Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Jeff S 8h
skirting the rusty rose of a brooch
dangling on canvas bodice as she leans
tightly over me; the waves of wrinkles
on her be-bangled red hands pointing to the
wrong punctuation; this is dream-building
in the fifth grade; don't end the dream
too soon, she gruffs sing-song like
a prize-winning racoon; and still applauds
the bricklaying we so clumsily feign
for our castles in the sky; tho she, too,
dies of cancer in the last year; the tubes at the
very last weaving through the canvas;
something of a final stitch to the making
of a dream; and so i think all dreams in me
they die in darkness and still i wonder
what happens to the crenellated castle
walls i abandoned scores of years and
many As ago; and still we pat our doeeyes
on their infinitile heads and **** our
cynical shacks-by-the-forest-fires back
into our heads, begging beneath the
damp light of early-onset reverie: save
us, won't you, from the stiff stillborn of
dreams our generation lost to the fantasy
of getting what the saddest, dreamless
dollared dupes decree; oh be better yet for me,
my naive sums, and take your brick-laying;
your canvas sheen; your impossible, doubtless
dreams with broach and gnarl; with gruff and
soundless trill; your soulful self metastasized  
with every beat
to the happy grave.
How I can view the viewable as the others think as unviewable.
Things that are only things for the sake of existence I seek to claim more than I should.
How I am swept off by such temporary things that I am so fast to make my own rituals. And how my attitude shapes nothing but my demise.
Oh, woe is me! How fragile Earth's claims will be in the oily destructive hands of the humans. I will mourn for something I was too quick to let take my breath away, as new stars dawn on the horizon the more you sail towards them they still are past the curvature of your comfort zone and final character!  
Wasteful resources, given to us. From things that are past wrought things that are attempted. And attempted by the best to reach legend for their own purpose. Oh how good that taste must be, a taste I have never tasted but my tongue longs for like nothing else. Chasing after a phantom experience and the desire to have it. My legs will not have enough vigor to continue that chase.
Difference is the thing of a driving force of the human. How not achieving this detriment would be so unbelievable! Oh, how it would feel to have it! To be something of irreplaceable nature. But I have the impressions that I am replaceable, similar to them to be unnoticed but yet different not to fit in.
How lustful, the apple in my eye is not yet bloomed. And I, am so premature to taste its familiar juice without patiently waiting and observing the other bountiful harvest. Quick to act even as I judge those who do so.
My sweat on my brow is an ocean watering it’s crops which harvest little to my talents.
A Prose poem about my first crush in high school, and my experiment with Shakespearean language in it's description.
Finnley 2d
Down the luminous hallway lined with rough white walls,
murmurs from the students and teachers flowed from the classrooms.
At the end of the seemingly never-ending hall,
A bright red exit sign loomed over the cool stairwell.
Footsteps echoed as we made our way down.
Snow softly dusted down, creating a white hazed view of the world outside the window.
The halls now littered with artwork hung to the walls.
The smell of wood floats about.
Music and machines mix together overlaying the hushed voices.
Down the opposing hall, burnt coffee and the rattling of the kitchen fill the empty space
As footsteps bounce from wall to wall.
The white lights shine off trophies
Screams and squeaks, muted by the walls sound through this hall.
Hums from the dripping fountain mask the voices
Leaving them to be nothing but whispers.
‘one medium coffee, plain and simple’ says the man at the counter
he’s the dad of my friend from elementary school
and i’m spilling the coffee and hoping he doesn’t recognize me
and i’m getting flustered
and he’s asking the total and pulling out his iphone
cause you can pay with those things now
and you don’t have to sign the receipt
and i mumbled ‘have one’
and i meant to say ‘have a good one’ and i try to repeat
myself but he’s walking away now
and he’s already through the door and i’m still standing here
trying to get the words right
talking to myself
and i’m sure he probably thinks i’m an idiot
and he’s probably glad his daughter switched friend groups in fifth grade
because she found people who liked musicals more than me
and they sang and danced at recess while i sat and read
and he’s probably glad
yeah he’s probably glad we’re not friends anymore
we’re not friends anymore
Unknown to every one we settled down,
All had entered from the same door brown.
Some smiled while the others cried,
All I did was to look at the blackboard wide.

Within a few days we learned to be glad.
We all enjoyed but still some were sad.
Everyone started making new friends,
All because of boredom and lends.

Ma'am Mala who taught us everythng was so sweet.
In the lunch break the view of the class wasn't so neat !
I selected the set of humans I loved,
Within them one was my dove.

