Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Chris Bee Sep 2021
I found myself at another shop, a ritual of mine,
pondering its wares, as if I were actually interested.
The whole song-and-dance was routine by now.
I finally got to the section I was wanting,
and the small bin sat there, waiting for me.
The mass of colors and styles and shapes and sizes
were making my selection difficult;
they all had such different appeals to them,
such different ways others would judge them,
judge me for wearing them.
After finding something to my liking,
I slipped it inside my jacket pocket,
already adorn with many of its brothers and sisters,
coming from several
different locations,
different times,
different people.
I hurriedly left, ignoring the cashier’s bored “see ya next time.”
At the food court, I sat, meeting with my friends.
I sit, observe as they speak.
Much like the bin at the shop,
I look for something in them.
A hobby,
an interest,
an accent even,
just to call my own.
Finally, a joke is made, relating to a teacher,
and I got it.
I smiled to myself,
ready to incorporate
what I had stolen from my friend.
Part 4 of 4 of four works I did for an emulation portfolio. This poem is an emulation of the style from David Ignatow's “The Bagel.”
Mish Apr 2020
you told me i was a priority
i guess you lied to me
why did i come twelfth?
Shofi Ahmed Apr 2019
So what if the sky
won't let you walk away
with a patch of the blue sky.
Catch that slip through
the fingers close by
'a pair of butterflies'.
It does a matter whether
you say there is or there is none
truth is a piece of heaven is on earth!
stopdoopy Mar 2019
of the    dark
further,          further
pushing                on still
through         the street
in a       patch
just to  see you
and meet
the glorious sun
soak in the warmth
as the first light of day
drifts over us and I start to think
maybe this is home, here with you
in those shining pale rays, just us
and the problems of the world
seem so distant when we
can just sit here, looking
up at the sky, alone,
together, enjoying
ourselves and so
utterly at peace
and that    is a life
that I          think I
could get                 used to
an azure hue
presides over our bush patch
an azure hue
such an imposing shade of blue
brilliant the colour in dispatch
of its resplendence there's no match
an azure hue
Poetic T Feb 2018
We are all stitches in the cloth
                           of the universe,
each a moment holding
        the past & future together.

For without these
                   overlapping occasions
we would become frayed.
Undone not learning from one another.

But we are but one stitch among the
                    many colours that are
woven as far as the eye can see.
            patches that collected together.
Ignis Mar 2017
A rip has appeared
The fabric torn
A new piece pit in place
Whole again

But sooner or later
It's more patch than not
The original
Long forgot

Then only thread
Patches of patches of such
Is it even fabric now?

People seem to think
Patches never fail
But it can't last forever

Some even try
To use patched patches
To fix another

But all fabric
Wears thin
Emmanuel Coker Jan 2017
Beneath the suede feel and nappa leather
Beneath the Jordan that sells for some many dollars
Rests a weary foot covered in torn silk
A little hole here
A little patch there

Beneath the Italian suit and that da Vinci scarf
Beneath the bear fur coat and the cashmere wool
Rest a broken soul covered with a broken body
A little wear here
Some many tear there
Don't be deceived by material things, some people are broken and damaged much more than you'd ever know. They just cover up pretty well.
Maria Imran Jan 2017
You were a black patch in a pitch dark universe, only with a simple streak of blue
A silver lining all of you

I was light. Constantly trying to enter, without realizing that it won’t in any way broaden that delicate border

That a full ray has no correlation with it, and they most certainly don't blend in each other

It helps no one, heals nothing, amounts to just more vacuum -- empty, vacant spaces. Hollow and scary!

That colors cannot be mistaken for paints, and especially not when they're out in space
the nobodies
Next page