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Vanessa rue Sep 10
She lost perspective before she met the glass,
Braces on lips like wine, a fleeting stain.
Golden hair pulled too tight, youth locked in place,
Slipped like coins into the senex’ fragile purse.

Concealed in lockets, veiled from prying eyes,
Alluring hunters sought her tortured grace.
Through dusty rafters, golden strands would rise,
Brushing his scars beneath the public’s gaze.

No one regarded the banker’s loss or coin;
Old men still scattered mints upon the floor.
Some whispered fate had favored her to join,
Others claimed the devil had opened the door.

The wise, unmoved, declared with measured breath:
All that has come is better—even death.
time’s easier to bear if it was never meant to last
starving’s the only way to be a seeker
of affection that’s just a hoax
TonyNoon Sep 9
So many false starts and blind
alleys have pointed us to lands
we promised to younger selves.

So many good intentions paved
our patios and pathways, not to
hell, but to a kind of anti-******.

Meaning is not an unfound grail.
It resides in footprints and glows
in each creaking backward glance.

We are never where we want to be.
For now we are somewhere, maybe.
Relax. Catch breath and thank stars.

Tony Noon
they told you no.
they meant never.

they tried to carve
a life without passion—
because passion is poverty,
and you deserved better.

just wait, little one.
the world will carry
your name on its tongue.
the dream they stole,
quiet as a matchstick,
burned through a decade.

today
you’ll strike it—

and the whole sky
will burst into flames.
this one is for my thirteen-year-old self, who wanted to be a graphic designer, but my parents thought… computers are for men, i should be a doctor. i became neither. but i did just finish the cover design for my book.
The space between
me and the mirror
holds assumptions,
questions, a palette
of colors that promise
they can paint away
my imperfections.

In the vanity of brushes
time sings of a much
younger me, but the
mirror is patient
as it waits for my
eyes to look into
its silver frame of reality.

In the rawness of morning
when I look into the mirror
I see my dad, my mother’s
bluntness, my daughter
who now travels across the moon.

I am growing more gracious
with the woman in the mirror.
I will never grow younger,
but I can grow bolder.

There’s no expiration date
on a dream or a day there
isn’t something to learn.

Mirror, I don’t seek you as
often as I once did…I now
spend my time trying to
be a person who reflects
the spirit of the best in me.
"Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly" (2)



who needs challenges, commissions.
kicks~in~le butte~
when heaven heaves rains, one downs tall orders in
short shot glass verses, which glossed over at its
first communion(cation,
come back
months later
to subtract - another
poem from where it lay dormant
on the doormat
of my sub~sub~terranes
of my diluted subconscious au natured dry & rugged terrain

a favored poet,
a secretive admirer,
whoa~whose~her truthful name, I've yet to uncover,
but whose one true soul inspires me repeatedly,
ana~lyrically licks me into
dredging from me
un begrudgingly

and yet,
another love poem,
she herself wrote when elixiring (commentating (3))
'pon one of mine,
a long long time ago

Alas!  Alack!
unnaturally immodest,
one concedes,
when obviously a Super~Woman!-cedes,
seeds in three verses, what I  could never unknot
nor uncover

so I requite & requote with
unlabored pleasure
miz patty m's
primary terse verse,
neither secondary & never tertiary,
her absolut perfect mixed drink
defining, summarizing,
the essences of love

"(Love) Poetry is confession, obsession, reflection.
Empathic minds, valentines, hope divined.
It's a kiss, whispered sweetly"


I concede, in deed,
and in writing,
I know nothing,
of writing
of only love poetry
and all the great predecessors,
elsewhere lyricized, named and tabulated,
by yet another women, (1)
I will take my weary words elsewhere,
and if
perhaps,
disguised as a woman,
(Natalie, Natasha, Natali
see note below)

