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My words, they have no meaning
On deaf ears they fall.
Torn straight from my heart, still their nothing, not a thing,
Not a thing at all.
You don't believe my love, my pain, or my rage.
They're all just words, sometimes clever, but still just empty words upon a page.
How do I change your perception?
Become more than just the pusher of a pen.
A thousand times I've tried, through oh so many rhymes still here we are,
Here we are again.
Just words falling upon deaf ears.
https://youtu.be/QgFx17oI890?feature=shared
This poem is now on my you tube channel if you'd like to support it copy and paste the link above or search Todd Summers poetry on you tube
thanks
For crying out loud
Due to the outcome
I was not particularly proud
For more than two centuries, election days go and come
At a similar season, every four years
This time, there were plenty of wows and tears
Of disappointment, heartbreak, anger, anxiety and sadness
And the other half was full of glee or happiness
Such is life. Politics is a ***** and unpredictable animal
No, America did not die. Things are normal
We’re still talking about immigration, liberty
Freedom of speech, and of course the economy
We’re hoping that everything will be better
America has been great for a long time, forever
It’s redundant to add ‘again’ to the propaganda
Yes, America did not die in the middle of the political saga
Where the two parties fought fiercely like two strong tigers
America is an immensely prosperous country
Ignore the false promotional and advertising slogan
America is a huge market with a very rich economy
Ignore the wacky and illusory politicians and Élon
Tigers, lions, jaguars and hyenas are fighting and vying
For their portion or stomach. It is a new political spring
In November. America will not die, on the contrary
We pray, hope and dream to see a better country.

Copyright © November 2024, Hébert Logerie, All rights reserved.
Hébert Logerie is the author of numerous collections of poetry.
My Dear Poet Oct 18
If security can be stolen
what is free can be sold
promises will be broken
secrets will be told
Erwinism Oct 16
I can tell
from the smile draped across
your cheekbones
and your boisterous thought
pinned like a malicious lapel
three odd words—
“bursting with life.”

Painting the corpse on display,
crammed inside a casket,
dressed in birthday suit.

Am I aching?
Am I in distress?
Do you need words
to tell you of these things?
While you hold a living funeral
for such feelings.

In between us,
a wall,
Before: you said you wanted connection, as you laid one brick after another.
Maybe if you went over you’d see
the emptiness you banished me to.

You,
cold as an ethereal summer,
sifting through gaps of a cracked heart
after being battered by promises offered.

Well excuse me,
if I can't get over the hurt
You do not have to be grateful.
You do not have to see beyond yourself.
You can continue, as you have,
to orbit your own sun.

No, I refuse you
patting tears I cannot cry.
Meanwhile, the world goes on.
Meanwhile, my heart, once offered
like an open palm full of seeds,
learns to close, to protect itself from
your drought and wildfire.
You are not the IRS,
neither an accountant,
nor a broker, but a breaker you are
love is not a transaction,
not a ledger to be balanced.

I should have flown with my flock
against the gale of your indifference,
but such curse is youth,
when naiveté is in abundance.

Perhaps the wilderness out there has something safer to offer,
something tamed,
and,
somewhere, the dogwood blossoms
like heaps of uncaring December, covering the ground
in a blanket of white petals.
I want to lie down there,
to press my ear to the earth
and listen to the roots growing,
to the slow, steady drumbeat
of my thumping heart or whatever
is left of it.

I don't need your approval to bloom
so watch me unfurl next season,
my leaves reaching for a kinder light,
my roots deepening into richer soil.

I wish my silence were words for you to read.
Ariannah Oct 15
Remember when everything was fine
Never thought about you being mine
When I had the courage to look in your eye
When it wasn't scary for us to spend time

Remember when I couldn't take the hint
I found out how you felt 'bout me
And the promises didnt turn out to be-
And then you came up looking at me

Looking at me, looking at me...
The hints..
Àŧùl Oct 14
The old Horse 🐎,
It is not Norse.
It's a Trojan Horse,
Bred in an Italian Stable.
They utter lies,
About time that flies.
But we realise the real lies.
My HP Poem #2007
©Atul Kaushal
I'm not as soft as a swan gliding into the poet's lake. I'm not as graceful as a ballerina waltzing in the arena. I am not as calm as the trees attending to your whimsical needs. I am built on ruins; I am something that has been running for decades, and I still think about the house keys I abandoned near the forest; they open the portal to your house. It was my favorite.

I am full of words,
Rotten poetry,
Full of work,
Empty memory.

"I don't know what to write anymore," I whispered. I was a romantic maniac. In me were growing daisies and burnt coffees, orange juices and promised salvation.

It's a funny little detail; now, it's all mishaps and mishandled poetry.

Through the shallows and the shadows, I screamed in horror, and then I felt the mockery of longing.
as I age, I spend less and less reading books that will keep me at night until dawn. I am slowly forgetting how to form words, and my love for writing is nothing but a fond memory kept inside my favorite box. now, every poem that I write is just as empty as me; it’s lacking. it’s boring and awkward. it’s a dream I keep repeating on and on. it was once my favorite escapade, a heaven; now, it’s all nothing but frugal chaos.
 
it’s cruel, isn’t it? I was once promised a salvation. silly little me. my innocence’s gone.
 
it can never be regained. unless I stupidly long and yearn and long and yearn.

if not for nostalgia, I would not write anymore. but I was just a girl who happens to be a slave, and it hurts to be the one who remembers.
Emery Feine Oct 2
I lit a white, waxy candle
I said I would start when the flame got brighter
And as I expected the light to grow taller
The wax only melted and got smaller
this is my 93rd poem, written on 4/20/24
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