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Z Sep 6
37
Her gaze got the best of me
Burning bright and mahogany
Conversation-soliloquy
I framed my fervor in filigree

hollow gestures, a pantomime
She just wanted to pass the time
Nearly twenty, too juvenile
To be anything more than tactile

A crowded room, a compact tableau
I still look for her where I go
A stubborn habit, it’s hard to quell
Maybe too callous, but I meant well

A little less than fortuitous
Resolution eluded us
Two strings, discordant synchronies
Why bother with antiquity?
I've been listening to Hippo Campus a lot and I love the way they write so this is a *very* basic attempt at the style! Thanks for stoppin by
I was born a gentle soul
Reformed with an old jovial wisdom
Which was corrupted by the first attack
Stripped of my candor and left to meander
Until a visceral skin latched to my back

I watched my rivet dreams vicariously
All the while from side scenes
Spending time refining the premise
The fine hemmed edges
Were sharp yet crude
When tuned to this percentage

The very root of metamorphosis
Became an epitome of what I am
While walking a tight rope
Of Hope's chokehold
Invoking me to stand
Forcing me to look down
With nowhere to land

Echoes of mediocrity only fuel my drive
Staving fires from mere survival
Into the desire to thrive
While every injustice withers and dies
I bide my time refining my form
While the perfect storm subsides

The strengths I hide
Preside just beneath the surface
A revival impulse is convulsive therapy
Leaving me resolute within my purpose

Uncouth is the pretense
To claim and obtruding suspense
Whilst I am colluding and fearful
Whether I reminisce or remain pensive
The time has come to be cheerful

The only power over me
Is what I allow to reside
And keep me preventive
So if I choose to stay inside
It's because I'm designing
The next in line incentive

After I've repented
The only indefatigable witness
To my truth is me and God
And at times I ask myself
Will I know the blister's burden
Or fabricate a facade?
To My Dear
Once more
I speak from no blind
Without arms
Without an edge
I wish all the while
The well was face to phase
You were once in the hunt
Yet it wasn't your scent I was after
It was your fallen words
Feelings
Like leaves that still a windy day
I remember that night
You hosted and hoisted my delusions
Pried my pride
With your rules and my rues
Shall a man be so shell shocked
At you
At the chill in the air
The wave of a pointed hand
The weave of lost tapestry
Unfinished
I often think back
At my metamorphosis
I was once told
Your dialogue
My dying on a log
Like tomorrows frog
To take upon a pond
And to jump into it

Logan Robertson

6/24/2019
Of all the women I've met she was not the norm, or the spark of my eye.
Yet she was a puzzle. I couldn't figure her out, or come closer. It was looking at twin and that may have been the attraction. The irony being that that one chance encounter having a lasting effect on me, where I do often think about her now.
Haphazard soliloquy,
Uninspired philosophy.

Hello Poetry.

Streams of senseless dreams,
And many more to follow.

Swallow'd by a sense of disparagement,
Characterized by the cries in my head.
Survival of the fittest synapses.
That hold myselfs together.

I hold nary a candleless flame,
With a mind to set my minds ablaze,
with my haphazard soliloquy,
my uninspired philosophy.
annh Apr 22
[Enter Marco, a young Milanese courtier.]
It is he, is it not, whose honeyed barbs drip with sweet condescension, and whose kisses taint fair Bianca’s lips with similar speech? Behold, how he frames her vision to reflect his own and directs her preferences accordingly.

Fie, I have been April’s fool in believing Antonio my ally. His encouragement was as sweetmeats to a greedy child; but I have chipped a tooth on that candy-coated morsel and found its centre to be flavoured with deceit.

My cousin Bianca, whose name speaks directly to her nature, whose light once made shadows dance for joy; how extinguished she appears now. For as Antonio sparkles and splutters at her side, her brilliance flickers and fades.

Lo, how he has seeded his untruths within her honest heart. His lies smuggled like contraband, his blandishments the articles of his trade. God’s wounds! Such a purveyor of frippery and falsehood I have never met the equal of.

It is high time to confront this sneak thief in his lurking-hole and to uncloak his creeping connivance. I shall bottle my rival’s words and choose carefully the occasion for their uncorking; then pour for the crowd a rich liquor of ripe requital.

