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Ira Sep 22
Here I type and placate a plan.
"Should I ask for people to give me a hand?"
"No," I say, leaning in my chair,
"Begging for reads on Hello Poetry is too much sadness to bear."
staring once more
into myself
dregs staring back
me, "nothing more
than a character"
then close, it follows
staring inside
from the outside
what do you see?

can't escape the
sum of my parts
smoke signals sent,
nothing returned
need to ask those burned
"should i burn myself"
hurting inside, toiling
the trivialities.

what's the good word?
i'm making sense
time wasn't lost,
the time was spent

every once in a while
i can act out certain scenes
in ways my words
could never say

my worst qualities crack the best of my plans
my worst qualities crack the best of my plans

there was a point,
the recent past,
this act had meant
feeling concrete
the cast has since
let the pour pool
up here, set
around my feet.

my worst qualities crack the best of my plans
my worst qualities crack the best of all my plans

i'm split, i'm split, i'm split
Arkapravo Aug 9
A poem weaves lyrics to thoughts,
the fortune that destiny brought,
the wind that the words caught,
... just enough, never a lot !

It is when, the flowers shout out,
... the birds sing aloud,
bees buzz together in a clout,
hooray to the dancing village lout.

Or, if it is the charm of a maiden's eyes,
hold my hand and tell me a lie,
as truth will only make me cry,
give me a promise, till I die.

Or, if it is for a social reason,
an anarchist on revolt season,
a dab of red, a call of treason,
a poets verse can take to prison.

Or, if words seeks the minds-speak,
psyche is for the daring, not the meek,
... a work at hand, not a walk past the creek,
can you read my thoughts at a poet's streak?

Or, if it is for war protest,
in Guy Fawke mask and a black vest,
for the plight of those in peace who rest,
catchy solgans and a chorus to test.

... then there is the drunk babble,
verses on a high, writing for a fable,
realm of the bar's loony rebel,
few moments just too incredible.

Few who talk of life ...
... and the universe, past time's swipe
thoughts never too naive,
a philosopher's table to wipe!

A poem will always try,
to make verses not too dry,
a worth of truth laced with a pinch of lie,
a flutter for the heart to fly.
Nick Jul 29
That phrase makes me shiver
Makes some solemn silent (?) resounding
Sends me flailing: **** **** **** (word choice is dodgy)
Supersedes sentience

Overall, I’m somewhat confused and disappointed by your work. Please reconsider your ******* of the English language.
The critic becomes a part of the work. Twice.
kk Jul 23
Writing gets hard,
but the sky and the stars tell me
that I am the star even in times
when the rhymes don’t flow that smoothly
and life isn’t a movie.

When I’m at the cliff’s
precipice and my fingers are stiff,
tremors wracking my body
as I struggle to embody
something confident and godly,
it seems so much easier
to burn away than to stay drained.

But prose is my way
of praying,
and even if the deities of my brain
decide I must embrace pain another day,
I take literary measures in an attempt
to stay sane.
Madhumita Apr 28
Sometimes I have something to say.
Sometimes I want to say nothing
about what I really feel –
I bury it within layers.

It is easy to write because
sometimes I have something to say.
Every word sprouts out eagerly,
a bamboo grove by morning light.

I begin my expedition
without a set destination.
Sometimes I have something to say;
I end up saying something else.

I’ve built a wall of reticence;
poems are the open window.
Reluctant as I am to talk,
sometimes I have something to say.
NaPoWriMo Day 28
Poetry form: Quatern
Tim Garemore Apr 25
I've a particular bias
against words that don't conform to the way
that appears beautiful to me

Works that are right-justified
or unjustified
or rhyme too much (or little)
even just using bold or italics

I'm amazed at how I call what I make poems
and therefore myself a poet
and find nearly no pleasure in most poetry
I'm so picky about poems I read yet so unwilling to critically evaluate what I write myself.
Oskar Erikson Apr 18
to the lovers
who use this site to tell us their stories
"Insert Title"
Your love is magnanimous
is gorgeous pure and beautiful
"Insert Title"
some search for "real poetry" about life or death or something
philosophical, so let them say
"Insert Title"

and as someone who has had their heart broke?
its ok.
this place isn't a democracy, we all don't get a vote
and to anyone who thinks i agree with
"Insert Title"

"Insert Note"
HP is a great community, we write about whatever we want, I love seeing all the ways we can talk about our day to day lives. Its beautiful and rewarding. Write about what makes you happy. Never let anyone else determine that.
I love, Love Poetry.
ottaross Apr 4
An entire genre of poetry
Crafted from the pondering of the page blank.
I have a mild disappointment as they
Are submitted into the stream
Of word sculptures that cross my desk
Emerging from nothing
From the art of just getting started.
And even so, here I sit
Having just pulled together one myself.
dt Mar 15
my words are my escape and my prison.
i pick up a pen and
plant my feet on whichever page i choose,
whenever i wish.
my hands create the fate of dozens, hundreds, thousands
and behind these bars,
i hide
so that i may never face the fact that
all my favourite memories
all my shining moments
all the things that touch my heart
are fabricated
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