Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Floo 1d
Is this the teenage tragedy?

I've heard it way too many times.
This solo singer melody,
In a choir of lonely lies

I sang her story last year,
In a bed I'd made my coffin,
Sleeping as though I'd died already,
And was just waiting to be forgotten

Back then I'd thought I was so alone,
and that my thoughts were so unique.

Until I overheard some other kids
tell of their losses in this past week.

And I realised that my solitude, was mine, and mine alone.
But all these other
Happy kids™,
Hid some pain that was theirs,
and theirs alone.

I know I shouldn't interrupt,
but your performance must be cut.

I'll tear you from this solemn stage,
and cast the spotlight on
The stagehands.

Who turn and manipulate in the darkness of your presentation

And the background dancers.

Whose elegant grace and exquisite contortions,
Distract
from your **** words and hideous thoughts

So that even you,
Sallow songbird on a stage scattered in shadows,
are entranced by their performance
On your own
Rotting wooden platform.

And I won't be your applauding audience member
Nor will I sit, with my perfected neutral expression,
Eating cyanide pills from popcorn buckets, watching you perform,
In silence,
As the others do

With my own torn vocal chords, I'll protest for your show to be cut short,
even after you had invited me to join this spectacle.

Because today, I can feel it,
Pulsating a glow, brighter than any memory I can recall,
And it's burning me.
This palpitation of the present,
Which I know is a temporary sensation,
But it's a fraction of temporary too long

You fall from a rusted swing, in an abandoned playground
Watch your blood merge with the soil and the peat
Your structure punctures through your skin,
a harsh disruption to your soft, infant self.

You want to scream, but you wouldn't,
would you?
The pain will cease in an appropriate ammount of time™,
Eventually

We don't talk about the permanent injuries from our seemingly  inconsequential  actions
A permanent solution to a temporary problem

People persistently parroted that platitudinous proclamation in pallid hopes of dismissal of your white palfrey

At least 3 of them, anyway.

You'd scream in that moment.
Call out for your mother,
Or some other great and unconquerable  force,
To annihilate the hurt,
and quell your cries.
Her strong lips laying kisses upon your sore, youthful cheeks,
in an attempt to paralyse your own
Trembling pair.

I'm still playing in those sandboxes filled with bones,
In those playgrounds where we played,
When we were blind.
And in your town,
I see you.
Crouched inside the same wooden framework.
Knee deep and ready to sink.

Over grown victim of your own infanticide,
Have you buried the bones of the child you used to be?

Would we have looked her in the eyes  as we prepared to dig her burial site-
Here
A foot step away from where her blood had mixed with the filth,
And her cries had stifled into sniffs.

How deep is her shallow grave?

And sometimes,
I think that maybe saying nothing would sound better,
But I dont want to witness my failure, before I even attempt to talk you off of the ledge you're standing on
Telepathic thoughts of "don't do it," won't reach you,
I know  that
But feelings are so much easier to feel, than to describe.

I think that,
Maybe,
You think that this sounds like just another  philistine sentimentalism.

I think that,
Maybe,
You know I don't know what I'm on about.

I'm not even sure of as to why
I'm so sure
I'm so sure.
That I want to save you
Is it even for you?
Or am I trying to save myself
From the guilt, of witnessing your fall,
After I had moved my own noose
From around my neck, to over my hips
A harness
Holding me above the  hangman's  stage I had performed on

Empty playgrounds are the loneliest things in the world.
More so than empty wombs,
And once empty graves.

Let's play together.
I float out of mind, or the visages of time
Born from the gusts of a star’s mighty stillness
I fly to a sphere of lovers and mimes
Still, no one can bear to notice my dress

Dear- she is silent, yet stands so close
The eyes pierce my body, smiling fro
The human gaze is one of repose
Is there something the cosmos did not show?

I'm an actor! The Guile! Kaleidoscopic motion!
In the midst of monotony, the lumbering locomotives
I laugh on stained tiles, I'm a star of devotion!
Know me, fools! My essence is votive!

O vile and veiled stage, which I perform under!
Is my passion redundant, and my words so tasteless?
This is my dream, that fate struck asunder
I can't feed myself at my worst or my best

I think I will go back to star Sirius' caress.

