Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Khoisan Feb 2023
I love a miserable day

tomorrow should decay

Just like yesterday
When one knows
something is wrong
and does nothing about it.
Ginn Mosxa Dec 2022
I fear,
Worry heavily over,
Realizing my dream
My passion, my drive
"Too late"
But, I must ask myself
When exactly
Is too late??
Ten years from now?
Or is too late tomorrow,
Or next week?
Because some days
It feels that way
And days like today
I wonder,
If there even is such a thing..

Maybe when I'm gone
Once my bones decay
It will be too late
Yet even then,
Someone might just
Remember it.
Maybe it's never too late to dream...
Shevek Appleyard Jul 2021
I keep my past close with old photos
And yawn at the present
Waking up to the time i've wasted
The pirate that fidgets
Listening to the snapping of veins
Irate frozen views
I complain that I spend my days complaining
And that nothing is changing
But I don't make myself a catalyst
Struggle to find bliss within a cage I am comfy
Constantly confused on the want to be free

Ferocious and hardwired to be inspired
Flying on the gateways of promises that dance tempting
Fermenting memories in mistakes
So slinky sad and suddenly
I've given years to hibernate
All I do is flake and harden to my fate
No eagerness to liberate my procrastinative state

I keep my journeys stretched between boredom and boundaries
Im moody till boredom outgrew me
Deaf to the tones of disappointment
That hit like stones thrown ashore
To a child that only wanted to be more
Than a heartwarming second smile
An underachiever
Stagnated believer
Prospects zero
Sullen to be unstuck
From reveries of a hero
another sad-ish one soZ
T R Wingfield Oct 2022
‘Cause you  never wrote any of the good parts down
You just lived ‘em
and let ‘em

                                               a                    y

You knew better
than to try to capture
the silliness in its hay day
because then you’d have
to face the facts of
the very choices
that you’d made;
and there would be no question -
whether it’s was worth it -
to waste the days by trading them
for nights of frivolity and frolicking -
Of frittering away.
What should have been,
and what is so,
and where it came from,
and who’s to blame
would all be there in Black and white,
instead of vanishing in the haze.

And in your own hand, no less;
your words,
a confession dictated day by day
of what, With your own eyes,
you did see
- All the magic and the wonderment of this tragic comedy -
through foggy lenses, bottle-thick and stained:
dreary ramblings in shadows made,
and heard and said
a many things
in drunken dangling reparteé.
{•:[\|/]:•}no one ******* cares{•:[\|/]:•}

                                          _ -====- _
                                      . + T  [ ^ ] T + .
                                   /  .•^•.    .•^•.   \
                                  |   <(•)  }  {  (•)>   |
                                  (..          /^\          ..)
                                   \* /|'_'_'_'_'|\ */
                                      \\ V         V //
                                        \\ ^----^ //
                                          \ '-''-'-''-' /
                                             * -_'_- *

                                          _ -====- _
                                      . + T  [ ^ ] T + .
                                   /  .•^•.    .•^•.   \
                                  |   <(•)  }  {  (•)>   |
                                  (..          /^\          ..)
                                   \* /|'_'_'_'_'|\ */
                                      \\ V         V //
                                        \\ ^ __ ^ //
                                          \ '-''-'-''-' /
                                             * -_''_- *

(Found beneath the body of the author, who was crushed by the weight of a megalithic stone- his writers block)
p.s. - I spent far too much time on the ascii vampire skull; but isn't it neat?
Mimmi Sep 2022

We stare unto the clouds
Waiting for the next instruction,
maybe of a fantasy to live in for the next hour
Then when days pass we start to wonder “what happened, who to do the dishes, who did the laundry?”
Then standing there in our one person apartment wondering who else we mean when we say “we”?
We didn't remember the broken bowls and ate in our only hat
We didn't see a future with life and carefree function
Only slightly  breathing through a telescope
Anyone know the familiar feeling ?
Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 2022
Whispers of tree leaves,
shaking fibres of the very skin. A breeze
creeping through all of the wall cracks.
Breath heavy not of stink, but cold breath;
a weighing heart of ice deep in my chest.

Sin in my bones, (from birth) weakness of
the flesh. Time is plenty on my hands.
Intent on the mind, procrastination under breath.

