Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Brianna Dec 2019
Maybe it was the hazy Sunday morning bliss or the cicadas screaming their annoying lullaby but I found myself drawn to the woods.
Streams of blue and green water and muddy paths that lead me back to sanity every time I come through.

My past has kept me locked in city streets with too many people and too many memories.
My present holds a sympathetic and nostalgic view for the things I love but also a craving for something vast and beyond.

As for my future if they ask me today I might just head to the woods and never leave.
I’ll become one with the moss on the trees and the mushrooms in the ground.
I’ll be the composure for the cicadas and the paint for the sunsets and sunrises.

Tonight we will dream  of the right path to the New York life and the city dreams but tomorrow we’ll find the left path holds the cure to the soul in the trees.
Tyler C Nelson Nov 2019
There as I sat it spoke to me,
   this wall of asymmetric cracks.
Its faded, soaked cement remained.
   Its light red bricks answered back.
Past these chips of aged white
   the blue sky hung with wispy cloud.
A distant bird with creeping weeds
   through ancient windows spoke aloud.
Here light enfolds these steps of prayer
   where new fresh grass is listening.
The hedges kept with varied plants
   in waving breezes are glistening.
This ruined wall tells its story
   of faded asymmetric glory.
Maya Duran Sep 2019
iii.
He reminds you that you may never be loved
In the way that you are supposed to
His heart opens as it should
A halved pomegranate
And the jewel flesh spills forward
In effortless bounty

Yours was wrapped in butcher paper
With care, long ago
It lives in the freezer
In the way, way back
Ice crystals form slowly
Until they resemble a silver blanket of moss
"Cavetown wrote a song about your ex and we played it all summer long" pt 3. This poem isn't about what you think it is, but I don't think that that matters so much. The feeling is the same at its core, even if the circumstances are not.
Bede Aug 2019
I walk into the mossy wood,
The Sun above me shining.
Around me I can feel it warmth
And I see the ray's wide-winding.

As source, it gives me light and heat
And gives the moss it's green
Through grace, I shall be warm again
Even when I'm left dying.
My first attempt at a symbolist poem
Alice Wilde May 2019
Honeydew nectar pulls me into her *****.
Thick blankets of soil pregnant with rain
And rain boots.
Damp earth and
Silk moss beds cushion toes and rolling laughter
As I fall into spring.
there's three and bit weeks
left till election
day
whereupon we'll hold a
decision of much
sway

us displeased electors will
not be playing
about
when it comes to who we'll choose
for a throwing
out

none of the candidates are totally
safe in their
seats
as our ballot papers shall
mark them with
defeats

we're itching to cleanse parliament
house of the
dross
who've been doing little
but gathering useless
moss
The Napkin Poet Mar 2019
Black moss and flower pots.
She cometh not, she cometh not.
Lonely and moated,
Rusted nails broken.

Dew with tears,
An hour before sunlight.
Cold winds wake,
A greyish mourn.
Clustered marish-mosses,
Silver green bark.

In a dreamy home.
Among wainscot,
Door hinges creak.
Like a mouse,
She shrieked-
She cometh not, she cometh not.
Daisy Vallely Feb 2019
I press my ear against her soft bark,
Damp and darkened by the cloud’s tears.
I hear an echo that envelopes my mind-
A familiar voice, without a face or a name- she is a vibration, she is a feeling.
Looking up, i watch her branches split the sky like an earth quake shattering the heavens.
Spanish moss drips down like solidified rain drops, frozen in time.
I sit upon her roots and dig my barren feet into the cool dirt
Amongst the acorns and shedding of her hair.
My nose is met with an earthly scent- a reminder to breathe.
This old tree watches lifetimes pass as the sun descends below the Earth, the moon rises into the ether, the stars wink at sleeping flowers, and the planets watch us dream.
I stay beside her until twilight cloaks the sky.
This old tree wears wisdom like a silken robe,
So beautiful in every crack and crevice of her body.
I count the stars with her until numbers turn to the sounds of beetle’s banter.
We all laugh together,
And fall asleep in the embrace of existence
Allyssa Oct 2018
I could tell you that I tip toe across the cold wet stones,
Careful with every movement,
But I’m not.
I’m unsteady,
Unsteady as the current rushing beneath me against the slippery rocks.
I could tell you that I’m dainty,
Soft spoken and polite,
But I’m not.
I’m brazen,
I’m honest,
I’m emotional.
I’m clumsy and I don’t have good balance on the moss beneath me in the water.
I crack under pressure,
I’m an anxiety filled vessel.
I hate to be the rain on your sunny day,
But baby I’m sorry,
I’m nothing but the girl who fell into the rushing waters below.
River
Payton Jun 2018
You’ve grown on me
like moss and ivy,
slowly at first but
before you know it, I’m
covered in you, and I
choose not to remember
what it was like to be naked.
Next page