Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
co'brien May 21
a city plain enough
for all the world to see
though round the edges rough
it always seems to be

as half the city sleeps
long past alluring Dusk
lonely screams creep
from eventual husks

sirens blare
while i grow pale
and cast a prayer
to no avail

a city plain enough
asleep at thirty to three
missing finer stuff
to keep me company

laying there, wide awake
the night not quiet yet
i shut my eyes for my own sake
and wait for silence to set

i hear ambulances convene
on the parking lot below
whisk away a pallid teen
without her soul in tow

my mind is forever *****
as a war-torn sieve—
i could never forget two-thirty
not for as long as i live
When a dog chases it’s tail,
Does it get bored after it catches it?
Or does it hang on tight,
Running circles through the night?

If I chase you again,
Will you continue to run?
Run away forever,
Some sick idea of fun?

And if I become as fast as light,
Will I be the dog that hangs on tight?
Or will I too get bored,
And leave your life fragmented and ignored?
I would give up feeling sad if my cat would chase it’s tail
Glenn Currier Dec 2018
“It is our function as artists to make the spectator see the world our way not his.”   - Mark Rothko

To have the guts like Sinatra’s to declare
through regrets, tears and despair
“I got through it all and did it my way”
Oh, to trust the power in me and stay
always authentic and true
to my point of view
no matter how out of sync
or what proper poets think

The Rothko chapel with its paintings of black
took me completely aback
they seemed non-paintings to me
but I sat in the changing light and could see
the artistry in that quiet urban place
I could feel his gentle grace
he forced me to see his world
in his hues and strokes and curls

A Rothko or Sinatra I am not
but if in my lines are caught
the sweet or dark breath of my muse
if I speak in my voice with its hues
maybe a whiff of spirit there
will cast a piece of my soul and snare
someone’s musing causing them to write
and fling out their world in their light.
The Rothko Chapel is on the University of St. Thomas campus in Houston, Texas.  It is an irregular octagonal brick building with gray or rose stucco walls and a baffled skylight.  It serves as a place of meditation as well as a meeting hall and is furnished with eight simple, moveable benches for meditative seating. About 55,000 people visit the chapel each year.  Fourteen of Rothko's paintings are displayed in the chapel. Three walls display triptychs, while the other five walls display single paintings. Beginning in 1964, Rothko began painting a series of black paintings, which incorporated other dark hues and texture effects.  [Based on article in Wikipedia]
Anya Dec 2018
The taste of tension, like water, plain but there
Invisible, but felt
A faint undercurrent, a barely detectable wave

Physically, fine, well most of us
But mentally, a little shaky
Slightly off
Not easily detectable

Our lips graced by bald faced sugary sweet smiles
Don't look at the mouth, look at the eyes
Where the truth screams out at you
If, you can detect it

His antics, a little over the top
Her quirks, just slightly more enhanced
But even then,
You can't truly know what's going on behind the curtain
Unless you forcefully lift
But
That could possibly damage it
Completely
lifeonLSD Oct 2018
— - —
Call it magic if you may
the sun, the moon’s pray

Constantly chasing each other
day after night, night after day

Such a perfect contradiction they make

Putting together the right ingredients
to complement each coloured ray

When one were to fall the other
would silently rise, filling its place

With every small step they take,
synchronicity follows without ever
missing a beat

So on they move

Completely balanced,
without anybody taking the lead

In the beauty they unfold upon us
this has to be
one of the most wondrous spectacles
if you ask me

Words are unable to measure
by any means their lightning show
how they glow with a radiance
that highlights their power and control

Or how they never let
each other down
Or stand in each other’s sway

No envy I feel
nor does appreciate is able to say

The truths about their nature,
always ready to unveil
hidden in every passage lay
the constant sacrifices they have made

The forces that pulls
each other so close
the same it pushes away, too

If one steps out of place,
all falls out of space and will be let loose

With lightyears of travelling
they unified their bond but are still
bound to live in separation

I admire you,
from a far

An admiration so magnificent
it cannot be free
One of the most magical things
enabling us to see

Right on time
as ever so soon

The dance
between the sun and the moon.
— - —
a mere spectator
Sadman Apr 2018
I think with rules in my mind
But memories follow behind.
I feel shame; then regret,
And so my goals aren’t set.
What should I do today?
What should I ever say?
That’s why I watch it all
And follow each roll call.

My thinking never ends.
The poem that got me in here.
Alec Jan 2018
The Savior

There once was a girl
Who visited Death
On her birthing day
Her heart had almost stopped
Her lungs breathed almost not
And Death carried her throughout the hospital that day.

There once was a girl
Who visited Death
On her fifth birthday
Pig tails up
She’d gotten stuck
In the branches of their tree,
Hanging with the leaves
She would choke before she would land
And Death had cradled her within his hands.

There once was a girl
Who visited Death
On her fourth grade field trip
They’d hiked up a mountain
Some kids pushed her down and
Tumbling she hit her head and broke bones.
Death had pulled her close and whispered she needed to go home.

There once was a girl
Who visited Death
The summer after freshman year
She’d gone swimming down by the pier
When she’d cramped underwater
And her lungs were unsure
Death had hoisted her ashore.

