but they take me as naive anyway so I'll laugh at myself because I want to be polite.

Take love, it takes many forms, but the essence remains the same.
Take books, it has variety of plots, but some meanings stay the same.
Take poetry, we can destroy form, rhyme, meter, but in its essence, the feeling remains the same.

We should write to construct a new language of unity, with a clearness to our imagination, and rely on the essence of the work to make its way to the heart.
There is a light that likes to turn on
when I lay my head down for the night,
toss and turn with my dreams now forgone
no matter the yawn, this bulb is bright

not with so much as ideas but, words
and small phrases that I rearrange
that will fly away and cause me nerve
so I spread their wings, pin and arrange

their beauty captured and put in frame
so finally I can hit that switch
and try to win at this sleeping game
I will wake up in a few, poem rich

and so repeats the boundless cycle
capturing metaphor butterflies
in this restlessness bed of idyll
sleep late, wake early, a compromise
Kristina Sep 8
I've been told to take a breath
And to soak in my young-ness
Without a shadow of a doubt
I thought I couldn't wait to get out of this mess
But the years keep on moving
And I just keep circling
Around the dreams I used to have
Wondering what happened to the soul
I used to carry
But I guess growing older
Means there's some things you have to bury.
This flashing prompt
Is mocking me
The villain
In my dreams
Waking me from
A restless sleep
Making me wonder
What beauty lies ahead
Or if this day
Is just a nightmare to be had

Teasing me
Tempting me
Out of my writers block
So much so
That I have to
Write about it

The little black line
Is toying with me
Making me
Type
Edit
Delete
Like a cycle
Spinning my mind
Washing my pages
Until the words
Are nothing but memory

Or committed to memory
Depending on how many times
I’ve typed them
Trying to get past this idea
And turn it into
Something of substance
This flashing prompt
Has chained me to the screen

I scratch the idea
And start again

This vertical line
Is taunting me
Asking me what
I have Left to say
Reminding me that
I’ve said it all before
Just in a different way
Assuring me
That the world will tire
Of hearing my story
And I can only
Type so much
In a day
Week
Month
Year

This Caret
Has crushed me
Like a soldier waging war
Before I can even get a word in
Winning the battle
Unable to reach my weapon
Attempting to defend my thought process
Staring deeply I remember
That I am hopeless

This flashing prompt owns me
Keeping me up until
All hours of the night
Beating me to the punch
Whenever something feels right
Placing seeds of doubt in my mind
Making me aware
that the well
Has run dry
Next page