Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Nolan Willett Apr 27
I do not feel a desire to rhyme
Nor work within any sort of structure
Traditions are a waste of all our time
And who needs iambic pentameter?
Can we escape convention
Years slip by on deft and silent footsteps,
And as in times of laughter among friends,
So too in times of quiet retrospect
Does the song of your sweet voice resonate
Outward, starting from the depths of my heart,
Then reaching the lofty sanctum of thought
Shaken are the stalwart walls of reason,
Rationality stems emotion's tide,
And pangs of nostalgia overwhelming,
Reminders of your presence, lay behind

Jay M Feb 25
Dear Adam, you are the love of my life.
Darling, my shining light in the darkness.
O hear me, leave me not alone in this.
I plea, beg upon my very knees now.
Life had been unkind to me until you came in.
Please, I am only human, forgive me.
Together we laugh, we smile - we love.
Mi amor, what can I do to fix this?
Tell me; I shall do what you wish of me.
We can overcome this, can we not, Love?
I love you too much to lose you, my love.

- Jay M
February 18th, 2020
I made this last Tuesday night, when I didn't know how things were. It's in iambic pentameter, so it's not exactly poetry, but I wanted to share it anyway.
Solfadri Feb 14
Spots of blinding light glance off the river
Reflecting apollo's fiery descent
From the west enrobed in smoky silver
Luna begins to carefully ascend

She whistles violet purple black and blue
To chase her brother's chariot away
Painting the world a sparkling darker hue
She unfolds glist'ning night as if to say:

It is I the giver of the earth's rest
That you with little faith have letted fear
And spurred yourselves with stories un-celeste:
Lies from my brothers mouth and to your ear.
This hour go out and put the truth to test!

In dark alone the soul will find repose
A tune of cosmic peace does black compose.
Edith Sep 2019
stop apologizing
when you want to say "get bent"
stop worrying
about ruining his career
when he makes your world a living hell

stop confining yourself
to four line stanzas and iambic pentameter
**** writing for anyone else
when it is your soul that needs soothing
may your words overflow the lines that have been drawn for you

stop hanging on
to the person you once though existed
detach yourself from the veiled existence
and run the other way.
you shine too bright to let anyone dim your light
clxrion Jul 2019
The jogger stops a while to catch his breath,
a sweaty grimace painted on his face.
Perhaps in half-light it appears a grin
to others - actually he feels like death.
With averageness as his only sin,
he thinks, how apt to go in such a place.

Her memory is blank beyond this place.
She draws a rasping, thin and ragged breath,
inhaling scents of forced carnal sin.
The caked make-up is falling off her face
but all her thoughts these nights have been of death;
a cigarette will reapply her grin.

The old man looks around and gives a grin
at all his children gathered in his place.
For months he has been waiting for his death,
his lungs to finally run out of breath.
The ghost of life still lingers on his face,
a long, benign existence free of sin.

Bejewelled silky hands still slick with sin
support, neck-like, a head which wears a grin
that looks like it's been stolen off the face
of mannequins and plastered into place.
Her role in hastening his final breath
still haunts her. So it shall unto her death.

This industry is headed towards death.
They think intelligence is just a sin
and try to cut him off at every breath.
He finally allows himself a grin.
With this he'll put them in their proper place
and wipe that smug expression from their face.

The kiss of malnutrition on her face,
a souvenir from those merengues with death,
lies testament to horrors in this place.
Though poverty may be a fatal sin,
she bears the burden with a toothless grin
and croons her lullaby under her breath.

Behold my face! They all know I am Death.
But truth is, there is sin in any place;
I'll grin the same before I stop your breath.
All are equal in death.
Torrential rain turned the river to rage in July,
the bottom a swirling attack of mud and anger.
The water flooding the valley awoke the men.
To be unwashed no more they watch the water.
Destroy destroy destroy the works of men.
As tides drew back behold! Rise again.
To be inspired, insisting to dream
Return to home, yet past cannot be again,
and thus the men employ the ground up high
delay not here, for waters may again arise.
Inscribe the stone, beginning's need nothing
more than... belonging. Summer ahead now soft.
From immortality two roads spring like sleep
tomorrow is not today, arise fair sun.
This is a metaphor for the chaos and destruction that comes with a breakup that leads one to grow and find new and better things
toleomato May 2019
Better jealous, better hated, better
Dismissed than be allotted false praise and joy.
A man is his own pride, his own defeat
He ought to know his place and worth; his price.
Besmirched with equal fault, with equal blame
Not one may stand pristine nor pure, alike
The worst we deem in those disdained at heart.
I flinch when I recall the days before
I saw in each a flicker of contempt
As if it could no longer be concealed.
An honest life is all I want to lead;
No pittance due, no pity earned, no worth;
To hate myself and be hated by them.
Star Eyes Mar 2019
There was a short moment, the other day
My work had ended- free and lone, I played
The strings vibrated in the plastic air
Sudden, my mind posed a question: "Do we care?"

I looked down and observed some flesh and bone
But it did not register as my own
Shapes swirled around me; no meaning attached
I glanced about, but felt as if detached

'My' room, 'my' song, 'my' life; they were just shapes
An absent sense of dread with no escape
The world ground on, but I, the husk, was still
There's nothing here, so I say come what will-

A voice of reason, hiding in my soul
Reached out to make the husk and the heart whole
Blinking, 'I' returned back to my pain
The thoughts once dispatched, now attached again
there was this moment the oher day where I was playing my guitar and then I looked at my hands, but they weren't my hands. Just... shapes. Holding more shapes.
I don't know how to describe it other than the normal human meanings we attach to things just... weren't there. It wasn't my room. It wasn't a room. It was just shapes. I don't know how else to describe it.
It didn't last long- somehow, I ****** myself out of it... but the feeling still hangs there in the back of my mind.
Next page