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Kevis Seymore Jan 2015
Red seas cross a bleak horizon,
They move yet they are still,
Robed and clad in red they were,
The men of the missing land,

They wander without reason,
Sees the man on the hill,
He ponders, with them to confer,
He asks what he is to think,

They speak with silence saying;
Help me,
Heal me,
Lead me,

What else can a man do he says,
That man atop the hill,

They speak with silence saying;
Test me,
Teach me,
Correct me,

If you wish he says,
That man atop the hill,

The seas stand still,
What could not be done, the miracle,
By the man atop the hill,

They speak with silence saying;
Move us,
Push us,
Change us,

What else can a man do he says,
That man atop the hill,

They speak with silence saying;
Watch us,
Control us,
Rule us,

If you wish he says,
That man atop the hill,

The seas were one,
Each and every the same,
Held in a current of order,

They whisper saying;
Release us,
Free us,
Leave us,

He cannot hear the whisper below,
That man atop the hill,

They scream saying;
What of this,
What of us,
Why us,

He thought to himself,
That man atop the hill,

He looked down upon the seas,
Robed and clad in gray they were,
Then he called softly from above,

You spoke with silence saying;
Help me,
Heal me,
Lead me,

What else could I do he said,
That man atop the hill,

You spoke with silence saying;
Test me,
Teach me,
Correct me.
Brittle Bird Jan 2015
1; Every time I think hard about a theoretical concept, the rest of my thought processes become out of focus, like on a camera, and I find it hard to speak in regular conversation as that fades.

2; I think dark blood is beautiful, but light red looks too much like small talk.

3; As you can probably tell, people make me feel like I'm drowning in a foreign sea.
For the series.
AmberLynne Dec 2014
People ask me why am so quiet,
and I say it's because I have nothing
worth saying aloud at the moment.

I watch, observing others waste
their words, and I don't see the point.
When I speak, it shall have worth.

And yet, when I make attempts,
often I am interrupted by others
who value their own words above mine.

My words are no more important than another's,
but if I take the time to speak them,
I feel I should be given the chance.

So why am I so quiet? Honestly,
part of the reason is because
even when I bother to speak,
                                                    no one hears me.
12.8.14
prettiest star Dec 2014
since you told me what you
think about death,
the smell of apples,
and god

i want your
unevenly trimmed nails to brush
the back of my neck
as you scream secrets
without words

i want you to read me
understand without thinking
we could move together;

if i were strong, and
if i could show you,
you would see that
i pretend a gentle rhythm
possess a rough soul

*i don't know yet what you hide
Rj Nov 2014
Sweating, breathing, silent screaming
Shaking, crosses, mixed love making
Kisses, crying, forced good-bying
Late night terror, morning dream
Guardian angel whispers in my ear
I'm screaming so loud, no one can hear
One more prayer, one more look
Look at my own heart I've took
I've thrown it into jail you see,
To save me from questioning eternity
No more love.
Some Person Nov 2014
I barely know you
And I don't know
whether my feelings
will grow
But I think about
how I have to speak loudly
if I want you to hear
And I wonder
If I ever tell you
my secrets
How will it feel
to speak them boldly
As if I'm finally
voicing everything
about the world
that hurts
for the first time
I attended a poetry session today,
Enacted by poets through their
Onomatopoeic, gesticulated gestures,
Clenched fist-ed, strained or wide-eyed,
Shifting their weight from one foot to another,
Like dodging their public speaking fears,
To the other leg,
As they tried to build
A rapport with the audience,
Through their words as they (the words) sifted
Through the folds of the air
To make a silent thud against
An attentive soul's solid, soiled exterior.

While reciting, looking into lit screens,
Scrolling up and down,
And trying to look for that line,
That trail of thought which was (most) perfect
Only in its untimely, chaotic, vague birth in that mind.
As the poets tried to familiarise
Themselves with their feelings
Presented on a fresh paper in
A font different from how
It had felt in that first gush of thoughts,
When they had probably first thought of
Penning down their thoughts,
Wise as they were to realise how
Precious they were.
Maybe they wanted to
Articulate their thoughts in written,
But ended up pinning them down.
P.S. Having attended a poetry session today, where the emphasis was played on gestures, sounds, or let's say an enactment of poetry, I had a question stirring from within. The strain of thoughts, must be penned in words for retrospection and introspection. But once a poet, in all his earnest yearning to convey his/her feelings through his words to his audience, takes up the task of 'presenting' his composition in a certain way, does not that precious, original thought, lose its charm somewhere?

Maybe, poetry isn't about being accurate. Maybe that is why, we converse in the intricacies of language, and not in equations and formulae. :)
Asa D Bruss Oct 2014
French pressed fun a with french kissed tea?
With tell-tale signs of want, on me?
You should have a
dactyl mackerel
for breakfast. It'll clear out your eyes
so that
you can vom'et
In my face before you finish speaking.
Endless Horizon Sep 2014
Shallow breaths,
fists knuckled,
beads of sweat forming on my forehead.
The tension was very palpable,
and so was the nervousness.

I remind myself, take deep breaths,
but as the time draws near,
all I can do is watch,
and to hyperventilate.

Shallow breaths,
fists knuckled,
beads of sweat forming on my forhead,
The tension was very palpable.
And I was nervous.

I didn't know if it was because,
of my impending performance,
or if it was because,
of the events that would happen when this is all

over.
An experience I would like not to relive again. This just popped into my mind today.
Alexis A Sep 2014
Someone asked me
If you always yell like that
And treat my mom like
Complete and utter ****
I nodded my head
But I didn't even notice
I've become so good
At drowning you out
You yell at me
For not knowing what's going on
But how could I
When no one tells me
I guess you're speaking
The only language you know
But I don't care
I don't want to hear it
My father. He's okay, once you get to know him, which I still haven't done, but he is also known for his harsh, hurtful words.
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