Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
evolove Apr 12
If nothing is impossible. Then somethings have to be impossible. On the statement "Nothing is impossible"..
Oxymoron...
Ankita Gupta Feb 17
Everyday is spring, Everyday is autumn
Today is Summer, infamously hot and stagnant

Clouds are still, leaves don't rustle
Birds have gone away and all there's left is sun

There are burns from winter, frozen for too long
No summer warm enough to melt, though today tries

Come again someday when there is spring, when there is autumn
Be summer with ice then, and maybe melt away
In a distant future not so long ago, it was a dark winter morning as the sun shined brightly in the sky. A man sat on a park bench as he stood among the chaos of people surrounding him. He peeked at his watch staring it like a wall facing a statue. He seemed to have all the time in the world yet he was running out the clock. Far away a bird shrieked a soft cry of joy. The moment his ears caught the sound, gently in a flash his mind came out from imprisoned memories that roamed freely in his subconscious. Is it too late? Am I doing it too soon? He simultaneously battled with the truce he reached with his choices separately.

On the other side of the city within the same vicinity she laid on her bed as she sipped her coffee on the couch. Tears had made a futile escape as they triumphantly ran down her cheeks. A soft breeze charged from the window bringing in green autumn leaves. The room had dim lighting from a single bulb that shined brightly on the ceiling. It gave an ambiance of calamitous exuberance. There she was; coffee cup in hand staring at the painting on the wall rich with myriad of vibrant colors as dark as the heart of a pitch-black night. It seems like the right path?  Isn’t it the wrong way? She separately battled with the truce she made with her choices simultaneously.
KG Nov 2020
I don't understand, but your tone incites.
Is this ignorance or bravado
Is love and hate the same when the day of fated relations stays mocking on the morrow
Are the planted dead standard
Pentagram repenting it's whistles to the waifs
Who captivates plenty yet scrape for their dinner pennies like dog scraps.
Why am I still beneath this lake?
Riley OHalloran Jul 2020
Braid the broken strands ‘till it’s like they’re meant to be there,
hold yourself together like you never fell apart—
rip at all your seams ‘cause you hate feeling fragile,
rather be a broken bone than a spindly work of art.
Marri May 2020
It’s 3 am and I’m writing poetry.
Not my usual go to love poem though.
(I promised multiple people I wouldn’t write anymore about that one person)
(You know that one guy.)
I’m writing poetry at 3 am.
(Not love poetry,)
Just poetry poetry.

I can’t write anymore poems about (missing) you,
(Wanting you,)( or even still loving you.)
(Yes, I remember my promise.)

So, I’ll write this—
My 3 am poem.

My poetry comes alive in the nighttime.
(Or should I say unreasonable hours of the day when I really should be asleep, but I think I might have borderline insomnia.)

My mind runs at a million miles per hour,
I think of everything at once.
Metaphors, onomatopoeia, and allusions.
And you know me,
I just can’t resist the perfect stanza.

I become fixated on it.
I tell myself no,
No, no, no,
You need to sleep.

But here I am,
Writing, writing, writing.

And guess what?
I even write in my sleep.
My dreams create prose better than I ever could.

It’s a tragedy that I’m sure even Shakespeare was a victim of.

Writers don’t sleep,
Poets don’t sleep,
No one does.

Or else everything falls apart.

You forget how commas work,
You forget how to spell the word ‘Apricot’,
And you forget the meaning of it all.

You forget the reason for writing,
You forget the passion of spoken word.

The only sleep that a poet will ever receive is when they are truly immortalized in their work.

And as you can see,
That is not happening anytime soon for me.

So, I’ll stay up every night.
Trying to remember the meaning of oxymoron,
With the word eulogy on the tip of my tongue.

You’ll never understand me,
And that’s alright.

Other poets will never understand me,
And that’s just fine.

All we’ll ever understand about each other is that words don’t sleep,
And it seems that neither will we.

(-The Poetic Insomniacs, 3:12 am)
Mrs Timetable Apr 2020
And I ran with
The ribbon cutting
Ceremonial scissors
Celebrating my brave
Resolution to not
Make bad decisions
Sadie Grace Apr 2020
“I feel numb”
oxymoron
You don’t feel numb
You are numb
Who broke you so many times you feel nothing?
Next page