Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
The truth is that we
Were never really in love.
We only thought we were.
Old eyes gaze upon
Young faces. So in love they
Were, so young and dumb.
She was a killer.
Little did I know, I was
Just her next victim.
girls are drinks served to kings, unfortunately some are poisoned
It's been a year now.
I hope you're doing okay,
Wherever you are.
Mhiko Simon Feb 12
With the inhalation of bullets,
as a diversion and a force to forget,
and have a neglection of
the one baptized as supreme,
then yells exigency at the pointless.

all and sundry overhead
are run by the dullards,
whose power was never absolute,
had an opportunity to resolute.

Beloved land of democracy,
whom produced kakistocracy.

To all and sundry dux:
“ad infernum apud vos”
dux = dutch/leader
ad infernum apud vos = to hell with you/go to hell
Jay M May 2019
o, quam potens sit
sine misericordia
non unciae

Hic ego pono
Contritum et cruentis
reliquit meum cogitationes
in aeternum solus
In aeternum mittitur ad tenebras

culpa plagis meus valde et anima
Numquam dimittere me
Cuniculus in carne mea
Sculptura se nidum sanguinis et os

- Jay M
May 21st, 2019

English translation:

oh, how powerful it be
without mercy
not an ounce

Here I lay
Broken and bleeding
left to my own devices
Forever alone
Forever cast to darkness

Guilt plagues my very soul
Never to release me
Burrowing into my flesh
Sculpture itself a nest of blood and bone

- Jay M
May 21st, 2019
Some Latin poetry
Jay M Apr 2019
Non dies transit, ut non **** te
Sed, putatis de me?

Numquam erit vere scio,
Quia ego sum non a mente lector
Aut via, possum tamen te amo,
Non possum?

O bene.
Not a day goes by that I don't think of you
But, do you think of me?

Never shall I truly know,
For I am not a mind reader
Either way, I can still love you,
Can't I?

Oh well.

Latin and translated to English. The title means Darling.
Michael R Burch Sep 2020
The State of the Art
by Michael R. Burch

Has rhyme lost all its reason
and rhythm, renascence?
Are sonnets out of season
and poems but poor pretense?

Are poets lacking fire,
their words too trite and forced?
What happened to desire?
Has passion been coerced?

Shall poetry fade slowly,
like Latin, to past tense?
Are the bards too high and holy,
or their readers merely dense?

Keywords/Tags: poetry, art, rhyme, reason, meter, form, sonnets, fire, passion, Latin, stale, outdated, past, tense, readers, readership, mrbstate, mrbart

by Michael R. Burch

How can I write and not be true
to the rhythm that wells within?
How can the ocean not be blue,
not buck with the clapboard slap of tide,
the clockwork shock of wave on rock,
the motion creation stirs within?

Originally published by The Lyric

by Michael R. Burch

The meter I had sought to find, perplexed,
was ripped from books of "verse" that read like prose.
I found it in sheet music, in long rows
of hologramic CDs, in sad wrecks
of long-forgotten volumes undisturbed
half-centuries by archivists, unscanned.
I read their fading numbers, frowned, perturbed—
why should such tattered artistry be banned?

I heard the sleigh bells’ jingles, vampish ads,
the supermodels’ babble, Seuss’s books
extolled in major movies, blurbs for abs ...
A few poor thinnish journals crammed in nooks
are all I’ve found this late to sell to those
who’d classify free verse "expensive prose."

Originally published by The Chariton Review

The Harvest of Roses
by Michael R. Burch

I have not come for the harvest of roses―
the poets' mad visions,
their railing at rhyme ...
for I have discerned what their writing discloses:
weak words wanting meaning,
beat torsioning time.

Nor have I come for the reaping of gossamer―
images weak,
too forced not to fail;
gathered by poets who worship their luster,
they shimmer, impendent,
resplendently pale.

Originally published by The Raintown Review

The Forge
by Michael R. Burch

To at last be indestructible, a poem
must first glow, almost flammable, upon
a thing inert, as gray, as dull as stone,

then bend this way and that, and slowly cool
at arms-length, something irreducible
drawn out with caution, toughened in a pool

of water so contrary just a hiss
escapes it―water instantly a mist.
It writhes, a thing of senseless shapelessness ...

And then the driven hammer falls and falls.
The horses ***** their ears in nearby stalls.
A soldier on his cot leans back and smiles.

A sound of ancient import, with the ring
of honest labor, sings of fashioning.

Originally published by The Chariton Review

by Michael R. Burch

"What will you conceive in me?"
I asked her. But she
only smiled.

"Naked, I bore your child
when the wolf wind howled,
when the cold moon scowled . . .

naked, and gladly."
"What will become of me?"
I asked her, as she

absently stroked my hand.
Centuries later, I understand;
she whispered, "I Am."

Originally published by Unlikely Stories

The Stake
by Michael R. Burch

for Beth

Love, the heart bets,
if not without regrets,
will still prove, in the end,
worth the light we expend
mining the dark
for an exquisite heart.

Originally published by The Lyric
Next page