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You know that little light in your eyes that is extinguished when you die, the one that gives a person that tiny glimmer of hope every morning that they have something resembling a soul hidden away, I never had that. It was always more of a murky darkness like sinking in a pond yet to drown. Some may say my eyes resemble the ocean but when I look in the mirror all I see is a tempest approaching land, and with all its rage and fury it swallows up people whole. I guess that’s why one would say you get swallowed up staring in my eyes for to long. I’ve always sung a sad song of sorrow for that ember of hope that inhabits most but the twinkle of light in my eyes must have gone out long ago. There is no other answer to my lack of a laugh or my lack of empathy for other people unlike me whose pilot light burns on in their heart. I’m fundamentally broken, blame free and bruised. You wouldn’t pick me if I was a fruit. I am the bad omen at your doorstep and I am the evil that lives in the cold damp living dungeon that is an empty mind. I am the devil in disguise.
Ron Conway Dec 2018
Love is a dance ..two..three chance ..two romance ..two..three
Hearts beat so fast ..two..three vast ..two the last ..two..three
Movement and rhythm split light through a prism becomes something more
Temperature rising the future devising becomes something more
Love is a dance. Take a chance Life enhance ..two..three
Emi Jay Oct 2018
the sound of the highway outside
whispers through this rain-tapped glass:

quiet and fleeting and constant,
so like wind and rain and nature,
ebbs and flows, soothes with those
highs and lows and breaks—

with no telling when it will end,
just a rhythm like sleepy breaths,
a lullaby in the making

i prefer this noise to silence
outside my window in that dark;
a vast world alive and vibrant
while i slip into muted dreams
Mae Oct 2018

Yes, it’s not all about love, or pain but surely it’s a metaphor for the depths of the halls we walk by ourselves amongst ourselves in order to confuse anyone that tries to wander too close to our hearts. Oh come on! Poetry is so pretentious.

To hide through rhythmic syllables, to share a sonnet with thee. To dedicate an entire repertoire of acoustic melodies in order to talk about her body?

Do not get me wrong, I love my fair share of dramatic soliloquies but it seems, to me that honesty has lost its value. Especially with writers. There’s no more truth anymore…no. It always has to develop into a complicated string of ideas. There was a time when writers were able to talk about a woman or lover or whatever, without invoking all the gods.

Learn how to love for what simply is
Jack L Martin Aug 2018
I eat my rice with birds and mice
I treat my nice with turds and lice
I drink my wine with pigs and swine
I write my words with prose and rhyme
I swing my club with strength and pride
I take my steps with prance and stride

I show you all now what's inside
These words I trust; I will abide.
Updated 9/11/18
Delia Darling Jul 2018
My heartbeat's gone all wrong
A stuttering flutter of rhythmic butter
Something this *****'s been slipping on
And what is the tempo marking, dear?
Quarter note equals freakin’ infinity
It's come to my attention, I fear
I never breathed a note this long
CeeJay Mar 2018
They say love lasts forever, alas I beg to differ,
Tell me you can look in the mirror--
And sternly admit to a life without flip-flopping,
Between a quitter and a winner.

You spend your time calving out an image,
of the perfect life, the perfect wife--
Oblivious to her wishes, her dynamic ambitions,
Offering your warm heart but to change minds in an instant.

I lost myself with and without you,
For years we were an inseparable two,
Ready to take on the world full-force--
While endorsing eyes had kept us on course.

Two minds were torn apart by expectations,
Guilt ensued from causing your frustration,
Not ready to let go of comforting arms,
That arbitrary line alarmed and harmed my calm.

Although my time as yours had filled my heart,
You will always remain, my doors wide open from the start,
Whenever you have clarity, whoever you see at dawn,
Don't let it be an eternity, now that you're gone.
I wanted to have a go at writing a more rhythmic poem.
Lily Flower Feb 2018
Star, Scarred, barred from gleaming
beaming to the world, seeming
as if light has the ultimate might
to shower the glassy body with power
of being, seeing the present as it is
or is not, but cut off from the sky
Star marred, far away from home
roams, the sky in wanderlust and sorrow.
Umi Feb 2018
By the music and it's heavenly way into a human's soul, through the harmony of the instruments
The rhythmic sound of music has the power to fill one's heart with a certain feeling that is endless
As all the notes come together, being played accompanied by the soft tune of her voice, it sank into my heart, reflected it, cherishing, wishing in bliss that such beauty, never should end
Coming in a clear pattern which leads me to ask;
Where shall it lead to, or where does this end, alike the night, my
hopes are for this to be undawning, so that it can fill me with joy.
Overflowing with emotions, more than I am able to convey with
words or any fitting expression, my eyes shed tears, of grief.
What is it that may has touched my spirit, is it the sound, or are
the instruments responsible for this sudden heartache ?
Of course, unable to find an answer, I consume the music until the
very last note has been played and the prayer which has been sung
comes to its border, its final point where it has no meaning to continue.

~ Umi
Bryan Oct 2017
I'm trading tender for splendor:
The loss of sweat, not-so-tragic.
I'll build up my blisters for whispers:
Spells recited in habit.
Dollars can buy what I seek:
It doesn't take many to have it.
The strange, the odd, the mystique:
The flowers painted by rabbits.
The song played by the beach:
The harp without hands to grab it.
Nature has cradled my needs:
The order created by savage.
We pay for all of these things:
Even chance has stated this adage.
I know this from my own beliefs:
The months living as addict.
They blurred, and flew on the wings:
My "needs" growing emphatic.
The basement was surely my feet:
My mind, alone in the attic.
The empty, the holes, the replete:
Filled, trading my money for magic.
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