Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
LC Apr 29
two adjacent piano keys
yelled over each other
for a moving spotlight,
a crinkle of the eyes,
and a sweet, tender smile.
instead, their noise
made ears beg for peace
until eyes glanced away,
and they were left alone
with their discordant sounds.
#escapril day 28!
it's the silence of the night
that uncovers the volume my thoughts,
their blaring ain't quite a delight,
but since i hate to interrup,
i just hide and let them fight.
don't let them see you
Dee Apr 10
I'd like for the conflict to end,
The one that is in constant battle,
Inside my head.

Money, goals and dreams,
The things both wanted and needed,
All blown into smithereens.

It feels like there's no white flag,
No brief pause to the madness,
Just a constant hum and body bag.
Juliana Apr 9
The silence is a dream not even sleep
could fix. In a universe where this blue
and emerald orb turns around
a fiery sphere, throwing itself further
into the heavens, quiet is no more
then a pipe dream.

A dull wrrr of the air conditioner;
buzzing of the fridge, freezing
of ice.

The wind and all its power, causing
the tide, letting a butterfly take flight,
the flapping of fragile wings causing
the slightest of shifts in the timeline.

It only takes a single grain of sand
to cause an avalanche.

It is an avalanche that consumes
my most waking thoughts. It is
two lovers, dancing in my mind,
stomping their feet like hooves
in a field.

It is the static. Static of the unknown,
the terror, the excitement.
What will tomorrow bring?
The next hour? Minute?
Second?

Am I who I am now, or am I
just the sum of my past selves?
Do I exist, or is my body just
the host for a colony of bacteria;
a breeding ground for the splitting
of cells… a science experiment.

The thump thump thump of my beating
heart overtakes the racing of my mind.
I am alive. I am human.

The red liquid which runs through my veins
is nothing like the green which allows cars
to soar over the highway. Green, which turns
to brown, polluting our skies, hiding the blue
of a sunny day, the reminder of the ocean.

The cars, and their voices, the beeping
and vrooming and crashing,
are a little city, a life of their own,
a world in which humans aren’t
necessary. It’s fake, a childhood
imagination.

The screams, those are real.
The screams of said children falling
off play structures, of a teenage girl
planning a date, of another taking
a brisk walk, walking home
from her night shift.

I wonder if any of them count sheep.
If the numbering of one, two, three
Quiets their thoughts, four, five, six,
relaxes their mind, seven, eight, nine,
turns their daydreams into dreams, ten.

I wonder if the hot morning sun
awakens their thoughts, the blaring
of an alarm, a symphony, a dull song
of childhood nostalgia.

I wonder if they keep that song playing
preparing for their day. Dragging plastic
bristles along strands of hair, the minty
fresh scraping their teeth, the crunch of
cereal and breakfast toast.

The click-clack of heels out the door, a
quick “I love you,” peck on the cheek,
closing a door, opening another, tires
rotating, “hello,” “good morning,”
computer keys.

Does the buzzing fly bother them?
Does the fly feel out of place? Not
cut out for the office life? Did he
escape his egg, bringing a briefcase
and tie with him?

Does he miss the outdoors?
The wet heat of summer, the
humidity, not yet moist, the
comfortable burn of fire
lighting the air.

The air that makes you want to breathe,
run in the flowers, take photographs,
holding your lungs for just a second
while you secure the perfect shot.

Sitting down later that afternoon,
the couch you’ve had since college
squeaking underneath you, showing
the pictures to your lover, remembering
that their eyes are blue.
Strikingly blue.

Not the blue of ocean, of the tides,
but the blue of them. Their soul.
The man you fell in love with
on a Tuesday at a coffee shop.

You ask if one day
you can go back there.

He grabs his laptop, fingers
pecking the keys like one
reaches for a worm, hoping
there is some early bird special
for tickets to a different kind of bird.

A metal bird which wings flap
almost as much as a dead body stirs.

The want and need for nostalgia
is the faint sound of scales,
skin scraping, scratching
at one’s own skin.

One longs for quiet
like the pain of a dull itch.
My Dear Poet Apr 2
“Bang...Bang...”
said the clang
“Strum...Strum...”
said the drum
“****...****...”
said the flute
“Woot...Woot...”
said the gong
“Ding...Ding...”
said the strings
“Ring...Ring...”
the violins
Mishmash was the noise
till
“                      “
said the voice
It’s so loud I can hardly hear anything
missanthrope Mar 26
not even my favorite people
may seek their rest in peace,
when their tombs are encircled
by this endless,
mindless
bustle—
the bustle of an aimlessly industrious life
that is no better than death.

unmute the video
mute yourselves
The noise of the river,
tells tales of love,
he says it's fake,
like all things of the heart,
but there is truth in his lies,
and lies reveal the truth,
he hurt those he loves,
love is a beautiful thing,
but is death's disciple,
he thanks her for the feelings,
and the memories,
but hates her,
for they are only memories.

The noise of the river,
tells stories of lust,
he says it is a welcome enemy,
for it tempts him,
lust is of love but love is whole without it,
the stories are accounts of dreams,
for lust does not love him,
not anymore,
he is chasing after her,
looking to atone for his war crimes,
in the battle of love,
his hidden wounds **** him slowly,
he dreams a happy nightmare.

The noise of the river,
preaches about salvation,
his says his old friend awaits him,
loves master,
he wishes to see me too,
he gives an account,
of our beautiful evil that awaits,
I stand up,
my distorted reflection,
portrays me clearly,
but not at all,
I smile,
                           pure
a low life does not deserve this,
**** it all
as I shake his hand
and plunge into the river.

The feel of the river,
reveals true sorrow,
I envy the river,
for he has a plan,
had a purpose,
I failed,
so they all left,
they are upstream,
smiling,
I wish to take their smiles away,
as I let the river take me,
I lost my way,
the river is all I know,
he will help me achieve my dream,
of unleashing beautiful carnage.

The noise of the river,
and myself,
we are one,
                                        we always were,
I understand you now,
my friend,
you taught me about hate,
this world is just to spite you,
I hate it too,
you hate me now,
because we share a conscience,
not for long,
now I am the welcome enemy,
the river still flows,
with all its trash.
Part 2 of 'The River Boy'. He was the only one left and he gave me a tempting offer. I could've taken. I didn't. Was  wrong?
moria Mar 9
earlier,
i was listening to the sound of my heartbeat.

it sounded like the pitter patter of the rain,
in the abyss.

what does your heart sound like?
I hear the patter of
the rain on the leaves
of the oak tree.
It reminds me of my
daughter's soft footsteps on
the hardwood floor.
She's 3 years old,
and has gorgeous blue eyes like
her mama.
She owns my heart.
The neighbor downstairs
pounds on his ceiling whenever
my daughter walks across the floor.
It scares her.
I went to his door to tell
him to stop pounding,
and he wouldn't answer.
As a poet, I'm a gentle soul,
but honestly, I want to
harvest his kidneys and
fill his ears up with *****.
Next page