We grew up together playing, enjoying, dancing and crying...
Our confined brains dealing with the heart's dying.
From watching dragon tales with breakfast,
We moved to studying till 12 past

Abuses we said day and night,
But they never made us fight...
Java codes were too long to understand,
But friend's story always continued with another 'and'.

All these moments don't need a backup,
Somwhere between ABC & Aey! BC we all GREW UP.
Haylin 3d
Genderfluid
I am a girl, at least to everyone but me,
I am ***, and straight too, and both, and neither,
I do not want attention, I even try to avoid,
But you call me a she,
But I am changing, every day,

I cry when you know I am not so,
I am a boy today...I am ***
You don't notice, or care,
You just put more cuts on my wrist,
And hurt me more with every word...
"*****," you call with ease,
But you do not know, I am a boy today
"****," you say... I am a ******

Death my mind calls with every single word...
But you do not care, for you smile at my pain, as I call for my love,
"Dakota..."
We got back from the bar and were sitting at a makeshift one in our friend's ratty old trailer that was barely suitable to live in.
He grabbed a piece of paper and began writing something out of my eye sight.
He smiled and slid it over to me like we were passing notes in class.
"You are cute. Wanna hold hands?"
Check YES, or NO.
I put a check mark in the box next to Yes and just as quietly gave it back.
We smiled at each other and I shoved the yellow piece of paper into my purse for safe keeping.
It now hangs on my fridge underneath a magnet from the Aquarium.
Lou 5d
June 29th, 2017
It’s been 1 year, 4 months and 19 days.
For 1 year, 4 months and 19 days.
Count the acidic tree rings
Nearly 504;
Bright
A.m. eyes
On East Ferry,
in contrast of noir
I say, man;
June 29th, 2017.

It’s time to get a new calendar,
Cause I count 5,000 dollars later
and not a sense of a cent
was fined for my remorse.

I’ve been fine and fined.
Holes in my pockets
dropping seeds of change
planting fines

Into puddles
and potholes
showing deep interest
into the alignment of my car
stalling my engine with debts.

19,000 dollars and growing later;
I learned what trigger warnings cost
and ironically
I wrote a paper on it.

Don’t get me, wrong I am grateful
But, I had to rip holes
into all my jean pockets.
I mean, **** it,
I never had much going in
And I should quit smoking
My lighter is dead
Only blue and red
Sparks lived well in my mirrors
On, June 29th, 2017.


From the wall I was chained to,
I enrolled into college
My mom drove me home from my first class.
My lawyer wasn’t much of a lecturer,
He spoke math for 1,400 dollars

250 and 9 weeks.
106 a month for 52.

That’s enough math for this semester.

I drank with my night instructor on Mondays after 9,
He wanted to hear my music
We drank whiskey salted potholes on Allen
I counted his tree rings to 4/4 measure in regret;
20 years steady.

I graduated on a Tuesday morning,
I didn’t call him back to thank him for the irony.

I acknowledged our acidic rings
With glass cheered laughter
Swallowing thanks for each other’s company.
9 weeks and I don’t recall ever leaving the room.
43 went after,

And today life is that,
Paid for in lessons,
No need for pockets

I am those potholes
bumping coffee all over me
20 mins late to my first class.
I can repave them
but they won’t stay filled
It’s OK to want smoother roads to school.
I’m late but I’m here

I’m a mess.
******* would see art.
People have his eyes on me.
I want to be framed and splattered
on the walls of your home
A household mess .
It’s OK to have a passion.

Look into my tree rings
How old am I?
Its restorative to count
27 rings of rebirth
Look at me still growing
I believe I can grow in Paradise-lost fire
Or in Buffalo salt

I am my flaws
I counted them

My alcohol abuse,
One beat of 2,653 in 2017
I don’t know how to put an apology
On a music sheet.


The Jazz fills my potholes in the morning
before these hallways

My grey area is stained glass in Villas library,
Each step is eclectic
From shoe up and over is stand still art

Lighters flash cigarettes burning
But prints pictures of thankful new memories

With all of you in it.
Thank you for helping me with today’s date.
Its for a course I am taking in college. I hope this doesn't shade me as a fool. I'm kind of self-conscious of this one and hoping for feedback. Thanks.
Jenn 5d
cigarettes make me feel better about abandoning you
I want a jeep because of when you would drive your mom's
and play rap songs
I want to be what I thought you were
Next page