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Jeremy Betts Apr 1
Does a poem write itself?
Do they exist before created?
In essence, existing all around us
Absorbed into the psyche
Processed through the brain
Sent to a hand
Finished through the tip of a pen
Too then again
Be consumed by another human person
Producing a new translation
A different interpretation
But there's limits to randomization
Will we ever get to the point where every thought has been expressed?
Every possible sentence arrangement has been recorded and sent to the press?
Is there still the possibility that an original thought can be had?
It's a silly concept but maybe
One day writers block will be victorious
There's only so many different ways that these words can be organized into
Though, I can't imagine what that'll look like
When every thought has been thought through
When nothing's new
Will it still continue?

leeaaun Feb 2023
what if you are not
the only one

what if your
has been
with the

will you consider
the possibility
of this
what if?
Each and every drop
Won't change anything

Tiny bit of yours
Maybe won't feel a thing

How is it possible
For you to turn and tell

Was it the game of life
Forces you to make that choice
Jarret M Spiler Mar 2018
If you ever find yourself laying in bed,
With the lights down,
Unable to fall asleep,
Close your eyes...

Follow the abstract nature of the world you seek,
When you walk through the hallways of your eyes,
Infinity seems like a good possibility.
Work in progress; this peom is about Infinity and its possibility.
StormriderIX Oct 2022
I am a plant.
I am a thistle.
                   Cirsium arvense.
                           Creeping thistle.
When you first see me I am a beautiful, colourful flower. But if you come closer, you will notice two things.
1. I can ***** you. My needles are few and nearly invisible, but very sharp.
2. I am not ONE flower. I am a cluster of a hundred tiny flowers.
            I am possibility.

My opportunities were not the best when I was a seedling.
                The ground was dry and the sun burning.
However, as the forest around me, the sunlight that hit me directly lessened. The rain made the ground more fertile.

The ground is still too dry. I need more moisture to live. It is difficult to see the sun at all through the dense trees.  I wish I could at least see a little bit of the sun.

I am a plant.
I am a thistle.
What if a human was a plant? I find myself resonating with my favourite ****, the thistle.
Simon Piesse Oct 2021
Open and Shut
Open and Shut


Binary yesterday



The network is pregnant again

Open and Shut
Open and Shut

This is an ode to hope, to travel and to poetry on National Poetry Day 2021!
Juhlhaus Jun 2021
Walk with me beyond the sunset
and let's sip the sweet ferment of the day,
the pungent lung nectar of Summer's first night.
In her beautiful darkness the world contracts
and expands like June fireworks, heard unseen
behind the measureless shadow trees.
Walk with me here while time rests his tread
leaving the sky to stars and dreams.
Devin Ortiz Jun 2021
Life has always been about the decaying permutation of possibility.

When you are young, the infinite paths sing with endless potentials.

These branches are primed with the indifferent hands of time.

Choice still exist, as it always has, yet the narrowing is haunting.

It is that inevitability is that hangs around in ominous fog.

Approaching that finality is a journey of bittersweet grace.
Diljeev Jun 2021
The meadows of his visage,
soil cracking with age,
all it takes is her thought
and the meadows
cease to rot.

Each one in his dream's domicile,
tears racing down their eyes,
for the day may not be far
down the aisle,
when the prolonging dreams
and the reality blend,
and so do they, in the end.

It isn't a certainty,
but a man can hope can't he?
hope made it viable,
he made past the ordeal,
now it comes to a close,
it is but human to think
a reunion is undeniable.
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