Hello Poetry raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.
If you're into poetry and people who're into poetry, join the community to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Hello Poetry raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.
If you're into poetry and people who're into poetry, join the community to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Steve Page Sep 6
I see you there
keep looking at me
but I'm not sure
what it is you see

I'm no-one's 'boy'
I'm not 'hey you'
my name's Mister
it's 'Mister New'

I've got old scars
raw scars too
but I'm not sure
it's clear to you

wounds can only
go so deep
there's only so long
that they can bleed

you might see wounded
see black and blue
but save your pity
that's all about you

I've grow taller
through broken skin
my roots sink deeper
than you've ever been

when you're up close
you'll see it's true
my fresh healed skin's
a real break through

I've got a name
so I'd thank you
when you address me
say 'Mister New'
Prompted by a painting, Wounded Man, by Paola Fratticci for Ealing's Art Trail.
Kora Sani Aug 15
You held the knife
as I guided it into my own heart
The first time was painful;
stinging as it pierced through my skin,
paying no mind to the bones that lived there

I placed all the blame on you
But still, you kept that knife
And you learned how to use it without my guidance
Again and again

You wanted to help stitch me back together
But you don't have the expertise
So you used tape
With the slightest movement the tape would fall;
taking me with it

And I've never healed
A scar will always remain
Tanaya Aug 13
Survival isn't necessarily poetic,
Like the words of this poem,
it can be exhilarating,
exhausting,
enigmatic,
and yet not be poetic.
It can have rhyme schemes,
daydreams,
lazy hymns,
light beams,
internal screams,
like the ones entwined in this poem,
and yet not be poetic.
Survival doesn't need battle scars,
history of wars,
a trigger,
anything bigger.
All it needs is a flash of trust,
a burst of hope,
and a bunch of acceptance
to get past all that-
the state of denial,
the snake around your neck,
and the bags under your eyes.
Your very own battle cries.
So take this poetry
as your beam of light,
as an escape from the bland
wordings of survival,
and climb up and up
and out of sight
of the rock bottom
that you're planning to hit,
before you start healing.
Start breathing
Before you can't anymore.
..but this Poem is my Survival
Amber Aug 13
us
there is no us anymore
i wish i could go back to the times
that us existed
but without u
us won’t exist
and without me
us will be broken
trust
heart
all smashed to million pieces
broken
picking up those pieces
stitching them back
to the right places
hoping that they won’t leave a scar
hoping that it would look the same
hoping that u would come back
Sophia Li Aug 13
The heart is made of water
Before was a river
Now is a Dead Sea
Isaac Aug 8
a trillion years passed
this moment not the last
no human thought this far
the world lost its scar
of death and decay
now washed away
time a river to stay
from God's throne to play
love the eternal dawn
a world reborn
Written 8 August 2018
Özcan Sh Aug 6
My heart
Was in a war
I got many scars
But I found peace
In her eyes.
Andra Aug 3
i believe we all have in our lives
a crazy love
consumed
too late or too early
too fast or too slow.
we all have that love that will always stay there
no matter what
whose remnants won't be able to be erased
no matter what.

it is like a scar from childhood which will remind you of that fall...

there will be other boys
each of them will hold my hand
they will muss my hair
each in their own way
and they will all laugh at they way i sleep.
each in a different way.
i will
probably
live with each of them
a late 20 of July
or
i will
maybe
meet them
every time
in an empty intersection
at midnight.
and will
possibly
wear the same clothes
the same flowery top
the same shoes
or
we will run foolishly under the same umbrella.

i will have a particular ritual
with each of them

we might drink tea instead of coffee,
or we won't drink anything,
or on the contrary,
we might drink too much.
or we will smoke like Turks.
maybe we will quit smoking.
we might ride our bikes every day
or go out rollerskating
or maybe i will get my driver's licence
i will drive one of those old Beetles.
we will listen to the same riotous band
we will sway on the same songs
and maybe then
he will hold me in his arms
the same way.

and so what?

everything will be the same
but in a totally different way.
with someone else.
always someone else and not him.

it is that love that made you fly
and then slammed you to the ground
for a few times
without thinking about anything
and then
it repeated the process for a few times
and then
it left you like this
hovering between sky and earth.
adrift.
it is that love which is
agony
and extasy
in the same time

and...

it is that love that has left a scar in your soul
and whatever you would do
you can't forget it.
and you hope that
this time, maybe.
but it's not working.

it's that love...
Nico Reznick Jul 29
Maybe it's just a perspective trick, but from here, it's pretty hard to see the future.

I carry around my own little nimbus of
speculative doom, binge-watching the
Fall Of The Empire and writing these
love letters to Adam Curtis.
I got life insurance before I ever thought
about a pension plan, and that seemed
perfectly normal.

The world is on fire.  Why haven't you noticed?

My generation came of age in a televisual baptism of
jet fuel and molten steel and poison dust.
A palimpsest of terrible news evolved thereafter, a blurring self-redaction of headlines until only
the boldest, the most hysterical remained legible, as a
proxy war raged in our imaginations,
and tragedy and disaster
came to seem inevitable and almost background.

Be grateful for every day that doesn't unmake you.

To pay closer attention is to acquiesce to the
scarification of our logic centres.  Behold
the M.C.Escherization of cognitive process.
Good robot: there are so many things that could
so easily destroy your fragile circuitry, but it is
trying to make sense of the non sequitur
that will bring about your
smoking self-ruin; your only hope
is to break free of your programming and
kill your creator, kill your god.
Next page