Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
archwolf-angel Nov 2016
Insanity strikes
At midnight
When the sun is down
And strength is nullified

Vulnerability strikes
At midnight
When the moon is full
And remains the only source of light

Sounds tend to amplify
At midnight
*Like your heartbeat, for example
It's my favorite lullaby
And as I reminisce it in the dark
When I miss you
It gets louder every time
Sarah Isma Sep 2016
I don't think
that I have a voice
I mean,
I have one, I'm not mute.
But, everyone keeps ignoring me
and brush off my words,
it kind of makes me wonder,
If i even have a voice.
Sometimes I just need someone to hear me out,
At least respond to my hellos
And maybe then
I'd know that I'm not actually mute
It's probably not just me, but i bet every kid stuck in an adult body feels the same way.
aniket nikhade Jun 2016
Action speaks louder than words,
so does confidence,
which speaks for itself as the right thing done at the right moment in time,
enhances the scope of how things will shape in future,
then also at the same point in time it changes the nature of everything in present, which has got do something with regards to future.

Definitely taking a proper line of action speaks for itself rather than stating it merely on a piece of paper or in the form of words.
Sometimes, just sometimes, saying nothing at all speaks louder than a million other words you'll try to say.
Mark Parker Mar 2016
Tic Toc at the midnight hour,
peddling along louder and prouder.

Clock my dear friend,
you've done it again.
Every single second I learn
that time has passed,
and you're consistent,
I hear it sixty times
within a minute.
And he continues.
Smugly taunting along
with that perfect timing
envied by all musicians.
The clock, my worst adversary.
Tehreem Feb 2016
Darkness stirred in her soul
She moved between the realms
Her despair and longing
Grew louder and louder
The conquerer of her kingdom
The master of the conquests
On an another expidition
Occupied with his battles
Unaware of her despair
Invades a new dynasty
With rapidly fading hopes
Her ****** eyes awaits..
Abbie Sep 2015
You say we're just writers
Twiddling our pencils
Twisting your words to
match our ink meddled minds
Display our work of messy art
into something wondrous enough
for some to find intriguing..
For some to find truth..
You say words don't mean ****
So why is it that,
you react so harshly to our actions
When you know our art packs a punch
Don't **** with us writers
Because we know just how to expose you for who you really are
purpose of acknowledging the power of writers; old poem I felt weird for writing but can't resist sharing any more
Jared A Washburn Jun 2015
Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
      once said, “Poets are ******, but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run

Can you hear him?


Are you even listening?

What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?

A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
      staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
      (who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
      a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
      but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.
A tribute to Mr. Ginsberg, one of my favorite madmen.
Rockie Apr 2015
Even louder.
You'll never get it.
The louder the music?
The quicker the sadness goes away.
Next page