Esther Krenzin Oct 2018
Strong and resolute, it stands
seeking with claw-like limbs
for sunlight and raindrops.
Leaves, crimson and gold
slip from trailing branches
coming to rest on frozen ground.
Whispering and sighing
the great oak bends and sways
in the icy wind.
Roots, beneath the surface
delve deep down
as ages pass--
untouched by frost.
The strong winds may blow
and wage their wars
brittle branches may splinter.
But still the oak stands
not breaking against the forces.
-Esther Krenzin-
We must learn to be more flexible in life, and not let the world make us hard and unforgiving. If a tree were hard and brittle, than it would break and fall over. And if it had no roots, it would never be standing in the first place. When we are born, we are born a tree bud with roots like small veins. As the years past we grow and learn the ways of the world, our roots growing and spreading. Life may be difficult, there may be suffering, and we may become hard and splinter into pieces. But remember that everything that is broken, comes back stronger than before. I once saw lightning strike down a towering oak, causing it to fall and leave nothing but a barren stump.
After a year or two, a little tree began to grow from the stump of its former self, becoming everything it was before it fell--if not even more beautiful.
To this day, it still stands, looking as if nothing ever happened.
Life will knock you down, but it is your choice whether or not you will stand up again, or stay down.
Chris Jan 12
To cry for help in an empty room,
To slit a wrist with a notebook page,
To try to chase away the gloom,
To try and try, but things don't change.

To live and die not knowing why,
Happiness you never felt,
Lets only your wishes slide,
Into drainpipes of contempt,

To laugh at your own demise,
To let irony build a wall,
To make sarcasm as sharp as lies.
To let hate warm up your soul.

To **** the one for he feels better,
To **** yourself because you're worse,
To not know why you're doomed to shatter,
To truly hate the universe.

To live and die, not knowing when,
The laughter will turn into screams,
And fill your heart with a calming sense,
When my nightmares are your dreams.
harper simmons Dec 2018
To who is he a hypocrite?
The boy who wanted distance,
from love,
from expenditure.
A boy who thought of himself not
only as a man.
life's game seemingly
far too easy.
And with the lies for desire of
of love and expenditure,
comes obsession of
garments, and poison
and desperate lips.
Hypocrisy is the causation of his loneliness.
first poem haha.
Stephen S Nov 2018
I've spent too much time taking.
Too much time breaking.
Too many nights in the cold, alone,

I've spent too much time keeping,
long hours weeping.
Fighting off demons that are constantly

But I will do this no longer,
I can be stronger,
Now's time to toss the junk that's making me

It's a wholesale clearing,
an escape from the fearing.
There's a new me a-coming, my spirit is

So now I'll stand and surrender,
Move from hoarder to sender,
and open this new chapter in all of its
TW Nov 2018
I am a writer who hates whiskey.

I feel that I should love it like a writer's only friend,
Like I should sip it from a glass while I scribe with broken pens,
Like I should clink the ice against the sides and swirl it, deep in thought,
And take it neat and raw, in admiration of its steely course.
It should lubricate the mind and guide the flow of words to page,
And since a nervous age I've yearned to say I love the way it burns and maims,
And maybe on a certain day, I'll glug it without choking, breathless,
But for now it hurts my brain to even think about its... smokey wetness.

I've idolized an archetype, a writer with a harmful life,
Sit alone in bars at night, lament the fact that art is strife,
But recently I'm thinking more, and honestly, this can't be right,
I love the pen and paper, and I love the fact it's hard to write.
It's the way that I've romanticized it, fantasized and glamorized it,
Like I could just forget about a novel, let Jack Daniel's write it,
While I sat and focused on my magnum opus, penning parts of it in prose,
I viewed my present like it's hindsight, through glasses tinted rose.
Rich Nov 2018
Inside a forest of my own making
where the vines are merciless and though dreams may die the evergreen awakens

I must be patient,
and follow the voice at my core

through these arches, roots, through the self-made distrust
that manifests as branches sharp enough to divide me
so I’m on guard like a sentinel

You think you’ve been starved of serenity
well I have a Chimera’s hunger and a sage’s mind

a lethal combination
and I'm killing more than time
I’m after my former self
since I need a rebirth and some revenge
because that man wasted centuries caught in vicious cycles

when the key to escape was right there between two temples.
c Oct 2018
I’m watching
My happiness



a  p  a  r  t

In front of me.
I am so tired
c Oct 2018
When I left
I told myself
I was fine
With being me

But I’m bleeding poetry again,
So am I really myself at all?
Leigh Oct 2018
I can't see, but feel their eyes on me,
Extracting me in parts where I stand,
But the spotlight is broken.

I can't hear, but feel their words
Thrown at me, reverberating through me,
But the spotlight is broken.

I can't breathe, but feel their blame
Held over me to smother rational thought,
But the spotlight is broken.

I can't move, but feel their approach,
Weilding their weapons of choice,
But the spotlight is broken.

When curtains close to house lights I bow to the empty seats.
It's all in your head.
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