Years- the passing of time
Insurmountable to my looping eye
Not so much as a dent in their grime
The vice of the purpose, unhinged by a sigh

What can one choose to bear
When ******* the clasp of cosmic hands
When all one sees are fleeting stares
And their last teacher is time’s command

Not a single ear hears
Not a single voice cheers
No hands, free to jeer
For I am not here

The joke is as old as the star that birthed me
As careless as a rampant sea
huh?
oh its you
well welcome back i guess
i see that your actually willing to put my sanity to the test
well before you start
you should know this job will be a whole mess
my name?
well you just get straight to it!
call me
what you think i am
however you would wish to personify me
sit down over on that chair
its understandable if your scared
but you must be built for this stuff aren't you?
not many people can walk into a psychopath room,
i mean from what i assume
well don't just sit there!
show me a chart
or
ask us a question
oh? i'm sorry i meant me
ask me a question
or leave to my padded cell
because unless your going to help
might as well let the voices drag me down to ****
i'm exploring with a more narrative series
A RANDOM STORY WITH A GRAMMAR CHECK
By Darcy Prince

It’s a long leep between knowing wisdom & the wise life.

I look at the mirror. “I have emotional needs and wants. Though my soul collapses in the confrontation of feeling fear.” I breathe and sigh. Lighting a cigarette than wiping a smudge of the mirror. “Why can’t write this **** on paper.”

The bathroom door opens and the music from the house blasts into the bathroom. It distracts me than I snap out my gaze. A random guy I haven’t meet had seem to get luck with Annais. She giggles, crunching her body up. Giggling loudly as the guys smoochies her. Making their way into one of the toilets. I must admit, I do laugh, internally wished them luck and exited the bathroom.

The dance music is loud. As most of the party invites are standing off to the wall. Either alone or holding one on one conversation. I puffed and made my way past people dancing, on the floor passed out or just standing there.

Outside, where the sound of the music is slightly quieter. I put out my smoke and walked to the side, the part of the fence that seems to be less occupied by people. It's a shame that my flaws are embedded into my being. I looked at my phone, flicked over my messages, she’s online, not talking to me, my heart sunk and grew a little more anxious. I lit another smoke and do my best to forget her. But I did only come here on account of her.

“Howard.” A voice behind me spoke. Clearly grabbing my attention. ‘****, it’s Bill’. Walking towards me, with his stomach hanging over his belt buckle. His baseball cap covering his bald head at night, and a half drunk beer in his hand. “I want to know why you quit being a literary critic and be an actual writer.”

I laughed. “There’s less money in it.” I answered.

Bill chuckles. Placing his hand on my shoulder. “ I love your work. I tell everyone that I know you.” Giving me a play slap on my chest. ‘The ladies seem to love your work.”

I now want to leave the party completely. “I know. I get fan mail.”

Standing about a foot away from me. “Despite my endless amounts of questions and your personal philosophy. I want to know if you are willing to read some of my Satanic poetry.”

I took his beer out of his hand. Sipping it empty. “It’s payment.” I Finished my smoke. Flicked on the garden bed, “You’re a Satanist now?”

Bobbing his head up down. “Yep. I read the Satanic Bible and decided it so.”

I plant my open palm on his shoulder. “Good-luck.” I walked away. “Thanks for the beer Bill.”

I decide to leave at impulse. It’s freedom on drugs. Abundant with choice. Ability to create. Definite modern ***. Who is the Muse to all philosophers?

Out on the road where all the cars are parked. I look around. Gave one look to the house and said **** it under my breathe. I walked home. I conjure up words that I’ve always to say to her. Knowing full well I should be writing them down for the next time I see her and that at one random moment I will forget. But to what Bill asked me. Alone I diver into self-publishing. Funny enough, I made some sort of success. Im free again. And my thoughts drifted into the strange thing of fame in contemporary art. Classical terms. Fame as a by-product of hardwork and talent. Like Clapton or Dante.

Glorious endeavour with high rewards. Movements of my will. A desire with a proper end. Languishing such things now. I am nothing without art. Surprise to see Bill turn to something as such of Satanism.

I got home and fell asleep.

I woke up. Had a morning coffee and cigarette.

I read the daily paper.

A few chapters of my current book that I’m reading.

Another smoke and coffee.

I begun to write with the radio playing in the background.

The street noises aren’t distraction. It is the capitols music. Just without harmony.

I write.

Stopping in the middle of the dat for lunch.

I watched ****.

I wanted to sleep. But one thing more important than the success of one's art. The effort the artists puts to create art. I forlorn my vice and continued to write, this is one model of freedom.

We’re at liberty when we can create who we are. A noble calling, shaping the clay of my existence. I choose the ideals to embrace.

