Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Onomatopiyya Oct 13
Should I just let things go
Or should I hold on to it

Most of em makes me happy
And not all of em hurt that bad

Still I think
You're the sweetest ever
Mickey Jul 6
We should dance as wild as we speak.
We should sing as loud as we scream.
We should be happy as much as we are sad.
And we should love each other as extreme, as we hate.
We should.
Please.
Nat Lipstadt Jun 18
once again the fog draws me in,
speaking fog soft,
“of me, of me, you must,”
so write-birthing,
I am mustered out,
permissioned,
commissioned,
so ordered.

This fog is personal, in your face, changing by
masking/unmasking street and bay, slow burning,
this one, revealing a tableau, like a theater curtain
rising to audience applause for the set before them,
so unexpected, eye-delighting, pleasuring perspective.

why should you care? what matters this to you?

your fog likely little different, in the Cascades,
Everest, the California coastline morning burning off,
not costing anyone’s life, the Blue Ridges smoking meats,
the Quatse River saying, follow me to the Alaska glaciers,
(in the Midwest, some states, use rivers as boundaries,
so they like the fog to keep the ‘neighbors’ on the other side),
the twin Ghats, or mourning steam rising from the Ganges,
or the Zambales Mountains, guarding Manila Bay entrance,

all mine, here too, so slow retreating, gifting a quiet, wider
bay vista tween two islands, one Long, one sheltered.

so wrong, it matters so, none beyond compare!

these mountain or river comparison, white or gray,
listen friend, look closer, see my face, my words
fogging your soul’s view, full of carryover affection,
so deep, they borrow West Virginia coal miner~heroes
to dig it out, a different kind of mining,
but,
nonetheless,
mine.

so it is here, I see your multi-colored faces like
light flickers shedding clarity to these troubled times,
troubled waters, saying here we are, we are!


we here, outside your window, on waters calming,
see us dancing, but it’s so hard for me spot you in
the mists, for mine eyes are clouded, misted over too,
glasses fogged now, **** these **** tears.
8:53am
Jun 18th
Year of the Mask
You know where...


Eugene O'Neill

“The fog was where I wanted to be. Halfway down the path you can’t see this house. You’d never know it was here. Or any of the other places down the avenue. I couldn’t see but a few feet ahead. I didn’t meet a soul. Everything looked and sounded unreal. Nothing was what it is. That’s what I wanted—to be alone with myself in another world where truth is untrue and life can hide from itself. Out beyond the harbor, where the road runs along the beach, I even lost the feeling of being on land. The fog and the sea seemed part of each other. It was like walking on the bottom of the sea. As if I had drowned long ago. As if I was the ghost belonging to the fog, and the fog was the ghost of the sea. It felt ****** peaceful to be nothing more than a ghost within a ghost.”


― Eugene O'Neill, Long Day's Journey into Night
Ainsley May 22
I should've known
That i'm not the only one
You were searching for❤

Now my heart is broken
💧Tears ate like rivers
Existence pains
And my imaginary
Happy ending
Makes the pain even worse😢⭐

Thought I'll be yours forever
But i realized it is something i can never be🍁
It really pains.....if i can go back it would not be to change things but to live them again
Valentin Apr 1
I didn't kiss you enough
I feel regretful

I should have kissed you more
When I still could

That might be the reason why today
I miss you more than I should
04.02.20
Yanamari Mar 30
My heart beats against
The walls of my chest
My throat reaching upwards
My brainwaves spiking
My eyes focused on the
Aging golden ****
Locked or unlocked,
There was no difference
It existed
And that made all the difference
Mocked from behind
Closed doors
Questioned from inside
Opened walls and
Sitting submerged in
The darkness
Made from broken
Doors, walls and the
Soul of my being.

I don't ask you to
Do anything
Or say anything
Or hear anything
Just... let me be.
Let me see the value in
My doors and walls and
The soul of my being
Let me fortify them
Let me open, close and replace it.
Just let me
Please.
Over-dramatic, unknowing or weak;
Just let me be.
19/01/20
Masha Yurkevich Oct 2019
The seconds

t
i
c
k

by.

With each, I am more ready to die.

He said he would
never
leave me.

He said he was gonna
love me deeply.

He said he was never gonna let me
d
o
w
n.

He said he would make a smile
out of each frown.

