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Ronnie Feb 2019
In the beginning, God created the heavens and the earth

or so I was told at the humble age
of seven years old. I did not ask
and I did not question.
I saw that it was good. Or did I?
It was only the beginning
but what of the rising action
what of the darkness growing
over the surface of the deep?
I was yet to learn for sure
the conflicting nature of faith
or the meaning behind every rosary bead.
Thrown in at the deep end
I stared into the void. A vault
between the waters, or perhaps
an endless sky covered in stars
a ceiling in my bedroom
yet another thing I did not question.
Thus no answer came.
How was I to know the darkness
if not for the light of day?
I waited days and years
until the night came again
and for the first time in forever
I asked myself why
do I truly seek forgiveness
or salvation? Could I be
reborn into a creature
of fire and vengeance
or a winged bird blessed
with the gift of flight
and a lack of conscience?
Perhaps I could have been
state of the art
a true reflection
instead of this serpentine twist
somewhere deep within me
grinding, nesting
in the manner of a deadly disease
clouding my vision
and numbing my senses
taking away any certainty.
The very nature of existence
is to learn its meaning
is to doubt the ideal masters
and their conjured ideas of freedom
infinitive and infinite.
I do not have the answers
but I ask the questions. I am
in control of my own fate
I rise above the darkness
I am the master of the seas
the shepherdess of my own herds
I see all that I make of my life
and I see it is good.

Thus the heavens and the earth are completed in all their vast array.
Another poem I wrote for a class. This one had a straightforward prompt, "faith".
writerReader Apr 2015
"I'll have a whiskey,
ginger ale on the side."
is what he says
i don't even thinks he know
what the reference is
Cause you see.
I can be rich and married to a woman in mediocrity;
Or I can be poor and with the woman of my dreams,
I'm sure of it.
Everyone wants a piece they can only get a tour of it.
Fussin for crumbs, I'm baking more of it.
But that's apparent; or superficial?
It's existential at the core of it.
I just need to feel.
Girl, show me something real.
Don't conceal from me.
You can get the deal from me.
We can go and peel.
You can grip the the wood grain wheel.
Make 'em tires squeal...

For me,

Is who I'm running from.
Upset with all I have and haven't done.
Under layers of writing,
Pounds of paper,
Tangles of letters,
Words rearranged,
Metaphors you may think strange.
But here I am.
Hiding in my forest of unspoken conversation.
Bits and pieces can you see me?
Look and listen do you hear me?
Maybe I feel lost because I've grown.
Trees happen to be bigger than shown.

Past poems come to mind.
Of trees;
Of me.
Of flowers;
Which happen to be about her.
Certainly, this same old ǝɔuɐp’
Cannot be my only stance.
This tree has legs,
I must move.
I just hope to not lose it,
As soon as I get in the groove.

-Luca Ivaldi
Started as one thing, ended as another.
Much like life.
Gabriel burnS Nov 2017
The Catcher In the Rye reboot trilogy; sequels comprise Pitcher In the Rye and part 3: Batter In the Rye. The love story of a ball and a glove, whom a bat tried to separate. Stay tuned for the spicy novel 50 Shades of Homerun, where the characters go through all the bases, all the way to the home...
Oculi Nov 2017
One dose of a drug to make it intriguing
But we're taking more than that, reeling
Positivity out the window with these dead clouds
Oddity in bedlam for me, it has me wowed
So tell me why I feel this way
I'm not getting anywhere, but hey
90% of the things I've done in my life ain't as important as you
Sweeping that floor
JDK Sep 2016
That's where I found it, but it's not where it was,
so I'll pick it up and put it somewhere else just because.
This is what it looks like. This is how it walks:
like a quarter machine capsule on a pair of chopstick legs.
Cup it to your ear and you can hear the ocean lying.
Lie down on the sand and you can hear the mollusks dying.
A storm is just a bunch of sad clouds collectively crying.
This is the part where you float away.
Battle Toads & Double Dragon all day.
Jodie-Elaine Jun 2016
My hands fidget.
I will tell you when I see you that
my fingers could break when I speak,
loose from the chicken wire houses that pin them to nail holes
no one sees and my words could snap
with them, straight down their spines.
My hands fidget and my tongue trips.
One day I won’t be allowed to see your eyes, your eyes when the sun hits them and they turn green, your eyes when they're blue, when you're being real. Or both.
The sun is in your eyes and it's setting.
I think I could be the moon,
we could meet at every eclipse,
create our own lightshow in the sky or make them notice us just for five minutes,
the kids sat on steps behind the sports centre,
I will tell you when I see you that you are so ******* smart you could ruin the world with it, so why can’t I tell you this, so why can’t my hands stay still?
I want to feel the way my mouth tingles when we sit, you murmuring in my ear that you could spend all day here,
alone with the indents of each other's lips.
I guess if we ruined the world I wouldn't even feel Numb, the Nirvana song.
My hands fidget.
Recently I stuck a sticker over my fear of death to try and be as brave as you and now I am Nevermind,
I can't feel a thing.
My tongue sits still when I try to speak about thinking and when I think of losing you I see Topcat, Pink Panther and this time my mind trips over itself.
I chew my lips and the corners of my mouth close.
I can’t see in the dark like I can’t breathe when I see cartoons like I can’t see **** when you say we need to talk like I’m scared of the ******* dark so please walk me home.
You find my hair bobbles at your house and I'm sorry that that last one wasn’t a metaphor.
I imagine the space behind your closed eyelids looks like a dark place at 3am where you exhale smoke.
I imagine the space behind mine is inhaling, coughing and static in the form of a thousand headlights blinking
it burns.
My hands fidget.
You call me out and it sounds like my brain not being able to hold itself still, I can't,
I can't stop fidgeting under those blue-green eyes.
When you tell me you love me my fingers stay still.
When I think it's loud like nerve endings screaming at me god-**** react like
controlling hands, interconnecting veins jumping from wrists,
The stuff of nightmares where you say I don’t trust you
but I know that your hands on my wrists would not,
do not,
like that.
I will tell you when I see you
I will not wrap you in chicken wire.
I am writing to tell you that when you speak my hands stay still.
I am trying to say that nothing snaps and my head is
Mike Rollain Apr 2016
Sick and secluded
I discover myself
Bouncing between
Feelings and hot water music

A poetry pong master in the making!

Or perhaps a mere loner
Lost in wild blue?
Criticizing deflections and
The distance of the moon

These tides are my own doing
They'll drag me back in
They always do

A drunken realization of
What matters most
Wanders in and out
Of consciousness
In and out
Of solipsistic getaways
In and out
Of this existential rain
Then miraculously sticks

Becomes static

Crackles and lingers
In my ears like
Bubble wrap buttons
Snapping and
Slamming this
Contemporary chatter
Back into the reality
Of these off-white walls

A residual impact
I can feel in my bones

I wonder who knows
Nora Mar 2016
Open your eye to the
Misty dark sea,
Brimming with unexplored
Mystery and washing ashore
dead carcasses, sometimes
crab shells sometimes corpses.
Still the people flow in,
Out, in, out, until one day
they’re swallowed and all
that’s left is the
spitting sea foam.
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