Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Your imagination is wicked,
Says an old friend on a train,
I don’t even exist.
your mind takes you places
Makoto Oct 2020
Sometimes she smiles first, asks easy questions
and acts like your responses aren’t ridiculous.
She tilts her **** in your direction, exposes **** rhymes, assonance, and alliteration,
and whispers something
about being free
tomorrow. Alone. Bored. She,
like you, could use
some warmth,
some jokes,
a good

****
Other times, you’re drunk
as ****, and so alone
you need to take your mind off bridges, pills, plastic
bags— the face in the mirror
getting deeper creases than you thought possible. So
you find someone
who looks bored and alone
and say something
awkward, stupid,
not funny—
she doesn’t even look at you.
Emry Oct 2020
I'd give anything to get poems out my mind
They're putting me in a bind
But in time I may come to find
That they're worth something once refined
Emry Oct 2020
Sometimes the muses gift you with inspiration, meters tall
Sometimes they curse you with none at all.
The muse's presence can be a blessing and a curse,
But I'd still prefer that over the reverse
Emry Oct 2020
This poem’s not in
Iambic Pentameter,
It is a haiku.
Old silly poem
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
There exists a special type of insanity,
Only known to poets
And those who adore poetry.
It is something that cannot be explained
Or described, only experienced.

And those who experience it
Are never the same. They know
The burning need to write and read
And the comfort of finding yourself
In someone else's words.

This madness holds a hidden truth:
No one chooses this insanity.
Instead, it reaches out to those
Broken, disillusioned, embittered
And held captive, by life itself.

I do not ask you to pity the poets,
Or those captivated by poetry,
But the next time you see one
Ask them: Why do you love poetry?
And watch as their eyes light up.
The other day, I started talking about poetry and my friends couldn't understand why I loved it so much. That conversation led to this poem
Slime-God Sep 2020
Like a tiny moth
I am drawn to these pages
To perish in flame
Celia Aug 2020
Does a poem have to be thought out
does it take years to edit and perfect

Or can it be,
can it just remain,
a few simple, raw lines
I wonder how many of us spend hours perfecting a poem. Or is it the raw ideas in our head that are truly the thing of beauty
Oli Taylor Jun 2020
Does this poem have *** appeal?
Oh don’t you know it.
It’s got green eyes, dark hair,
and a jawline that’s stoic.

It’s thickly bearded,
and has a good dress sense,
audaciously flirtatious,
and knows self-defence.

This poem’s got thick muscly arms
which look good holding babies,
and skilful, strong hands
which look soft for the ladies.

This poem smells good
even after the gym,
with a gorgeous deep voice
and gorgeous smooth skin.

It wears tight jeans
which show off its dic–
                                       tion is good,
so you can hear what it’s saying.
        But this poem has a boyfriend—
        I know, how dismaying.
Oli Taylor Jun 2020
If you were to stab a poet
with intent to really hurt,
would you be at all surprised
when blood begins to spurt?

You wouldn’t see a drop of ink,
that’s not what’s in their veins
despite what teenage “poets” say
with their undeveloped brains.
Next page