Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kim Essary Dec 2020
Searching to find myself assuming I was lost
Reality was no more or no less than my thoughts
I searched far and near only to find I was nowhere near lost only mistaken
Visions of who I am and how I should be
Remained squabbled and tossed inside of me
For the way I wanted and expected my life was the furthest from the way I could see
Atlas now I know I can find my way although I no not to where
I found I was no longer lost , only mistaken
Things aren’t always as they appear
Man Nov 2020
cutting the brush away
only to discover thorns
this prickly cactus person
who has become burdensome
in their self-loathing
is no more a plant for my ***
to spare a drop
i should want not
and waste none
Felicity Smoak Nov 2020
from long ago,
filled with memories
you thought you forgot.

every moment seeps
back into focus.
I remember it,
just how it was
in the pictures.


I remember it.

it has been
2 years
3 years
5 years
6 years
8 years
9 years
even 10 years.

I remember it.

every moment seeps
back into focus.
I remember it,
just how it was
in the pictures.

I wish I didn't.

what once brought
now brings

what once brought
now brings

what once brought
now brings

I am no longer
instead I am

I no longer
have purpose,
instead I am

I no longer
feel comfortable,
I am troubled.

every moment seeps
back into focus.
I remember it.
I remember it
so well.

I wish I didn't.

Sometimes even your closest friends decide to leave, too. And then all you have left is memories, in pictures.
Laokos Aug 2020
i'm no good, but
here I am anyway,
typing words
into poems.

i'm afraid that
all this is
a waste of time.
that I read some
poetry somewhere
long ago and
mistakenly believed
that I too could
do that.

but I can't
help it,
these words still
show up

when they
don't end
Andrew Rueter Jul 2020
Don’t mistake my kindness for strength
or my treaties for tanks
or my beatings for banks
I’ll bleed just from blanks
then I’ll flee to the flank
to get free from their spanks.

All the mistakes
my mind makes
are mind snakes
of blind faith
that finds fate
in grind grates.

You must be mistaken
when you say I’m misshapen
and there’s no way I’m this craven
I just look for a bliss haven
where I can kiss mavens.

You must have me mistaken for someone who cares
I’m someone who cares too much
I make too many mistakes to bear
and lose your touch.

You say you have no ***** to give
because it ***** to live
without bucks to bid
on the luck to win
so you shuffle spin
off my ruffled ridge
for muscled sin.

It was a mistake talking to you
mistaking the color red for blue
mistaking what you said as true
that you had a bed for two
until I read the news
you had the best to choose
so I bled and bruised
mistaking your clues.
vanessa ann Apr 2020
you were my home then,
the warmth in my fireplace, my
chest purifier, key finder;
whenever i leave you clung to me like dirt on the dishes
i carry with me your sickness for
love, for good.

somewhere between morning calls and warm bedsheets, i took
your hospitality for kindness for authenticity for love for truth
i was still drying my hair on your bathroom mat when you rang
the bell, and reminded me it’s time for
my checkout.
—i hope you enjoyed my stay
eleanor prince Mar 2020
sweet corral
in savage fields
you were to me
salvaged visions
hushed syllables
relayed in gasps
now stilled

and I sang to  
this favoured space
place all ages stretch
dance to meadow’s song
but havens don’t last
for spent shepherds
seek sleep too

I face myself
as dark clouds
I saw fomenting
omens of looming
deepening chill told
of friendship's succor
earmarked to go

confronted by
naked and scarred
discarded outcasts
dirges of limbs
parts broken
by storms'

you stood
beside me
sturdy strong
then winds ceased
and bland tones

no sunny sky friend
you are but in storms
you see the beaten
traveler's plea
as rains
Sometimes we happen to come by someone we grow to deeply love as a precious friend, however they may well not see things quite that way, as they could be the perennial helper of those battling the stormy night, and when too much of the everyday mundane increases and swamps the scene, they can unexpectedly withdraw, needing space to chill and just be, and you feel such regret, remorse, shame even, that you didn't realize you were becoming a bad smell, a suffocating presence and you need to draw back or lose the contact, connection forever.
Winter Sparrow Mar 2020
At night, as the cool breeze starts to kick in.
At night, when only the moon lay above,
When only the leaves are there to bounce off sound,
When only my brain creates the storms we lack in this desert.

