Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Time and tide waits for none.
I wish I wasn’t so dumb.
I feel too much, but I can't handle even one.
I wish I was special, but that won't happen, son!
I wish I was perfect, but this fake pretense makes me succumb.

My body feels stiff, and I break a cold sweat.
I’m not afraid of people,
but my body says otherwise.

That gut-wrenching nausea whenever I leave my room.
That vexing sensation every time I sit to dine.
That suffocating lump in my throat every time I’m yelled at—it shines.
That teary eye every time I had to defend my lines.

I wish I could lead you to my mind.
I wish I could lead you to my mind.

The constant naggings and whispers.
The feeling of never being enough.
The existential dread.

I hate it all.
I hate it all.

Call it self-pity.
Call it self-victimizing.
And I won’t even call you out.

I’m just happy you don’t have to feel what I feel.
I’m just having a random crashout.
I mean, gotta do something, right?
For stayin’ alive?

I’m sorry, but I feel Nervous.

                                                                            - Asher Graves
Sorry for not posting any poems for a while beautiful fellow poets. I was finishing my degree and well now i am free and offically unemployed but hey I can write until things take a turn.
Hope you're having a great day. if not smile okay. You did well. You are awesome.
Playing ball
with a sack
full of words,
I nod along
as you set up.
Clinging to my drink
as if my bones
were connected,
I trace my pocket
over and over again.
Until finally,
your voice slows,
and my hands catch
your words.
As they reach
to toss back
a response,
I’m relieved
to have something–
anything–
to do with my hands.
about how we really don't know what to do with our hands when talking to someone.... the nervousness of social interaction
Cutting through the canvas of silence,
you present as a practiced painter,
laying out all your lines
with deliberate ease.

Each stroke
of your tongue
frames intention
with perfect dimension,
while this pause
signals invitation
for interpretation.

But the shapes your lips make,
collapse with your features,
and I’m left unsure of your tone.
I can't gauge your reaction,
but it dictates my next word.

Your brushstrokes fall faster
than I’m able to sift through
my archives of memory,
searching for something
that might help me relate.

I inventory my pallet of words
But the pigments are dull
And their boundaries blended.
I try to string together a response,
But the art of conversation
is lost on me.
the art of conversation is lost on me...
Why I never heard music so tasteful,
With a woman so graceful.
Falling to sleep in her arms,
As the choirs gently serenade us.
Lip to lip as the lights dim,
Hand on her thigh, just how she likes it.
I'll never be able to love you the same,
Not after feeling you like this.
Someday she's going to make the butterflies fly out of my stomach.
If I move my feet just right
You'll think I know how to dance
Hit the right note, at the right time
And you'll claim I can sing
And on occasion I'll be so sincere
That you'll think I know how to love
When it's all just a desperate attempt
To hide my ineptitude
A short and light poem
duck Aug 2024
i have a nervous habit
of peeling the skin on my lips
like a jumpy little rabbit
and sometimes blood drips
and my fingernails are reddened
then i stare at my hands in fear
but my mind slowly deadened
and i won't be able to quite hear
the pounding of my hearbeat
or notice my bloodied hands
(this poem isn't for everyone, pls skip if ur rather sensitive ;-;)
Lucas Grant Aug 2024
95% ocean 5% land
How is it something so unlikely found its way to my hand
Fingertips aged by waiting
Mind in a trance
The gun that aimed to **** landed in my hands
To aim, to shoot, to ****, to cry
The trigger trembles desperately
The question lies waiting,
To **** or to die
To hand it in and be considered a fraud,
To another pair of hands who would just stand and take aim,
Or place it back in the water to find another pair of waiting fingertips,
The blood was spilt but not on my hands,
95% ocean 5% land
Ruheen Aug 2024
if i get closer
i get scared
that i don't mean
what i say
instead
i pick on the skin
around
my nails.
Jeremy Betts May 2024
My flow of motion knows one path
Confronted only by mostly wrath
Homegrown turmoil hath
A distinct flavor of aftermath
Can't solve the problem with broken math
The simple's simply to slippery to grasp
Daily attempts lead to a nervous laugh
It's never the last
If it was, would it matter?
Perhaps,
Though I'd have to ask

©2024
Next page