Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
My Dear Poet Jan 9
This is a tale about a tale
that had no end

A tale of the tale
of what was then

It went on forever
from wherever

but none knows when
Tell me why indigenous
seems so obsolete?
Thoughts in the genius
whose sense is up so late

Why originality
seem so fake?
And off-reality
is worth the take?

It might not seem its best
nor have the Sauce
Not in Vogue as the rest
But it's the source


-Pastorlee
I choose #originality
#indigenousSombodi
your #LocalBoy

#ipoet
Carlo C Gomez Nov 2020
There is no middle ground
This taking sides again

It's Adam or Eve
She, deceived
He, the willful one

Once naked
Now ashamed
And misconnected

Within an
Inauguration of leaves

Sleeping upon
Thorns and thistles

The genetic defect their own
To carry forth
Children of sin and death

In the shadow
Of something now
Unattainable

It was never
About appetite

It was always
About sovereignty
Blind Pathos Sep 2020
Van Gogh’s ear sings tales all night
Soulful moaning over mind’s eye sight

Antagonize the heart and turn the eye
A visitor to the heart or passing by

From this spring that we all drink
What whispers all the thoughts we think

Lunatic genius with eyes turned in
Tell me where my mind has been

A freighting tether is shelter and cage
Where the writer’s pen touches page

Ink’s fossil trail bleeding from my pen
A history of where my heart has been

To go and not say in doing so
Beyond this point no words can go

With feet of clay and hand to chalk
I’ve come to hear Van Gogh’s ear talk
There is a moment just before an idea, it's origin. The magic of the written word is a spark that comes before the writing, up stream, unknown, untamed, shear new. I would follow the path to the origin and bring back great treasures. I have been lost many times, but what else is there to do?
Carlo C Gomez Aug 2020
Broken flight

They went down somewhere
in the trees

The sky is sad
and full of remorse

But never Calliope

Broadway and 52

God knows
they got to you

She sings songs
of their misfortune

Decidely the muse and
mother of importune
Andrew Layman Aug 2020
In a sacred garden
where no one treads,
the wildness claims all;
overrun, overgrown
none can observe
nothing is known.

There is no friend here for you
once trust is betrayed
no paradise to be shown
the path is blocked
no way to return to home.

Yet, I---
here I remain, here I become,
for all seasons that come and go;
a living epithet of past Adam and Eve
I am the angel
who holds the withered branch
with a story none shall believe.
farhan Jul 2020
Sometimes I think,
Whether Satan is an impostor of God.
Next page