He said
and I
believed.

Because of him,
it's all this grieve.

The seconds tick by,
inviting me to come.

To join a world that it so
different than this one.

It wouldn't take long,
and soon I'd be there.

No pain, no fear,
and I wouldn't care.

And may this world do whatever
is in its desire.

Flood,
erupt,
or burn down in fire.

And I'd go right now,
and I'd be real glad.

But it's my best friend who's holding me down,
saying that my idea's kinda bad.

She says I should stay,
get along,
let it go...

And with her help,
I'll get through,
I know.


An experience one of my friends had when her relationship went down in flames.
I was so glad that I could help her when she was in this miserable state.
And I'm glad that it had a good ending to it.
Samuel Hoffmann Oct 2019
You should write a poem...
About the things you always do,
About waking up and tying your shoe
About your classes at school galore
About not wanted to do your chores
About not really knowing if you’re good enough,
About being weak and acting tough
About that joke you just said,
About that conversation inside your head.
About your cat
About that hat
Yeah, you should write a poem about that.
Shoutout to all the people in my life who I sincerely love who constantly suggest poem ideas... Which I never take.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 2019
Alaska:
“though the whole world should be mad at once
though the elements should be changed, though the angels should rebel: yet verity (irrefutable truth) cannot lie.”  
                                                         ­                  Erasmus of Rotterdam

<> <>

for BJ Donovan, a fine, fine poet
<><><>

verity, irrefutable truth, cannot lie,
or belie it’s non-contradictory nature,
even, in a small airport, a one runway affair,
somewhere in Alaska
ribboned tween icy crags and dagger-ous peaks,
low cloud coverings of sub-zero visibility,
that inquire, in an indigenous tongue
of the flying fool pilots,

“really?”

if I or you ask me why I’m here,
Alaska,
the answers come in only three Heinz varieties,
true or false positive, no differentiation needed,
the other, is called
“one who doesn’t know how to ask”

you know him,
the simpleton, the simple one, me,
who can’t frame the question without

risking that he frame himself

betraying and displaying his woeful ignorance,
a veneered confidence of knowing so little about much

in the shed, a/k/a
‘the terminal,’ we wait,
me and an ex-Buddhist priest,
head stubble shaved, of course, round horn rimmed glasses wearing,
stone washed jeans blue, the color of his eyes,
reflecting mine as well as the blue glacier ice
surrounding us both, we,
the extraneous human eagle interlopers

showed him the Erasmus quote, provoking one of them,
thin lined, whimsical, eye-glinting smiles of those
who know the answer
to the knotty ones, or,
know better, that knotty questions one asks himself
when high up in the mountainous glacier ranges,
get answered just by silent patience

he smiled for an eternity of
at least five minutes,
my heart pulsating big time,
this modern man anticipating, in his calm, dulcet two tones,
his understanding of another ancient translating another,
even more ancient, speaking:

”the world is indeed mad,
through neglect letting the elements warp, glaciers melt;
the angels have indeed rebelled at the
foreseen fated falsehoods perpetrated,
verity,
torn asunder,
and the line between balance and imbalance,
so jaggedly ripped in too many places that verity a victim
so badly assaulted, its face is no longer identifiable by AI, worse,
so covered, dying, undiscoverable.

but you ask!
ask of yourself, asking of others, and tolerating
uncurled, uncut uncertainty, you retreat and reconsider,
this then is your answer!
it is the
ASKING,
that is verity, itself! there can be no lying thing in the
quest of questioning
that accepts, rejects, and unceasingly asks again^

this is a the only irrefutable truth and what it asks of you:

never accept the illogic of belief, let your own eyes be the best judge;
ask and ask thrice, be satisfied that being disastrously dissatisfied
is the norm, the mean,
the line toward a perfection that may not ever exist(ed)
for our flaws define us, thus so much greater is our truths when we
we reshape them, ourselves, for verity itself is not so hard to find,
but the finding of one self is too difficult for most


for asking is too painful,
too primordial, and why I am no longer a priest nor teacher,
but a simple observer of the answers that can be found in the
silences of places,
the Alaska’s inside of us,
where nature’s sets
an open table for anyone
wiling to just ask...”
8/18/19
S.I., N.Y.

^”It is not in the asking, but in the searching and wrestling that we gain clarity.”
Next page