There once was a girl
Who visited Death
A fortnight before her 21st birthday
She’d gone to a party, people were all getting laid.
He’d given her a drink
Soon after she’d thrown up in the sink.
He seemed awful sweet
Pulling her into the room to lie down.
Until he started pulling her pants down
She wanted to scream but he covered her mouth
Instead of screams she squeaked like a mouse.
He pulled out a knife
Threatened her life
And had his way with her.
Pressing the knife against her throat
She soon began to gasp and choke.
Death comforted her until it was all over.

There once was a girl
Who visited Death
On Christmas Eve
Just turned 25
She was dead inside.
That boy from before
Who called her a *****
Had been calling her his
She’d cried every night begging for future bliss.
That night he’d burst in
Drunk and full of sin
Throwing her down to the floor
She begged for no more
And he called her a *****
Before throwing her out into the snow
Death pulled her out from sinking below.

There once was a girl
Who visited Death
While working inside
Someone drove by
Everyone was tongue tied
As they shot right through the glass
Bullets flying past.
She felt it before she saw it
She knew she’d been hit
Ironically by a .30
She begged to live she still had things to do and say
Death had blocked the bullet that day.

There once was a girl
Who visited Death
6 months after 35
Working up until midnight
Furiously typing away
Someone snuck around wanting to play
Just escaped prison
Wanting some fun
Knock out then knock up
But she had her luck
And attacked till he couldn’t move
She’d started to push and shove
But he took the gun
And shot her in the stomach
Hoping she’d bleed out
She ran till she collapsed to the ground
Death stayed until she was found

The Spectator

There once was a girl
Who saw Death
Watched him close that kittens eyes
As it let out its final mew and he let out a sigh.
Cradling it’s soul in the palm of his hand
He sent it on it’s way, to it’s promised land.
She worried about her life
In her 40th year and her 40th night
Was she going to die?
A far fetched idea
But then how could she see Death within the crowd of people?
She turned back again
But Death had disappeared to the oblivion.

There once was a girl
Who saw Death
Hold her sisters hand.
So in her final moments she wouldn’t be sad.
She felt sorrow in his eyes
As he glanced away to the side.
She watched as he drained her life
And sent her to her afterlife.
Her sister was 10 years older
And at 55 her sisters life was over.

There once was a girl
Who saw Death
On her 50th birthday
She wasn’t sure if she should be happy or scared
But at least someone remembered, someone cared
She stood there gazing at the gift
50 dried up roses laying in the mist.
She gathered them together
And put them in a vase on her dresser.

There once was a girl
Who saw Death
Walking around a graveyard
As though he was a guard.
Protecting each of those who had passed
Appalled at what he had amassed.
At 55
She realized death wasn’t stealing lives.

The Speaker

There once was a girl
Who spoke to Death
5 years after she’d forgiven him
The sun had begun to descend and dim
She posed a question
“Do you come here often?”
He replied “Only with the one i love.”

There once was a girl
Who spoke to Death
Being 65 was hard
She was scarred and marred and starred
“Does everyone look like this at my age?”
“Only the ones who love instead of hate.”

There once was a girl
Who spoke to Death
“Do you know when I’m going to die?”
“You mean when you’ll say goodbye?
70 is just an illusion in your mind.
But yes, would you like to know?”
“No I’d rather leave it alone.
I’ll just live to the fullest each day.”
“I figured that’s what you were going to say.”

There was once a girl
Who spoke to Death
“I turned 75 today.”
“I know, you complained it was too bright so i made the Sun go away.”
“How long do i have left?”
His response was swift and deft
“That depends on if you live it to the fullest.”

The Survivor

There once was a girl
Who fell in love with Death
He had helped her
Whenever she began to hurt.
He brought her gifts
When her heart was amiss.
At 80 she realized
That for decades she had agonized.
When her love was right there
Brushing her hair.
She reached up and grabbed his bony fingers
She spoke softly but the words still lingered.

The Stagnant

There once was a girl
Who Death was in love with
He’d been there for her whole life
Harming any who gave her strife.
She was what he looked forward to
When he was feeling hated for what he had to do.
So when she turned 85
He had no reason to lie.
He told her calmly and clearly
That he held her very dearly.
And that today was the day she’d pass
But he would wait, so the day would last
But when time came, he held her tight
Knowing she wouldn’t put up a fight.
In her last fleeting moments he told her a secret
Because he knew he no longer had to keep it.
And so, softly he whispered in her ear
The very same words she’d meant for him to hear.
This is something I’ve been working on for awhile now. I got the idea not too long ago and felt i needed to make a story out of it.
I feel
like a **** spectator
I see things happen,
but I'm scared to do a thing about it.
I am scared that I will die.
That I won't do something good.
I feel
like the fallen soldier,
on call of duty,
who watches other people
fro the spectator screen.
I hear that she just cut,
yet I cannot stop her.
I cannot hold her.
I am only a spectator.
I wish I could help, I really do
SøułSurvivør Jun 2015
---


LIFE


SoulSurvivor
(C) 2/25/2014
The Western world mostly
The Third world is too
busy just surviving

---
Next page