"I'll do it all tomorrow"

I recalled a bird's song as a morning lullaby,
rooster crow echoes of less time left in a dream.
Diminutive time; clocks going full circle several times.

"Fine I'll do it in the afternoon"

The Eve sets on the day,
as to kiss her Adam, as the first sun.
But it's the last light of dusk coming into play,
wasted by the nothing of planning to do something.

"Snap! Where did the day go"

Back to the start of the end, into the new
beginning of procrastination.

"I'll definitely do it tomorrow"

                                                     ­ Yeah right.
To my young eyes
To my innocent heart
I remember the world was a blueprint on canvas
It was a dream undreamt
It was a song unsung
As if in a crib, I looked about me at the stars of the cities
Constellations of people hung about
Their wounds and aches, joys and laughter, were the myths
Like the Zodiacs, groups of these people
Could define a person
Yet believing myself undefined, I strode out from shelter
Untamed, I ventured to find my purpose
A purpose that would shake the mountain
Rain down the ash of winter
Smother the pits below my dreams
Cull the nightmares that stoke my fears
I waited
I waited, I waited
I tell you the waiting became my purpose
Finally, there, in the clutch of time, I found my calling
I will tell you all of the waiting
I will tell you, don't wait...

Don't wait for the door to ring
or the latch to unlock

Do not wait for the song to play
or the band to sit

Open the door
Be the composer
Be the pilot of your dreams, be the chieftain, be the god

While waiting for what I could be
I saw everyone else become

With the zeal of their hearts
I saw them build, I saw them grow
This one built a nest
That one stitched a doll
Now the doll's a mannequin and my waiting missed the change

I waited for the waiting to end
I waited for the wanting to decide
I waited for foe or friend
I waited until
there was nothing left inside

Where is the zeal of my heart
The timbre of my soul
I lost the sight, the sound, the love
because waiting took its toll...
Ultimately, I started this poem because I wanted a poem title that started with the letter 'Z' since I didn't have one. That's important, LOL. So important I got inspired, hopped off to a grand beginning, then got lost and saved this poem in a draft. That was May 2021. I was lost then, I realize.
The "timbre of my soul" had quieted. In mourning, it was still.

Yet today, January 21st, 2022, I managed to finish this poem. I opened it up, felt the passion in the words and just went at it. I'm quite satisfied not only with this poem but with the fact I finished it. Finishing, or even starting, longer poems has been a struggle for me.
Writing has been a struggle, all in all. But I will not let the fire die.
That is the one thing I owe myself.

Keep writing. Even if I am starving, in pain, destitute, heartbroken, wrathful, sick, lonely, terrified, abused, blind, crippled, persecuted, villainized, disillusioned, cheated, imprisoned, shackled, insane, exiled, abandoned, lost, confused, desperate, paralyzed, dying, I will do it. I will keep writing.
Michael R Burch Jan 2022
by Michael R. Burch

We had—almost—an affair.
You almost ran your fingers through my hair.
I almost kissed the almonds of your toes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

You almost contemplated using Nair
and adding henna highlights to your hair,
while I considered plucking you a Rose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost found the words to say, “I care.”
We almost kissed, and yet you didn’t dare.
I heard coarse stubble grate against your hose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

You almost called me suave and debonair
(perhaps because my chest is pale and bare?).
I almost bought you edible underclothes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost asked you where you kept your lair
and if by chance I might ****** you there.
You almost tweezed the redwoods from my nose.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

We almost danced like Rogers and Astaire
on gliding feet; we almost waltzed on air ...
until I mashed your plain, unpolished toes.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

I almost was strange Sonny to your Cher.
We almost sat in love’s electric chair
to be enlightninged, till our hearts unfroze.
We almost loved,
                            that’s always how love goes.

Keywords/Tags: Almost, love, lost love, loss, lost, relationship, relationships, hesitation, procrastination, hesitancy, vacillation, near, near miss, nearly, close call, miss you, missing you, missing, loneliness, lonely
Brumous Oct 2021
I need a breather,
for I have set a timer,
in each fraction of my life

I've never tried running a marathon but,
I have always felt that I'm running out of time.
Every beat feels like ticking,
I'm afraid that soon it'll stop.
Next page