Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kat Jan 12
For the past few months
My nights have been filled
With medication-fueled dreams
Often
I wake from nightmares
That leave me drenched in sweat
Lying on cast-off covers
Certain that all I fear
Has come true
But it is more fun
To think of the pleasant dreams
That hold me captive
Witness to a story
That is no longer a story
But a reality

Sometimes
I dream of landscapes:
Pools and rivers of the purest blue
Spheres, translucent and filled with ferns
Hills of evergreens green as emeralds
Clouds so light they seem to melt into the sky
Sometimes
I dream of places from my childhood:
Places where I felt safe
Safe from fear
From the frantic pace of life
From worry
From pain
Sometimes
I dream of the characters I have created
To fill my daytime fantasies
To fill my D&D campaigns
To fill the stories that live behind
Every waking moment
Coloring every experience
With ideas
Of what I should imagine next

Sometimes
I want to lie in bed forever
Immersed in these dreams
In their sights
Their smells
Their sensations
Until the world I am used to
No longer exists
When it feels instead
Like I inhabit a place
So far from reality, yet so real
So real that when I wake my memories are scattered
Jumbled in my mind like leaves after a storm
And for a moment  
I can’t tell which were already there
And which are newly fallen

Sometimes
I think
Maybe
I am going crazy
Losing my sense of direction
Caught up in this universe
Of my mind
But then I begin to wonder,
Isn’t the “real” universe
Perceived through our minds?
And if this is the case,
What is really real?
But enough of metaphysics –
Better to think of
The "real" world, with all its goods and bads
Because the danger with getting too caught up in dreams
Is that you can lose sight
Of what you know
What you have
What you are

The reality is
That you cannot hide forever
In dreams
In fantasies
In stories
For you to experience
The world we all know
You must sometimes leave the comfort
Of the world
That is only real
To you
Justin Zheng Jan 11
bad leads to okay
okay leads to good then great
this is a haiku
my second haiku
you don't want to see the first
or maybe you do
this is not a haiku.
NBNight Nov 2018
If I were short
On Love
Would you care?
Ally Ann Nov 2018
There is poetry
that rubs on my bones like sandpaper
I am waning under the weight
of losing myself
to mediocre creative expression
as I write with my arthritis fingers
pieces of who I am
drop to the floor
leaving loneliness to fight
with the happiness my mind is trying to find
as my bones become ghosts
of what they were when I was born
fragile to the touch
of everyone I ever loved
God looks at me as his only failure
He never expected for me to fade
this quickly
beside the guided worries
that I was never meant to be alive
these words change my mind for
a moment in time
but I am still left with
a self destructing body
and a decaying mind
Stanley Nov 2018
Poems aren't written,
they're found,
Somewhere in your head the words are waiting,
They're sprawled across the floor,
You just need to pick them up,
Make a path with them,
Let your path guide observers,
And if you can't write,
Walk down somebody's else's path first,
First poem I've written, to anybody who reads this is hope you enjoyed it and it made you day a little better
Ek Aug 2018
When I traverse the lowest valleys
and climb the highest peaks
I break forth my journal
my pencil and I feel

In the dark, it lights a path
in the light, it bursts the dark
though I must admit I write the most
when I'm in the dumps

I spit onto pages
venomous oceans of blue and black ink
in life, I've no way of reaching him
or is it for a person, a concept, or a thing?

Will pretty eyes mind poetry?
Or is that something misperceived?
Am I only screaming at dead trees
for the rest of my life; for eternity?
Jonathan Surname Aug 2018
It's no longer the heartbeat.
Echoes instead, cooing.
Placating me with serpent wishes,
selfish desires.
Succulent, sustinent.
Cheap refrains repeated as a bridge,
before the heart stopping bass drop.
Echoes again, belting.
Three fingers deep into a whiskey,
and mind you there's an e.
Cheap American heritage bundled together
like a plastic suite of day drives and night caps.
Houses made of stucco, sticking in the heat of the summer.
Another simplistic S-word statement.
Another coughing mind without abatement.
Another ******* poet *******.
TB Dentz Jul 2018
Why so serious all the time
Why do the poems never rhyme
What's the meaning of
"2 AM
Standing outside
Smoking a cigarette
Talking to a trash bin"

Why do we have to act so wise
I'd rather set a poem to music
Than to set it on your eyes
But here we are because I messed up
And got no talent for anything but the abstract
It all falls apart in the end... sometimes sooner than later
Stella Jun 2018
Poetry, as I perceive it,
And no offence, alright;
Is not this:
Writing as I would speak to someone
Only stacking the lines one on top of the other
Instead of next to it, in a paragraph.
If I were to put my strophes in a straight line, and end up with a Facebook status,
No matter how great,
This is not my poetry.

What poetry is
The lick of moonlight that betrays the mouse’s tail
The crickets over the careful cat’s march
And a microscopic last breath between a crush of the fangs.
Poetry about poetry
Next page