perhaps my verbal herbal insides,
my turgid insights,
will be shorter, sweeter,
but never more completer
than those of,
who can syncopate it
in rhyme
and the naming of my
predilection,
by mid~initial,
will give a measuring
of solace, and
a kiss and hug from my mirrored selfie,
having been unsuccessful at
my one chosen endeavor,
only love poetry,
adieu,
I, due,
utter
Nevermore
                    M>
(1)
see https://hellopoetry.com/poem/5134157/whispers-of-the-romantic-soul/
(2)
patty m
(3)
pompous stupid word; use commenting
(4)
https://www.google.com/search?q=female+names+that+start+with+Nat&sca_esv=dee9b9933ec66180&rlz=1C9BKJA_enUS1169US1169&hl=en-US&sxsrf=AE3TifMLzVbCWkH-hNwziZl2gYN5AIX_dQ%3A1756974288039&ei=0Ey5aPeUAt_Q5NoPjNus8AY&oq=female+names+that+start+with+Nat&gs_lp=EhNtb2JpbGUtZ3dzLXdpei1zZXJwIiBmZW1hbGUgbmFtZXMgdGhhdCBzdGFydCB3aXRoIE5hdDIGEAAYCBgeMgsQABiABBiGAxiKBTILEAAYgAQYhgMYigUyCBAAGIAEGKIESJxFUNQXWI9AcAJ4AJABAZgBZqABqAWqAQM1LjO4AQPIAQD4AQGYAgOgAu0BwgIHECMYsAIYJ8ICBxAAGIAEGA3CAgYQABgNGB7CAggQABgFGA0YHpgDAIgGAZIHATOgB8IYsgcBM7gH7QHCBwUwLjIuMcgHBQ&sclient=mobile-gws-wiz-serp
Damocles Sep 2
Mirrors broken,
Fractions splitting,
Ever finely,
Watching secrets,
Flowing through me,
Ever asking,
Who am I?

When I can’t even see—
Me anymore
I don’t even dream—
Anymore.

Falling headfirst into the light
So bright it burnt my eyes,
In a dream or was it life?
Embattled with the ruse,
I could abscond with all the rules
A ravaging abuse obtusely used
As I drained away my youth.

Barreling though what I knew,
A misery of sorts,
Traumatic tendrils grip like anchors
The pills were my only resource
A numbness to pick up my sword
Dangled over head, Damocles
Striking down my enemies.

But bridges burnt,
Was a double edged blade
Because even the ones I loved
I could no longer save
As this anger exploded
Like a sun above us shining
Nuclear and blinding
I scorched ties and dried out salves
Until healing was impossible—
Lest you cauterized the wound.

Now as embers cool
And coals burn off to ash
Brittle like aching bones,
Brutal as hindsight,
Where loneliness creeps
And the current of thoughts
Flow like rapids concordantly
Drifting through the steepest fog
Where the mind divides,
I care only for clarity and intimacy
To feed this malnourishment.

It’s been so hard looking through time,
With eyes of a fly,
As these mirror shards remind,
I have never been sure.

Am I an artist?
                  Am I a poet?
                                     Am I a photographer?
            A philosopher?
                              Am I a fighter?
          A vigilante?
                             Am I human?
                   Am I a demon?
      Am I a lover?
                                   Am I anti life?

I stare blankly into a deep black emptiness.
Singing a forced fed lyric.:
Who am I?
Intentionally disjointed. The title is a computer command. When entered in command prompt it tells you what user id you’re using…thus telling you who you are. ©️ Dominick B
Peace Sep 1
in this headspace i cling to sanity
i want to give into weakness
& return to the comfort that choked me at night,
throw my arms around despair
& dance with the devil,
gripping on his aged old wings
that fallen with him as he sinned,

we were not supposed to end like this..

mayhap if my eyes grind on your inner fears
i could passionately spare you the fate,
of our inevitable end?

my mind caresses our goodbye
& converts it into heartfelt kisses of forgiveness,
i know this is a meritless fantasy
picking apples from that forbidden tree,
i entertain the idea of intertwined hearts again

what am I supposed to do when i'm left clueless?
digging deeper holes in hope
got dang it i burn for our return,
but our love is scrambled puzzles

look at me, rambling again & again
when will this agony of love end?
Through my long awaited breakup I enter into the stage of missing what once been, knowing I’ll get burned if I play with fire. I have to remind myself why I should not go back, while also acknowledging why my heart aches to return to what I once knew. The familiarity calls us all at some point. Just have to be stronger then the call of old disillusioned love..
i don’t think i’ve ever been
more in love with a city
than i was with you.
it’s inexplicable.

the more i see
this spirit of community,
of togetherness
where i live now,
the more i miss my real home.

it might be another country,
but you took me in,
held me like your own.

one hundred
and sixty thousand people,
yet it was always one:
the date whose flatmate
played in my favourite band,
the pub where a singer walked in
and we had to act cool,
even with fifty strangers, once,
crammed into a living room.

you were secret codes
and piano bars,
ropes above the thames,
carnivals and day festivals.
meeting someone,
and keeping them forever.

it was never just work.
it was passageways, and talent
rising like ivy through stone,
having the world
at my fingertips
as though sitting on a throne
without having a clue.

but i still did
what i thought i should,
and found myself alive
in the whole of you.
this is a love letter to oxford.
august 31, 2025
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