Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I'll never walk in your footsteps.
                         because you walked

that path and it was personal to you.

I may shadow you, as I take wonderment
          in the delicate breath of each moment

you trod upon the soil.

Showing that for some, we will never tread
               upon others imprints.

But we will not look above, but always
                     below to see that some paths
are worth following,
      stepping side by side to others life.

Make a path anew, follow the footsteps
                of others you look down too.

But every path is unique, no path trodden
                   is ever the same in life.
III Sep 4
I wish to bury
     my toes like roots
     in the soil,

Breath in the crisp
     summer soaked air,
Ringing out a day's worth
     of yawning afternoon sun,

And fall back into
     the sleepless nights
That drifted into days
     that didn't matter.
Anastasia Aug 24
i will bathe you
in my starlight
like the stars
bathe the soil
Tammy Cusick Aug 23
Withered through these relinquished lips,
softly lays an embellished, embroidered, carcass.
Torn across flesh-like soil
caressing gently into this impermeable being,
you're only human.

So allowing in the presence of indigenous, oblique thoughts
slanting into the belly
never feeling so bare
the hunger deprives.
The nails of your eyes piercing into the forefront of mush you call a brain,
feeling the earth distinctively tremble with each step you chase closer to the ledge

Clutching onto the white knuckle breast
your hands pounding at your fingertips
its electric running through your veins
feeling it at the core
so helplessly, lost.

Your throat knots into one-thousand splinters
splicing relentlessly between your core
the wedge of your mortal body becomes noticeable to your soul
detaching,
jumping.

Slithering one step closer,
pull the rope
you leap
you rot

one more inch closer,
you can feel it
separating your surroundings from comfort ability
picking up between each breath
shaking at your own wake.

there you have it
at the brim of the edge
you've push yourself this close
whats one last jump out of this skin?
LWZ Jul 22
Two worlds become one union
Shaping one another into something new

The sun rises and is followed by the darkness

The night sky opens and swallows me whole

This is the last time I loved you
The increasing awareness that my feelings have completely shattered your world
The end and the beginning

Watch the flowers wither away until the dry soil is so hard you can’t even dig through

Invest in fresh soil and patiently feed your roots, for one day those flowers will continue to bloom.
Yolanda Jul 14
Where do you come from?

Do I come from the land of my forefathers
Or am I the daughter of the soil

Nourished by the land of which I’m taught to toil

Or maybe I am a daughter of the moon connected in spirit

Where do you come from they ask?..

I am the daughter of a self employed man

I dare say from my mother’s womb

Where do you come from they ask...

A little planet called earth

I am a human..

A girl that grew into a woman

I am the daughter of the soil

Dipped in melanin,

I come from a land that flows with milk & honey

Africa my beloved
My heart
My home
This is who I am.
Ken Pepiton Jul 10
Were your mind the soil from which words rise,
autochthonic,

filled with meaning-ment-al
ready to write asif

you exist, dear reader, and know
autochthonic
people are some different from

Gaijins, gegenes, genetical offspring of Gaia,
I imagine, gollum mud men, goy-soulish sorts,

were, once thought,
asreal as death itself, by those in the know;

but

we never know ever, ever being as it is and

this being mortality,
the act of dying,

asif we were seeds, words whispered in darkness,

come and see. Buy of me gold,
without money,
without price.

Grace, take it for granted, and grow on.
Become that which the seed demanded you to be,

when autochthonic was re
cognized as some word Nunzio Corso knew, but you

never heard of him.
https://allpoetry.com/Gregory-Corso -- How many poets have I never heard, who found solace in such a once dark word by adding self. Self-chthonic, almost spontaneous generation of more than existed before the word came to be known, and shared, just in case you never gave it any thought.
Next page