WorldWalker Dec 2016

The good men wrongfully believe they are gods
The true gods have all died out
The streets of Hercules have been reduced to rubble
Our white knight lies on his deathbed
Sleepless nights are our only salvation
We wish we could dream of what we need
We need a hero
We’re holding out for a hero

Parallels to Bonnie Tyler's song Holding Out for a Hero are intentional. The song was used to create the poem.
Maria Imran Oct 2016

My previous sentence
Rubbed every trace
Of the next one I was going to create.

Once what I loved
Comes now suppressing me

My feet are stuck
In a slimy mud of languages
I push my hands
Splash, splash it goes:
All the dirt is now over my shirt

I take off my shirt
And imagine basking in glory
But nakedness is for artists
And I am without words

you get me?
Maria Etre Nov 2015

I only knew
that I was a fool
when I left that bubble
and walked down a path of rubble

I asked my eyes
why they were so blind
I asked my mind
why his thinking was so behind

They refused to answer
and left one noise afloat
a beat that I know served as a moat
from all reason and logic
leaving me in a state so tragic

I heard a whisper
my mind said "listen"
sunken in tears I did
and I heard it beat with candid

"It was I oh silly soul
hang in there, I'll recover soon
I'll guild my cracks
with a new love so bright
and even fall in an abyss of fright

It's not my fault ask the powers above
for I myself am mysterious to the
of love" - heart
Poetria Aug 2015

Oh how you crumbled my defences.

Oh how my walls fell in defeat

The damage was displayed

in the rubble at my feet.

// They were bound to fall someday;
they've been standing way too long,
just rotting away. //
Wren Djinn Rain Aug 2015

Here comes the sun in all its glory
tracing the hemisphere in its slow
rise over rubble, but first the tallest
steel and concrete dedications to
the lives living high while their
green shadow casts below over
the desecrated. I see bright night light
shining blue. I see wide, wild light
only high noon. Morning, all day
veins are caving under the rubble
under the tallest.
Here comes the nasty truth, suited
in belts clasped with wealth for
well being, beating the lies with
a dollar sign, until the ugliness
of the first story presses like
meat into the underneath, under
the detritus concealing lives in
the dirt with the needles.
I see bright night light shining blue
in the park restrooms. I see wide, wild
light only high noon from the under-bridge,
waiting for trains to come crush.

gunning for what?
Tiberius Jul 2015

How many times have I wrote you this poem
it's getting darker and darker here
I'm getting worse and worse everyday
I had a plan for all this writing
but I got lost in my demons
I try to rid myself of my regret and just purge
Just purge with all these beautiful words
Yet I'm starting to see I paint my life in all kinds of grays
I am starting to see it has nothing to do with you it's just me
Making exscuses for my ways
I'm just trying to feel alive
pointing fingers at everyone who's not to blame
Because I'm the one who's guilty
isn't that everything you wanted me to see
as I'm picking through the rubble of everything you left me.

Leigh May 2015

An insistent past solidifies a present crumbling at my feet --
To rubble so fine it rains through desperately cupped hands.


Fighting demons
Bursting bubbles
He's in my head
Among the rubbles
Seeing that most things get done
He works at it from moon till sun
He tilts at windmills only he can see
Please meet.... Don Quixote

My affliction
or my soul
hearing voices
takes its toll
Fighting what may not be there
And if it's not, why should I care?
Before the windmills in my mind
Don will find

An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air

Hidden loves
Broken hearts
So much to do
just where to start
No Sancho Panza by his side
In my head he's stuck inside
Keeping madness at arms length
Don minds strength

Unfinished tales
Broken dreams
So little time
Or so it seems
A wayward soldier on his way
What windmills will he fight today?
The thoughts I write reveal what's me
Allowed outside by Quixote

An empty veldt of muddled thoughts
On a crooked road to nowhere
A wasteland of x's and noughts
With no way to get there
A wilderness of abstract themes
And wishes that I need share
The guardian of what I write
Tilting windmills in my minds air

rosie Feb 2015

my tongue is made
of olive vines,
wrapping itself around words
I am unable to describe.

pores made of gold
kingdoms under your rule;
finding life in the stars,
while I still need a stepping stool.

Copyright ©  2015 Alyssa Packard
All Rights Reserved

it's not easy believing that you're better off without me and frankly I wish I could say the same
kaye Jan 2015

i heard that the wind
can do as much as
turn skyscrapers into dust and rubble
and whisk away green vegetation
as it surges on unsuspecting cities.

my heart is not a city.
and you are not the wind.
don't turn us into a catastrophe.

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