At the end of my writing day. I decided to open my lounge room window. Hanging out on the window still, smoking and reading a book by Camus. A couple below caught my attention. I giggled. It’s her. With another man and I instantly lose faith in romance. Like Bill, I too have read the Satanic Bible. I took the ideals of her Muse and applied it to myself. I have no vendetta against ***. Only humanity.

I flicked my smoke down to the street. Closed my window. And went to bed for the night.

In vain I always seem to rise to a higher self. Funny. I never give credit to the pain I feel. Serene. Untroubled by the undying yearnings to blast humanity of not of their sins. But only their ignorance.

I awoke. Like most of my mornings. I start the day with smoking too much and spending a couple of hours of reading. Seemingly dull and mundane, but it does wonders for my eternal being. I am a sinful prince.

I finished my novel and decided to place it on the pile of planned unpublished manuscripts for life after my death. Like many Satanic based writers before me. I decided to write on similar themes. Late modern society is principally concerned with purchasing things, in ever greater abundance and variety, and so has to strive to fabricate an ever greater number of desires to gratify, and to abolish as many limits and prohibitions upon desire as it can. Such a society is already implicitly atheist and so must slowly but relentlessly apply itself to the dissolution of transcendent values. It cannot allow ultimate goods to distract us from proximate goods. Our sacred writ is advertising, our piety is shopping, our highest devotion is private choice. *** and the soul too often hinder the purely acquisitive longings upon which the market depends, and confront us with values that stand in stark rivalry to the only truly substantial value at the center of the social universe: the price tag.
Wisdom is the recovery of innocence at the far end of experience.

I had forgotten about her. At random she never did find the guy she ever wanted and I ended up being namecheck in her suicide note. Stating I was the only true, complex, beautiful soul that could match hers and how the regretted turning me away. Bill did the same. But only because I ignored him that one time at the party. In the publication of my Satanic novel, the Pope condemned to ****. I sent him a letter that I wanted to do a confession with him. I have not yet heard of a reply. Catholics still protest.
Anton 6d
empty goal posts
by football court innery
ball went off the borderline
mene grandstands
were fascinated in a weird way

0 drop 8

countless kins, buddies and one-night-stands
were rooting for Mike 
to rip apart his rival
and slay the entire match

0 drop 9

it's morn, half past eight i believe
blank atmosphere,
in here blank sheets which had to
consist of essay:
senseless lifeless words
disconnected one from each
delivering 
not sick undersides 
and layers -
but fiction, 
blatant litters
how xistance's bliss
Mike's task
for belorussian language sessions
nought
forgotten papers lurked in dirt

0 drop 10

ball hit nest
fame is a bee
it lands here
till it's sugar honey
guy
a head of football crew
collected glances
spawn romances
red and blue

lost.

crowd
a cloud of anger
his breath frozen
he glanced on angles
anxiety sipped beauty off his eyes
sandy path
forward to home
slow steps
few secs
and he alone
ignores their calls

day after Mike hides

mates
fume factories
cafés
clouded

fine
he rewrote the essay
Arianna Nov 14
"Who is the fairest in all the land?"
          They inquire.

"Not I, not I!"
          Though many aspire.

Shall we?
Shall she?
Away to the woods?

Ah, to the woods!
To the woods we'll away,
To the woods, she...

Pale
          Like the moon that resided at her birth,
          Dappled between black hair and eyes;
          Small coral lips the sole color
          That dares blush upon her face.

"Who is the fairest in all the land?"
They inquire,
But this time:

          No answer.

Though many still aspire.

Sneakers changed for boots,
Nice skirts for petticoats patched and worn.

Now, to the woods!
To the woods...

And away!

We shall,
She shall...

          Backpack slung 'cross 'er shoulders,
          Pipe puffin',
          Knife gleamin' out 'er pocket,
          Trippin' over branches
          Through the wild
          Wild fern jungle
          Far west o' the kingdom
          Corrupted
          By lightwaves in the looking glass ---

                       " HA! Well now, I'll pour ya a glass!"

To the woods!

To the west!

To the woods,

And away...

         Snow White
Her name, in those days,

Sullied now

With distilled disillusionment
And the warmth of foliage fair,
          The fairest
          In all the green land.

... Snow White?

More like "Off-White"!

Ayayay....

White Snow?
White Wolf?
Snow White Wolf?

Or just a no-name,
Little No-Name-At-All?

No-Name, indeed,
Self-proclaimed:

          Outlaw,
               Knife-slingin'
                    Sharpshooter of prose,
                         Green as the trees
                    And red as the rose.

