Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Steve Page Nov 2023
Today is a first draft day
With no re-write on its way
I’m at the messy stage
the unstructured phase
with a faint promise of better
or maybe just more neatly arranged.

I’m a first draft
and on days like today
I feel it.

It was midnight
the moon sailed through the clouds

Winds howled
so did the wolf

The insects trilled
while in the distance machines drilled

Roadways to resurrect in the dead of the night

Snow covered land, white
no sign of the Sun

Do not follow the shadows
they can mislead

Puzzled and incomplete

Mystery of the truth

In pictures framed
Maria George Nov 2022
I always dreamt of this life
a life where I could be the woman I wanted to be
a life full of happiness and laughter
a life that is too good to be true
but still, I feel incomplete
there is a missing puzzle piece
so the question is, where do I find that missing piece?
Mrs Timetable Oct 2022
I can see the
Unfinished man
In pencil
That drawing that's missing
The outline of you
The curves of you forming
But still not whole
Still seeing who you might be
What moves you make
I can even see where
You have been erased
Mistakes have been drawn over
Paper is worn a little
Even torn
I'll be patient
I'll wait
For you to fill in
Get your lines straight
For you to be complete

Drawn in ink
Inspired by my nieces incomplete anatomy drawings in pencil
emily Oct 2022
I often imagine that the moon, the owls and the darkness of the night might be my closest friends, they are my trusted companions through the few highs and the many lows. They comfort me when it's 3am and the rest of the world seems like they are sleeping soundly.

They’ve been witness to my tears and plees for this to all stop and comforted me when the four walls of this bedroom felt like a cage. The moon seems so distant yet its warmth kisses my cheek. Someday I might be able to force my body to ignore the protection of the darkness and live in the light of the sun. But I am manufactured to die slowly to the darkness and this body is like an incomplete metaphor for the disease that lives in my head without paying rent eating up all the light.
Odd Odyssey Poet Jun 2022
I hunger for time—
more of which I don't have,
Thirst for love;
but not all would quench it,
Seek a purpose
that isn't labelled at first sight,
Dream of greatest—
in the confines of being simple,
Sin in the several;
seven times a day- consciously

I've done it all-
but in an all still not complete,
I'm incomplete.
Eloisa Jun 2022
I found my fate below my feet.
So I continue to tread gently.
Sobering up from the intoxication of seeking.
My light has never been lost and need not to be sought.
I’m breaking the walls I built to cover the real me.
Coated with anxiously raised endurance and strengths.
All the layers of fallacy.
My true nature has always been fragile.
Yet I’m toughened by life’s impermanence.
Holding on to the very meaning of life.
Embracing all sufferings and hardships.
Without losing sight of my creative and truer self.
"For more than 500 years, pottery in Japan has found a new lease of life through kintsugi, the traditional Japanese art form of sealing cracks with lacquer and gold powder. This technique of repair embodies the wabi-sabi aesthetic, which embraces the beauty in imperfection."
lua Dec 2021
hey brain, take this brush
and paint by yourself
these hands of mine are rough and calloused
unable to lift and bend my cracking joints
paint your thoughts by yourself
because my arms are limp and weak
and shatter when touched

i've always wondered why you never thought of leaving
voluntarily staying in my withering home
so kindly and destructive
when you paint on my walls
forgetting that lead settles in the pigments
in the lines that drip from excess

though each stroke pains me the longer you create
i'll always compliment you
with a voice tone-deaf and ugly
thankfully, i feel pretty when you do
i feel pretty when i become your muse
and feel a little less incomplete.
My Dear Poet Sep 2021
A poem half made
is like bread still dough
like a bed unmade
like half a mo
A poem half done
is like a shade of day
with half the sun
A kiss, an inch away
A poem undone
Is a four moon phase
a count to one
a ‘mil’ out of place
A poem half finished
is like a tin of spinach
still unopened
and an expired usage
A poem not a
Now that that’s out of my system…
Next page