Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
In a day where the grill won't light in the 4th of July,
And the star over the christmas tree won't shine,
Once all the knocks you heard, become an ol' stained
And wrinkled newspaper at your door,
The dust will cover it all, birds will sing a last melody,
The piano man down the street will play it's last sheet,
The cook from the 12th floor will hold an empty plate,
The plate will soon be amongst many other dishes,
The ocean will make high waves not even the daredevil would surf on,
Nor the best surfists, the sun, it will shine once more
And the sky will weep once more,
For, nevermore;
This is just a poem about the apocalypse amongst many others;
Jay M Mar 2019
Nevermore shall you see me,
Nevermore shall you hear me,
None shall,
For I shall be lost,
Gone away from this road,
This path I was given,
Forever falling,
Forever free from this,
This endless torment,
With the name of life.

- Jay M
October 8th, 2018
More of my poetry from last year.
Michael R Burch Apr 2020
by Michael R. Burch

(after Edgar Allan Poe)

Nevermore! O, nevermore!
shall the haunts of the sea
—the swollen tide pools
and the dark, deserted shore—
mark her passing again.

And the salivating sea
shall never kiss her lips
nor caress her ******* and hips,
as she dreamt it did before,
once, lost within the uproar.

The waves will never **** her,
nor take her at their leisure;
the sea gulls shall not claim her,
nor could she give them pleasure ...
She sleeps, forevermore!

She sleeps forevermore,
a ****** save to me
and her other lover,
who lurks now, safely smothered
by the restless, surging sea.

And, yes, they sleep together,
but never in that way ...
For the sea has stripped and shorn
the one I once adored,
and washed her flesh away.

He does not stroke her honey hair,
for she is bald, bald to the bone!
And how it fills my heart with glee
to hear them sometimes cursing me
out of the depths of the demon sea . . .

their skeletal love—impossibility!

Keywords/Tags: Nevermore, Poe, horror, supernatural, dark, sea, shore, death, dead, ******, ghosts, night, surf, ******, ****, naked, ***, corpse, skeletal, skeleton, skeletons, demon?, demons, demonic, surreal
Poetic T Feb 2020
Petals do fall
corrupted they descend,
acid teardrops decline.
The day after is nevermore,
yesterday never existed.
The sun will never sheen,
the night has fallen, nightmares ecstasy.
Bryce Feb 2020
When I roll my tongue--
Cellar door,
Cellar door,
Cellar door.
a certain morning stiffness
in your joints

you find your face
in the bathroom mirror
and wish you hadn't

the puzzled wisdom
    of middle age
wavers from your eyes
deepening wrinkles
   of many laughs
   many frowns

   how many more?

   nevermore ?!

the room becomes aflutter
with poesque ravens
the presence of absences
fills the void
your life is on the brink
of deconstructing itself
to the periphery of the universe
a discourse of silence
forever becoming ... becoming ...



you close your eyes
for a minute or two

when you look again
you meet the stare
of a not-so-bad-looking
man in his best years
   graying sideburns
   receding hairline
   20 pounds too many
   a firm decision
   to work them off
   still a bit sleepy
   yet determined
   to shave
      get dressed
      have breakfast
   and teach
   that wonderful seminar
   on 19th century poetry
   to eager graduate students
jai Mar 2018
the two of them
attached at the hip;
how strange to be
such opposites,
yet forced to live in the
same prison.

one was an insomniac, while the other slept 16 hours a day.

one was confident and able, nothing could bring her down.
the other faulted inside herself, with arms stretched above her, begging for a way up.

one was flowing thoughts and new ideas, with an unconscionable amount of energy.
the other thought obsessively, always in the negative, lacking the ability to even speak most days.

one was a stomach full of butterflies, terrified at the thought of dying.
the other spent her days, chest aching and empty, begging for each one to be her last.

so tell me, how do astronomical
and insufferable
coincide accordantly?

they simply don’t

with each constantly afflicting the other,
the small prison in which they inhabit
is collapsing
falling into itself
soon to dissipate
until nevermore
Internal observations. What day to day life is like for myself and I.
I need to go to a burning man. I need to lose myself in the woods for a year. I need to make my threshold and enter through. I heard my call a long time ago but I just never...
   I can't stand myself any longer! I must lose who I am to find what I am to become. And I can't do that in a world where I exist in everyone around me. I need a place with none of me and plenty of else. So much that I can spread myself out to one thought thick. Finally be raw, enough to see myself clearly.

   I shouldn't worry about forevers, because forevers are simply composed of nows.

   I want quiet place to sit against the tree, look out over a lake, and read until my eyes bleed pleasure, my brain secretes knowledge, and my heart wisdom.
   A place to harbor a gentle haze of mind, a place to leave myself behind. Just and think and think some more, until and passed the point of being head sore.
   I want to place with plenty of glasses, and plenty of cracks, plenty of muses and no ways back.
   A place full of forevernows and nevermores, where people are stupid enough to cross the desert because of a recurring dream. A place of pink purple sunsets and endless shores.

   How mirrors have learned to lie I will never know, because I don't recognize the person they show. I have to turn them around because even my own eyes try to deceive me.

  If I don't I will always want to. If I do I won't enjoy every step, but I will a few.
   The hands that shaped this road are now, older.
   I don't know how I will, and a not even sure I understand why I will. All I know for certain is I MUST.

   Because I can't stay here. If I do I will fall in love with possibilities, and not realities. I will fall in making people out to be more than a person. I will lose my heart to and afterimage of a dream, and even if I do I would never have pursued it anyways. I want to leave the field, sell my flock, and start my full circle, or square.
   Wherever I go I have no plan know method know fall backs, but the beautiful hair of uncut graves. With only the Spektor inside my books to hold me.
   I want to hear the symphony of stars each night and have the wind tell me its stories of its travels that day.
   I want to sleep knowing the poppies stand guard.
   I know nothing, and I'm ready to listen, but first I must get out of my hand made prison, burn the map smashed of compass. Put my feet anywhere besides in front of the other that way I'm going nowhere fast and never looking back.

   I want to teach myself the song of my soul, so that I can hum every bar by heart, but I can't do that here. Not in this place of paper people and towns who live their lives never getting wet.

   It says if I can ever catch my breath, that I'm strangle lading in the stench of mold and excitement of leaving and never coming back.

   Mark here this day, as I lie awake at night as the last moment I spent outside the labyrinth. I need, no, I must leave find a place where I can listen to my heart and drink and its wisdom. But that place is not here I don't know where to, but I must start.
   Thomas Edison last words were " its very beautiful over there, I don't know where they're is, but I believe it somewhere, & I hope it's beautiful"

                                                     ­     ~Crow
Next page