Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Rahul 4d
The dawn is blank
like the paper on my desk,
nauseous from the night before,
frozen like the ink in my hand.
Blank sheets all over the floor,
poetry is my mad lover,
blankness is betrayal,
a war lost,
unsung heroics of failure,
bittersweet kiss of defeat by my rhymes.
I pile up the blankness of the paper,
words echo through the gaps between them,
I look close, there's still poetry.

On a page, third from the top,
there's an ocean of yellow paint,
Van Gogh swims merrily on the surface
with both his lips glued.
after a dozen pages, on a paper not so yellow,
a doctor walks the street
with a suitcase full of gifts,
and a dog called death.

I wrote of a woman who
was burned by every man she loved,
wrote about each piece of her heart
thrown in the depth of space,
next to the moon and far apart.

I wrote of Plath on a coffee-stained paper,
of how intensely she held
the lips of death under the gas oven,
of how the smudged ink of Ariel cried
on the table,
screaming and roaring for her.

On some papers, blank and inked,
I wrote myself,
blankness isn't defeat.
blankness is the longest chapter of my life,
it's a legend.





RYS
Marno T. Rupert had nothing to lose, or so he thought as he sat on the moon. He held he breath. He didn't want to die so soon.

Marno T. Rupert had only gotten his powers about an hour or so ago. What he didn't know is though the river flows so slow up unto this point he grew so small.
The waterfall slows his fall but, Marno T. Rupert learned nothing at all.

He jumped back to earth to examine his worth.
He felt lonely, being the one and only under the sun... the only son of a gun who got super powers.

Marno T. Rupert could jump over towers, but he felt like he wasn't particularly great or good.
He always was late and misunderstood.
He didn't like "fate" or his neighborhood.

And so...
He went back home.
He zipped his lips.
After all, Marno T. Rupert was a pacifist.

He decided to become a scientist, a friend to society even though he could throw a car for miles and meanwhile bounce bullets off his chest.
You see?
He was super but a man.
Changed his brain and used his pen.
Just a first draft of a poem I wrote at work. 12/6/18.
Emma Dec 4
I test the nib of the fountain pen against my finger,
Testing its sharpness, its edges.
Then I place the point against the pale moonlight of my flesh,
And push it slowly between two ribs, skin parting reluctantly.
I carefully work it deeper into the hole created by the head, the nib disappearing into the red secrets of my insides,
Rivulets of blood running past the smooth black edges, designed to be gripped comfortably, ergonomically while writing,
Red falling down past the grasping circle of my white skin.
The tip ****** my heart, still beating too slowly, too wounded, and with a twist blood fills the compartment made for ink.
I am made of paper white and ink black anyway.
I sometimes really wish
if night could talk,
I could then barely share
the worst held back stories under complete darkness.
She began by saying,
Will you sacrifice your own life for me ?
Let me get under your skin,
Make you bleed for the thrill of it,
Make your soul tilt when its tinted in the mist of the poker faces,
Can you bleed for the fun of it ?,
Bleed for the vanity ?,
Bleed for the chains ?
Bleed for the accolades ?,
Bleed for the trends ?,
Bleed for the false gods and goddesses ?,
Bleed for this purposeless system i have constructed ?,
My response to her was “I cant do that”,
The sacrosanct thoughts bleed from the unseen presence,
The Pure presence left my flesh numb and detached from the odds of death,
The Stings of death in the hand of the king of kings,
The king brings life once I surrender my life,
The fountain of glory springs up and floods my spirit well,
The fountain floods the wicked heart that fails,
Revive the presence once lost,
The heart is ready to set sail within the divine presences,
Can a man see the ugliness wrapped around his own heart ?
I have seen young men bleed viciously for the chaos from the heart,
Once again I ask myself ‘Should I take part’ ?
The Consciousness spark the imagery of the consequence ,
Untold stories of a pure unseen kingdom been left behind,
forgotten for the kingdom of Babylon,
Look closely underneath this bleeding sun,
Religious men and secular men  bleed for that day when the system becomes one,
Shofi Ahmed Nov 23
Just in a single word
try penning first
and foremost on mankind.
It can only be 'love'!
Özcan Sh Nov 21
You were the missing part
In my lonely heart
When I touch your skin with my pen
My blood would rush through my veins
When you hold my hand
I would write a love poem
On your delicate body.
Pagan Paul Nov 21
.
A cloud falls from the sky,
a lead balloon of precipitation,
and cuddles the ground
like a long lost lover.
Dripping its cargo,
shedding tears along the way,
leaving a trail of damp memory
and a calm balm
for the Earth.

And a candle flickers
on a lonely table,
as a pen drifts across lines,
filling meaningless words
that never
convey the depths of separation.
The flame flares
as a waft, a draft,
creeps in a ***** under the door,
adding a poignant touch
to the melancholy of atmosphere.
Gripping the pen with delicate unease,
the hubbub drowns inwards,
doubt rises in ascendancy,
the pen falls,
like a discarded relationship,
and the meaningless words
stop.




© Pagan Paul (21/11/18)
.
My brain is still on meltdown :(
.
Brooke Nov 19
Let me tell you, I thought I knew love before you came around.

I mean, I’ve written a million love poems.

But the subjects, they’re more or less the same, black ink, red ink, graphite.

And the graphite smudges, and so the picture is never perfect.

I try to re-write it all without mistakes, but I don't have an eraser.

Which is to say that I have commitment issues, but no issue committing, I just commit all the time, to everything.

I've canoodled with paper, but there's never enough space on the page for all the love I have.

Sometimes, I’ll meet a crayon that brings some colour to my life, but they’re just too waxy and impressionable. Too immature, too naive.

Naive.

I’ve never actually been in love.

But you, you are so much different and way hotter.

You bring a spark into my life that I’ve never known.

Baby, you set my world on fire.

I tell myself, blue pen, don’t let this go up in smoke.

Let me tell you. I would do anything to know love.

You see, there isn’t much to me, but I’ve got this way with words and I’ll write you into every poem that’s ever birthed hope in the eyes of star-crossed lovers.

I’ll draw you a map of my heart so when you feel lonely after you’ve been put aside and forgotten in the back of a cupboard, I’ll be there.

I want you.

I want the good things and your sweet embrace of smoke smells really good right now.

I want the good things but I’ll take it all. I’ll take the bad things too.

Fill my lungs with your poison, show me what it’s like to love something so much it kills you.

Teach me how to give all of myself to someone just so they are satisfied, even if it leaves me crushed on the cement.

Let me become addicted to you.

My whole life is written in ink and I can’t escape the mistakes I’ve made so if you’ll have me, here I am.

I can’t guarantee that I’ll be right for you, who knows what you write with but I will be here.

Let me tell you, I will still love you after watching you kiss the lips of every person that craves your taste.

I will still love you after you steal the oxygen out of helpless gasps and sunken cheekbones.

I will still love you after your temper sets forests ablaze.

I will still love you when you suffocate me in your fumes, leaving me choking on everything I should have said to you.

I will still love you when you burn out and your ember softens against a pillow of ash, and your smell, your taste, your everything lingers in the air like a nostalgic dream that I never want to wake up from.

Let me tell you, I am forever.

I am infinite and I can create and write anything you want, even if it’s just prose on a piece of paper or a picture of the moon on nights when you’re the only good left in the world.

I can be anything you want, and if that is someone that will love you because they want to, and not because they have to, then I will be that.

I won’t quit you.

I can’t.
Next page