City girl gone vagabond,
A camp one day she stumbled on:
Seven bandits therein,
Drinking whiskey round the fire.

Seven bandits,
Brigands though they be,
Not devoid of courtesy,
And each in turn presents his name:

          Monday
               Tuesday
                    Wednesday
                         Thursday
                    Friday
               Saturday
          Sunday

Seven bandits a-huntin'
Neither silver nor gold,
But greedy for days,
For the curious wealth of Time,
In its endless abundance
And simultaneous lack, seemingly endless.

One by one,
They pluck the days,
Bright and shining, golden
Out the velvet-lined pockets
Of the Abyss,

Stashing them away
Amongst the timelessness of the forest
And its foliage fair
          The fairest, fairest
          In all the green land.

Rich in hours
For thinking,
          (Rethinking)
For supposing
          (Reposing)
Upon the Earth
In its way,
Prosperous in time to spare
For living
Stripped bare,
          (Survival minimum)

Thus the days passed mortal kingdoms by,
While for these merry eight,
The sun and moon merely switch places
In the sky,
Two-stepping
Measureless
Against the rhythm of the "hours".

And so they lived
Happily
In an ever-after
Beyond
The borders of "forever-after",
Free from the times' a-changin'.

But along there came
At some last,
While the seven bandits were gone away,
A peddler woman,

          Strange and bent
          Beneath a distant burden of ages
          And dead weight
          Of days lost

And on 'er arm there swung
A wicker basket
Flowing over with pomegranates.

"You there, No-Name!"
She calls out to the girl,
An' our gypsy lass strides o'er.

"Look here, lass, at me basket:
The fruit I bring is ripe and red
As youth and summer,
Fresh as the pangs of first love.
I'll sell it ye fer but a pence,
If you would like to try a bite.
How d' ye answer, me hearty?"

No-Name hesitates,
But the ancient mortal
Places the fruit
In our rosy maid's hands.

With reluctance,
With foreboding,
At this stranger-of-the-world,
The raggle-taggle Sans Nom peels back
The crimson flesh,

Plucks

But one

Single

Seed and,

Holding it a moment between her fingers...

Swallows it...

          Falls

                    To the earth.

Aye, down she goes, fair Anonymous:

Pomegranate
Bitter nectar
Drips from her lips,
Stains her rosy fingertips
          Dark as blood.

There she lays,
Our vanquished heroine,
Upon the forest's ageless floor:

          "Self-proclaimed
               Outlaw:
                         Ramblin',
                         Knife-slingin'
                         Sharpshooter of prose,
                                   Green as the forest,
                                   And red as the rose"

She was,
Once upon a time,

She was...

Removed
From realities of decay and paper preoccupations,
Immersed
In pure being of the world

In the world

Of itself,

Untouched
By probing antennae

          Cunning
          Curious
          Conniving­
                    ... Conscious and corrupt...
          
At once poisoned
And liberated
By strange ivies
Of realization,

Creeping:

          Some tainted
          With presumptions of enlightenment,
                    Others with false perceptions
                    Of possibilities for perfection, and
                              Still others, by fear alone.

Thus, with one bite
It bites,
Ferocious,
The bleeding rot
Of ineluctable years
In a luscious guise
Of bittersweet temptation.

Now, though, the question
In the body of our heroine:

          "Does it bestow
           A monstrous kiss of death,
           Or,
           In moving blood to flow,
           Resurrect?"

Sun and moon circle round,
And around;
Under darkness
The bandits return
To find...

               Well...

                         You know.

And for all the days in their possession,
They could not count
The moments in eternity
Of which their nameless friend
Could never now partake:

          Only one interminable
          Swinging back-and-forth
          Of the cosmic pendulum
          Between light and dark,
          Dark and light.

Loneliness and loss evade increments of quantification,
And for every answer, the questions resound infinitely.

No-Name, No-Name,
Sprawled upon the forest floor:

           Sun,
                    Moon,
                                 Leaf-Fall,
                                                   Snow....

                                                      ­         White.

Snowfall:
          Seven bandits travel
          To the south.

                                                To the south!

                                                To the south!

                                          Through the woods...

                                                   And away!

          And Time moves with them.

Still, there she lies,
Slowly melting,

          Beneath the snow
          Once her name,

Becoming one with the black earth
Now cold
Guarding the warmth
Of dormant life.

Under the caress of snow,
And between the shades,
A metamorphosis:
Her form has changed,
As all must.

