Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
else Nov 2019
October, gradually going to November.
If liquor can erase
my entire hard drive,
then so be it.
But just of you.
Just of…

Just of… who?
Short version. My favourite stanza from the poem.
Mark Toney Nov 2019
Penultimate month, November
Tending memories’ eternal ember
Sparking thoughts, grand and tender
With honor and thanksgiving to remember
For each who of the human race are a member
11/1/2019 - Poetry form: Monorhyme - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2019
Another user Nov 2019
dad
Oh, how I wish I never met you.
You sculpted me into the person I am today.
You taught me to be an amazing human being with out you.
You once said,
I’m insecure and I will always need a man.
But you know what?
If a man is anything like you,
I will never need or want one.
You once told me I was a loser,
But if I was a loser I’d be a beautiful loser.
You once said if I died you’d be happy
But if I died, I’d haunt until the day you died.
Maybe make you feel the way you made me feel.
Dad, I don’t need you. And I don’t want to need you either.
fray narte Nov 2019
It's been a year and the streets are a little brighter, and daybreaks are a little colder, and everyone seems a little happier. But forgetting has become way harder and longer, darling, and Novembers still feel like losing you.
Mark Toney Oct 2019
sixty-five million
broken hearts shattered, not glass-
the glass ceiling waits
4/25/2018 - Poetry form: Senryu - Copyright © Mark Toney | Year Posted 2018
Lynnia May 2019
Wretched voice
Boxed so thin
Rubbed-raw noise
Sandpaper skin
Beaten crest
Lasts for years
Naked nest
November tears
The season’s stall
Before the laughs
The worst of all
The ugly path
A sun burned green
I waste away
While they all wait
For bright Friday.
It’s a metaphor, Brian
Uriele Mar 2019
There is November
in my eyes, April
in my mind and the heat of August
in my heart.
Wrote in a rush, hope you enjoy!
javert Mar 2019
as the birds fly south for winter
the excavators come home to roost.
they bow their heads to the ground,
wishing for wings to tuck their necks under.
everyone guards piles of salt and twisted metal
brushed cold and golden by the sun.
a boat lifts its arms to the sky,
all rattling chains and gentle, grasping claws.
gentlemen, best prices for scrap here:
all metals, all amounts.
the highway crawls home.
Next page