Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
shyguypoetry Oct 2016
The harder I try

To forget about my past,

It remains present.
With sweet nostalgia hanging in the air, the winds pick up and spread it through the park like butter on toast. Orchestrating the poplars' subtle and routine symphony, the winds travel, leaving a slight coolness in their wake. A clue to their presence. The over-powering scent of familiarity lingers and invades the senses, prompting a catharsis. A feeling reaches deep into the soul and reacts. The product, being of a something...of two somethings, perhaps, unknown.

In response, the heart skips a beat, jostling the distracted mind awake and alert to the surroundings. Opening the eyes.

And you notice, quite suddenly, how alive the world around you really is. Like the curtain opening to a show. And an array of beautiful notions dart to and fro, as if attempting to escape your understanding and into the wind that journeys; even through the tiniest blades of the grass at your feet. If an idea could only wander from one spot to another, like the sound of children's laughter echoing between the old trees. If one pure thought could escape and find host in another, would that not be a beautiful thing? Or for the indomitable affection of two lovers sitting at a park bench to trickle over and illuminate the heart of the old man passing by. If only beauty and love be so easily given and not so easily taken.

The gentle fluttering of wings breaks concentration, as a nearby dove settles upon a low branch that is set to swinging. From its perch, the park must seem smaller as it watches the people move amongst the greenery, ignorant to its presence above. Save one. A face, upturned. A soul reaching out for an understanding of beauty's very nature and being met by the gaze of a single, white dove.
Mariana Nolasco Aug 2016
Have you ever felt so deeply,
     it ripped you  *o p e n ?
K G Jul 2016
Born from a carrion crow, a secondary soul
A stumbling first step can get both high and low
Our fall are others inner joy, and inner meaning grotto
Life is a jungle filled with snow, life is a story over-told
It'd be lies without our mouth's constant need for ammo
Let's slide senseless into a fictive reality rather than candid
Where a billion stars all around that seem to think we're attractive
Without assuming they're antic
Lets waste our time on cheap talk and wine
For shallow compliments we need a shirt and tie
A long slow drive, drugs to whirl and jive
Without quivering the sky
Lets pretend that we're beautiful to get something in return
Only to be garnished with coffee stains and cigarette burns
Bewailing about how we enjoyed our youth
We wither irrelevantly, slowly we discern
Slowly we're concerned
Lets drain our energies for over eight hours straight
Burning the faded floral wallpaper to laminate
Lusting feverishly in the tumbled bed to truncate
This isn't for fulfilment, at least it doesn't start that way
Jack Thompson Jul 2016
What is there to do but to contemplate life heavily and endlessly.
© All Rights Reserved Jack Thompson 2017
Gracie Knoll Jul 2016
Glory is the indefinable
Often untouchable, presence of God
Laid upon those who have
Reined in freedom, lost suffering; for
You can only reflect what you look at.
Chance Ducray Jun 2016
Heaven or Hell...its not a choice many sit and ponder but when I stop and start to think my mind begins to wonder.
But more it is a path to choose, a choice I have to make, walk beside an angel or stride the rebels gate.
Now with all fairness no side is evil, No,  just two different spectrum two different paths to show.
One has been walked by many but none this young in age,
the other is unwritten its story is torn from the page.
  Down the first path lies a mountain so still and so high. Which brings me to my next question, what lays on the other side ?
Does there lay a hidden cliff veiled by mystical powers or does there lay a valley filled with the most beautiful of flowers ?
Down the second path lies a man whose large in stature who seems to want to keep me from writing this books next chapter.
Between the man and the path lays chains of three. But who here is truly trapped the man the path or me ?
I wrote this poem trying to choose between two lovely ladies. If you're are wondering I made the right choice.
Lark Train Jun 2016
What in these symbols has power?
None of my letters could build you a tower,
But something within the screen of my phone
Has mass, has inertia, has song, has tone.

Where are the electric lines?
Neither hither nor thither, whichever one signs
But for some reason, I can't help but feel
That my electric lines are something more real.

What are the squiggles that wave from afar?
A symbolic cookie from an imagined jar?
Or are they a prize for forming a speak
That, through my squiggles, may squeak?
What even is a language? What are words? What is it about these mystical, magic lines, that have no corporeal form, that people find so much meaning within?
MindsPalace May 2016
In park I sat upon a rock,
Ahead, a trail lay.
I calmly sat and pondered there
Until the sky turned grey!
And in a flash the moon came up,
The rain began to pour.
I stood and ran to nearby trees,
My fear went to the core.
The world shook and morphed and bent,
My vision went askew,
And as the wind began to blow,
I knew not what to do.
Then in a purple puff of smoke
A man came from the sky,
He waved his hand and gave me wings!
And I began to fly.
I beat my wings against the rain,
Through stormy, darkened skies,
When all at once a thunderbolt
Struck out my painful cries.
Falling fast down to the earth
I readied for the shock,
But when I hit I looked around:
I sat upon a rock.
Ahead, a trail still there lay,
Just as it always had,
The sky was blue, the trees were green,
I hardly could be mad.
And so I settled down to think
On all that was my dream,
For often all the dreams I have
Will show a simple theme.
And so I calmly sat and thought
As daytime burned away,
Before I knew it, in a flash,
The sky had turned to grey!
Next page