‘It is notorious that we speak no more than half-truths in our ordinary conversation, and even a soliloquy is likely to be affected by the apprehension that walls have ears.’
- Eric Robert Linklater
Emmanuella Jan 23
"Hello, little Little shoulder,
Haven't you seen a bucket of tears over the years?
Or was it?
Was it all just yesterday?"
Because it very well could be.
Inspired by the saying: "You can cry on my shoulder."

~~A little melancholy question for her shoulder.~~
Tommy Randell Jan 18
When you get to the bottom of this letter
You will see the world anew, then perhaps know me better.
When you have listened, given thought to what I'm saying,
You will understand I hope my reputation for hating.

When I was a boy they let the world abuse me,
Instead of learning love I daily learned to hide my bruises,
On a permanent basis soaking up their hatred
To become this broken doll no one wants to play with.

Acting out a role in a life of empty stages,
I used Love to justify non-existent rages.
I treated the innocent the way the guilty treated me,
I employed Love as the camouflage for cruelty.

I learned. Now, I am Passive aggressive and a democracy of one,
Sometimes a dictator and no Mother's Son.
I've known no Father's discipline and no Father's love.
When i push people away I make sure I draw blood.

What my goals are doesn't matter,
I can get under anyone's skin with a little Poet's patter.
I can feign humour, show remorse, charm birds off the trees -
I like you all better down on your knees.

I stand tall on my own, my sights set on the prize,
My best weapon ever... the child in my eyes.
And, I am telling you now it is too late to stop me...
Every word is a blade and the concealed weapon is Poetry.
I love to tell stories and make drama in my writing, why shouldn't I create them in my poetry?
I make myself so happy for no reason then stick my own back,
melancholic acts of treason, cut and measure my own lesions;
a line between pleasure and pleasing.
Not an pessimist nor a type of optimist but a realist who has mastered the execution of delusion and illusion.
Oxymoronic, Guess I'm just human;

Apparently the semblance of a god,
so making something from nothing isn't odd,
but I was given everything from a soul to my bones, hair to my toes;
Even to me who stays in this, sinew and ivory, home the reason is unknown but I know the weight of this form has its toll.

Ties made are rarly cut
more than the material is used,
bonds spirt imbued,
that which feeds hate and love.
My soul is the ocean my form the soil my mind the heavens so it's wisdom guides the toil.
What I put on to my body will seep to the sea, be it poisons or ointments that is to be seen, my wish for foresight seems obscene,
a noxious tint colors the scene
Ah this is but a show, how else can I explain the tragedies sown.

Who wrote this play?
No
Who paid its commission,
who conscripted us to suffer, no need for permission, no fine print played off as a simple omission?
Actors with no access to backstage
so it is do or die,
freedom in a cage,
the 4th wall blocks our eyes.
we get no reactions for our performance
no real feedback,
so we face our troupe like opponents, for no real reason.
Whilst some seem to flourish in a limelight others perish in darkness
some disappear through trap doors others fly with out harness.

seasoned thespians sometimes show us a way; how to perform our parts, from when they entered the play.
We are told there is a script, so I would say some have forgotten thier lines
but honestly the script has never passed these eyes,
all I know is that somes voices are drowned out by the soundtracks of anxiety and sadness;
The polyrhythms of fear and deafening sound of loneliness and madness
How could the director have this?

That's the purpose of a tragedy; make the watcher feel like they are living lavishly.

Wanted a reason why I find it so tragic.

In the words of Life 'There, you have it.'
Slam tracscribed. I've been reading some tragedies and re-realized that fact can be truly worse than fiction
Ninté Null Sep 2018
a simple mind
a lover not cruel, yet unkind
a heart that beats in digits
in binary, to a love lost to time

what will I be
tomorrow, next moment
tell me, if you know
dear shadow, what am I

Ninté
© All Rights Reserved
2018
Quotedbykayla Aug 2018
when did it become so painful

why did it get to a point of it being so hurtful?

the search to find a trusted one goes dead,

with the battle to have one to speak to,

emotions are trapped inside my head.

for the love we gave was yet so sweet,

but pure,

we still couldn't find the medication to cure.

then blood became sweeter than tears,

when we dragged our blades,we overcame each fear.

it flowed like the rivers,

so fast you feel the shivers.

the life in our veins

disappeared one by one-after each pain.

we became one and diverse,

when we sharpen each pen

and write a new verse.

a promise of security,

yet still take away my purity.

they told her to remain silent,

but how can she- when they still stay so violent

what did you expect love,

for them to treat us with respect?
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