Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Francie Lynch Jun 2017
I'm told the sky is blue.
God is dead.
Lead is heavier than cotton.
I'm not convinced I know where the sky starts.
You need proof, like a birth certificate, to be declared dead.
Cotton and lead can both weigh a gram or a tonne.
So, my conundrum... how do I write about what I know.
My name is Francie. I have a birth certificate, and it's yellowing...fast.
Whatever comes after this is pure speculation.
However, our opinions are weighed
With equations and laws. Laws.
There's a thumb on the scales.
Reason is subjective. Water is wet... warm... hard... vaporous... dry...
I can write about death, while I'm alive, believing in it.
My forehead is bleeding from pounding my lack of truths into verse
For readers to think of the possible, for certain.
Notes
Charlie Chirico Jun 2017
My hands above my head,
I grasp for purpose,
and pull the Sun to my chest.

Circles become arbitrary.
Squares, the cousins of
rectangles are discredited as
man-made. That's why metaphors
known as squares are seen as
vulnerable shapes in a misunderstood spectrum.
They are dotted lines
dependent on right angles,
left ashtray to explain anomalies.

So for order we justify lines.
We contain music within them.
Until, of course, the Holy Ghost
is found. Because that strike
against the canvas is thought
to be premeditated.

But that isn't human nature.
That isn't God.
It will only become recorded
notes on a page.
It's retrospect.
A future remembrance of the past.
It's the Sun in your heart,
knowing that containing that
kind of energy is hazardous
to your health.
Marye Minstrel Jun 2017
Our reason is soon tested
By germs of gas
As we softly seethe among the flames
The nightmares of our pasts will awake
To hunt us through our older haunts

The death of our hearts soothes
The dearth of our souls
We lie
Drunk, unable to lie

In truth is ruth, but also
Joy
Maybe suffering is first, or truth
Second

Because the poem is another
Of my seeds
Another to grow into mushrooms
Of inhaled gas.
So hot that it melts me
and me,
not in a foundry, but
in an open place

it's like a fireplace

a river of sweat rolling down my face,
not on its way to some serenity at sea
it's
just

soaking me.

and now the ice lolly
I thought would be jolly has
dropped clean off the stick

making me sticky

I lick me
it tastes of strawberry.

Man feels like a snowman i
melt
let me go man
so hot

and now a spot in the shade of a tree
I
think a dog started ******* on me

no rest for the wicked.
Joliver Jan 2016
Do you love me
The way I love you?

Do you love me
The way I love the air I breathe?
Always sweeter when you are near

Do you love me
Across the distance?
No matter how far

Do you love me
The way I love your laugh
your smile
your eyes
your voice
your touch

Could you?
Could you love me
As much as I love you?
I was never satisfied with being the observer
or the healer
I wanted to be healed
I wanted to be fun to watch like the many people I observed and loved at a distance
I had a habit of seeing things from one set of eyes only
I tried on different masks
I felt lonely
I felt numb
There was nothing to me
except speculation
But I pushed this away
It only came in between helping others
I used to think I lost myself in guiding others
But I had never found myself in the first place

Reflective states would come in waves
But I had forgotten how to swim
The day I fell into the sea

It may have been a river
But I couldn’t tell
Because I was just a pebble
Vamika Sinha Sep 2015
The poet looks
and delves.

She wonders if he ever stops,
him, this rushing-forward-breathlessly train,
if he did park himself in fantastical paragraphs;
the poet is dumbfounded at him
ceasing.

In construction sites of grammar,
where free ideas float in ruins,
poet wonders how,
how, how
he came to plan to live
up
to an exclamation mark.
And condensed so many dribbles and strikes
of strange and fruitful, even withered
paragraphs into one line and pointer -
a smile and a lope-stagger dance of a walk -
an exclamation mark.

The poet stares, once again
astounded by the little streaks of the universe
and longs to hold on to something.
Disarmed,
she can't quite put a finger on it,
his gaping honesty and his quiet one,
that contradiction
shouting in her face
while whispering in her eyes.

The poet laughs -
laughs of, in, out
of sleep.
Summer is here.
And she chooses to notice.
He laughs too,
but he's always been noticing
and the poet writes down how
she learnt to bite and chew into the fruit of the world
and taste

it sour runny sweet cold explosive lingering
just as him.
The poet saw all
colours rolling in one
strange song of limbs.
She did not like the music
but she made herself a blank white canvas

and listened
and laughed

clean, silly laughs
fluting out of the incongruity
of simple,
simple
moments.

Fun life, easy stretch of the mouth -
it is possible to smile down at
what a clown pain is.
He declares this boldly
without saying a word
or two.
The poet is dumbfounded at him
being.

She did not see and had not seen and now only began to picture
but she was blind.
He said he was blinder and that
was true. The poet
did not smirk but giggle at the irony -
he lived in pop-bold spectacles,
she slept in black and white films.
But both were blind.

We cannot see and
we
are blurs.

The poet likes that life scrapes away at her
because she can see chinks of white sunshine
through all the sheared-off layers.
Clean, clean,

bright, bright -
he teaches her in a beam
without a hello.

The poet writes poetry
on breathing action prose.
And she laughs -

You are everything I don't want
but I'm curious.
Something different, hey?
I have heard that words strain
But I have never felt it as acutely
Hypothesizing as lustreless
Than when I spoke
Trying to paint you images
Speculation in rhyme
Present a piece of my soul
Save some secrets
Sealed behind some lines
But speech failed me
And words
Strained and shattered
But even so
A strand of a connection shines
**Can you see it?
Next page