Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Susana Jan 14
A big house
is a lovely house,
a rich house,
a warm house.

A beautiful woman
is a cherished woman,
a clean woman,
a noble woman.

Both radiate:
her skin glows,
its columns shine
and the windows, oh so clean.

Try and look inside
you can't
              Can you?
take a peek.

As though its windows are clean
and her smile is inviting,
you can only gaze at the exterior
for when you get through the gate, the skin

The interior
is not
Anais Vionet Aug 2020
a Haiku

You don’t know me
Not really. You just might see
someone smiling bright

you might hear a laugh
skipping off my dark surface
inside I am rough

I am scrubbing on
interior surfaces in a
measured tyranny
do we REALLY know what's going on, with others, internally?
Julie Grenness Jan 2020
My name is Julie Chatterbox,
I do waste thoughts a lot,
I can perform my monologue,
My brain does a yap a lot,
All I have to say,
Is raise your coffee this way,
To stinking thinking, okay?
If you want an opinion, ask me,
I can indulge in repartee!
Feeback welcome, know thyself.
Bansi Adroja Jan 2020
No one knows the interiors of our lives
all of the tragedies we survive on a daily basis
with the monsters in our homes
days disappeared by ghosts
our love lost
to someone
something so unworthy
Misery pit on a Friday
Yanamari May 2019
As I wait
In the night's cold
The echoes of rain long gone
I fall back
Sweet reactions
And sweet smiles
Evoked by the idiosyncrasies of life,
All genuine
Whilst my heart
Congeals the idiosyncratic nature of
My exterior
With my interior.

A concept irrevocable.
In it's amalgamation,
The force of its flux
Is unsettling.
And in my unsettled ease
Where does that leave me?
Rain: II
Jenna Mar 2019
Is surrounded
by the
on the walls
I met with the devil, several
Times I thought I was developing in revel
Even though i was caught in the same level
Of misery and miss behaves, gravel
In my lungs, gravel
Over me, and I see
Nothing else to live for in me
First poem in an awful long time.
samantha page Sep 2016
i see my sock covered feet
that mean so much more than's shown
moving along to the beat
as if they have a mind of their own

fiddling around
or bouncing to the beat
without so much as a sound

when the rest of me is still
my feet give away my restless interior
the small part of me no one can ever ****
my feet are it's portal to the exterior
Next page