          The snowflakes upon her skin
          Turn to a silky pelt of white,
          The shadows to dark spots,
          Her hands and feet to silent paws,
          The coral of their soles
          Now the only color to bloom upon her.
          Antlers now adorn her skull
          And a feathery tail sweeps out behind her body,
          Long, silver, leopard-speckled,
          With the blurry kisses of a thousand mortalities .

The eyes alone remain unchanged.

          Leaf brown, flecked with amber green,
          Earth in Autumn,
          Ringed with grey skies
          And the ghost of violets.

Changed thus:
          Risen,
And thus:
          Unchanged.

Rather:
          Soul realized.


How this came to pass,
No one can know.

The shock of life
Into dead connection
                         ⸺ A necessary interjection! ⸺
Catalyzing the detection
Of a heartbeat yet attuned
To potentialities for affection,
For good, in-a-world
Existing minute by the minute.
Inspired by the fairytale (albeit loosely), sleep deprivation, a bottle of wine, personal experience to some extent, and two random country songs. My mind ran away with this one, hence the length... D: Ah well. And yes, she transforms into a reindeer-antlered snow leopard at the end.

"In Time" by Mark Collie: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HaHUtylpiWA

Also, "Straw In The Wind" by The Steel Woods.
Arianna Nov 11
The time has come:

          I lay the golden fare upon thy lids,
          A jasmine blossom between thy lips.
          Two lilies I place
          'Twixt thy lily hands,
          And a single rose
                    Snow white, with petals of fallen stars
          I lay across thy breast.

          The gauzy shroud
          Thrown o'er thy form,
          Now unperturbed, lying still in the longboat
          Between thy shield and sword...

          The time has come.

                    We shall never meet more.

          Fare thee well:
          Thou goest to the heart of shadows,
          Led onward by the baying
          Of those fearsome hounds
          Haunting the black depths.

          Some naiad tugs at the prow,
          And as the dark currents of the river
          Bear thee off from shore,

          How I wonder!

                    That the weight of grief
                    Does not drag all the world with it
                    In your wake
                    To the ocean floor...
A 3 a.m. story.
Ankita Gupta Nov 10
I see the floor these stairs lead to, but I can’t tell what’s exactly going on there. I can hear all sorts of voices and noises and I can also hear the silence. Engrossed in deep thoughts, I suddenly feel a push from someone telling me to climb the **** up. Stuck between my curiosity and the frenzy, I start ascending a few steps and then I freeze. I freeze because I saw a glimpse of what’s going on up there. It looked like a charade and everyone looked like they are in a masquerade. It looked chaotic from where I was standing but I was in the queue, I had to keep moving. Gathering up my courage and given no **** choice, I climbed the stairs. For me, this floor gave ‘mess’ a new dimension and ‘disorder’ a new definition.

Like everyone else, I was also handed over a suitcase that was as big as me, but not as heavy as others. I looked at the annoying, masked person who was registering me as the “new habitant” of the crazy land to get any indication of what am I supposed to do, and he ****** his shoulders as if he did not give a shred of care. It seemed I was on my own to discover this crowded mess of a place where everyone keeps shoving into everyone. It was like an unorganized market, only this time there were no vendors or shops.

My adjusting in this new habitat was not smooth or easy, I was bruised, insulted and called names. The earlier days were not that bad, but after a while things started getting suffocating and I found myself escaping to the already filled balcony to catch my breath more than often. The people who climbed the stairs with me seemed to have gelled in barring a few. A couple of months passed and all I wanted to do was climbed down those steps. But guess what, unlike all conventional staircases, these don’t go down.
I did everything I could to feel at home and I also tried making some friends but nothing seemed to work. It actually made me suffocate even more because all I could see were masks on people’s faces and all I could hear was deception in their voices. In the world where ‘survival of the fittest’ is the mantra, I wonder how long will it be until I choke on my own thoughts and die? How long before this environment takes its toll and push me on the edge? Either I survive or I won’t in this new land called Adulthood.
Here I keep a metaphor, it's what matters more.
Trigger my wordomine,  poets have hormones as mine.
Here I keep synonyms, I'm overdosed by homonyms.
Trembling cortex, shaking my narrative voices.
A brief description of the poet I am. I write the thesis as it happens in my head. Playing around with a foreign language and all the structures that makes it. I narrated poems (mines) once, twice, but I still shake when I face the crowds. This is my first poem in the society, I feel at home.
Next page