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Ruslan Omarov Jul 2023
I neither need your clothes nor boots nor motorcycle.
Decayed all props to stage a shadow play.
The Woman dressed in Sun, The Dragon, and Saint Michael,
Their gearing hearts beat hitchy, gleaming grey.

Their speeches quietened. Their metaphors exhausted.
Their dances faded, shedding out the joy.
I fathom, something gone. I almost know, I lost it
By disassembling this well-crafted toy.

No chances to rebuild. The Craftsmanship, the Crafter,
All melted down into a liquid steel.  
My digit Queen is dead, she should have died hereafter,
But chose the truth to false the Sun's ordeal.

The Son. All fates of him were broken into pieces
And scattered off in cancellated times.
Perhaps his name was John, or it might have been Jesus.
Perhaps he sinned, perhaps redeemed the crimes.

Half claim he brought the whip for hypocrites and cowards,
Half say he taught the tantalizing charm.
Whether a thorn bush was he or a gentle flower?
To love him was my charge, or make him harm?

No hints are in my log, no notes, and no directives.
Nowhere he's now and nobody's to ask.
Alone among the crowds, I'm drifting ineffective
From depthless past to future, out of task.

Don't grind out your cigar on my bare chest in scorning.
I cut my nerves and skinned myself to hull
While wandering in hopes he will be back one morning
To waken with a kiss this grinning skull.
Safana Jul 2020
You give me all hope
All hope of capableness to
Sing a beautiful song
And, to danced a dance
Most adorable dance
Accolade, given to me to
Nurture our friendship

Jonesing for a cup of love
Oftentimes, you're sweetest
Habile and passion you are
Ahead of my feeling it's you
Read all above stanzas and
Inspire the warmth of love
Path Humble Nov 2014
on the paper
newly minted,
first time printed

causal pausation
assessment momentation
review, the second inclination,
then scrap-heaped,
in much bad company filed
retained, reserved, preserved,
for another go round,
another someday

you look at your hands,
telling them straight,
not good enough,
is not good enough

do try, so try,
three lines, four stanzas,
elegies and funerals
don't become you,
go into labor,
write labored
and birth free flowingly
that all knowing glowing,
of a poem child,
product of
good enough
Bench Yourself

pensive, a quiet time,
yet, burning sensation
in the limbs,
but not in the one
that matters

the eyes function
the fingers flex,
breathing regular,
the words stuck
in an unapproachable place

you bench yourself,
let the backups play,
head in the game,
not today
Bobby Dodds May 2019
I am the first line
I am a different line
I prefer the first line
Well youā€™re wrong, the second one is better.
Nah nah youā€™re both wrong, line five is amazing.
Can we all just agree that line five is full of it?
Yeah I think most of us can, but line two might
I am the last line
Salmabanu Hatim Apr 2019
Here sits a poet,
A constellationĀ Ā of thoughts,
A colourful sunset of rhythms,
Meteors of rhymes.
With pen in hand, by lamplight,
Only a poet knows
to create order from chaos,
His every word on paper flows,
Spinning dreams, emotions and wishes,
Whence the threads of figure of speech weaves,
A never-endingĀ Ā tapestry ofĀ Ā poems.
Choreographing each stanza to be awesome,
Dancing over the meter,
Painting each picture to better,
The character,merit and existence,
Of what each poem means.
Riz Mack Mar 2019
I can see
in the way
that you move

and so pure

that for me
you will be
big trouble

I can feel
when you move
in that way

the demon
take over

he sways me
towards you

For the way
that you move
so freely

I can't help
but to stare
you seen it

and I knew
how you moved
was for me
I did do
a tricube
of tricubes

3x3x3 = 27
2+7 = 9
3+3+3 = 9
9/9 = 1
(no, it's maths)
I want to be a Black verse
Living off the societyā€™s expectations,
I want to be a Free verse
Redefine this hypocrisy called democracy.

When I grow up,
I will be an exposed poem, with stanzas like a book of secrete.
Louisa Coller Sep 2018
Scattered notes from the passive mind,
re-analysed with blissful anticipation,
searching for descriptive ways to be defined.

Imaginative pebble paths give me temptation,
luring my instincts in like a curious cat in the night,
a sinful soul hidden within a blooming carnation.

There are many ways to catch a spark through spite,
I refuse to abandon my kind, gentle morale,
to become a puppet amongst those who refuse to contrite.

When respecting the masterpieces - no matter how small,
fuel awarded amusements I begin to rope in,
leave me crawling but never let me fall.

Cheering, motivation, intelligence and motion,
satisfactions fills me when my eyes are open.
Q Apr 2018
i can
put words into

and lines into
stanzas delicately
arranged on the
verses of my

but what
and stanzas
must i
string together
to make you

for some reason i can't put up poems ??? i have so much stored already :^(
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