I think of Autumn.
That one Autumn that changed it all.
A strange occult sort of feeling.
A sort of divine period, a different worshiping.

The period, when autumn leaves were grey,
Skies were orange, and clouds were starry.
When I worshiped a Muse as a deity.
A period that haunts me at night till thus day.

Like a ghost, taunting me, haunting me.
She visits on most nights, sometimes in a different skin.
Like a chameleon, shifting from one to another.
Different looks, but the same sapphire eyes.

What torture is this? If it is at all torture?
Is this my judgement? My atonement for the wrong I did? If I did any wrong...
My mind lingers to find the hidden message.
To decipher the code that are those kisses at night.
My mind lingers, by my hands write.

In a swift Autumn breeze, out of grey leaves.
Slithers a severed snake from Medusa's head.
One of many to haunt me every night.
A different hiss, a familiar kiss.
eleanor prince Feb 2019
so if we
stand still
smell the heat

of an enemy's
bullet through our veins
for once

court outcome
of supplanting views
imbibing another's sweat

casuist's bile
scrawled on prison walls
of savaged confines

they salute
their spiel
with the same

toxic hold
as we concoct
world views

venomous elixir
polymorphous maze
shadow of a sphinx

looms clearer
as steps leading
to torn pages

of feted book
uncover dichotomy
of a self split

so that shooting a child
of shunned genes
amounts to nil

for in but a blink
his uniform
arrives home

to stroke the
golden locks
of his only daughter

playing Chopin
Please see subsequent post 'dynamics of genocide'
penned as a bit of free expression,
more a rant than a poem,
but can provide some
background information to this poem.
I very much appreciate your thoughts and feedback
on either or both posts.
Big thanks...
eleanor prince Feb 2019
let me rant awhile
for what good it may do
to open the valve
if only briefly

for as one wave
after another
of sheer indignity
is reported

survivor guilt
courses through me
yet even this
was not mine to choose

for I don't happen to
have been born
or black -

and that doesn't make me
more -
or less -
worthy of dignity

but I can observe closely
what it is like
to be pilloried
and persecuted

for one's peaceful contacts
and communications
holding personal beliefs
at odds with a regime

and a rage
courses through me
on contemplating
'man's inhumanity to man' -

though written long ago
that the world would be so,
where hatred would replace
kindness, love, empathy

I deplore the way
an ideology
of one disturbed,
possessed person

can lead to millions
donning a uniform,
henceforth labelling
one sector of humankind

'persona non grata'

to be mercilessly pursued
in legitimized genocide,
even savaging
little children

frightened lads
caught on the run
made to hold arms
for food

mamas with babes in arms
forced to watch them
dashed to pieces
then buried alive underground

their infant cries still heard
while their mothers were ***** -
as beleaguered, beautiful Estonia
was brought to it's knees...

and I weep and rant
feel knives in my gut
blood pulsing swift -
then take hold of myself

seek to understand,
if that be possible,
even a smidgen
of such distorted thinking

to delve into the mind
of a hateful deviate
for but a moment
and remain intact

so I scan his written mantra
and come to see that
all deeply held convictions
must have at its core


lest it attract the weak
and easily led,
or those forced into submission
seeking to simply stay alive

and they find themselves
taking part
in a forest fire
of polluted propaganda

a flood of merciless
while their deluded leader
continues to spout forth venom

in the distorted notion
that they would actually
be acting in society's
best interests

or worse still:
'in the name of God'
(Acts 5:39;
Hosea 4:1-3)
This post was initially placed
at the end of my previous poem,
'mandated thuggery,'
but became so lengthy,
that though not my usual,
tightly honed offering,
I felt it may resonate
with some poets here on hp,
hence I gave it space
as a post in its own right.

You may wish to see my previous post
a poem that was based on these thoughts

I deeply appreciate your sharing
what you feel on reading
either or both of these posts
Many thanks
Next page