Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
KateKarl Feb 1
I like the words they use to tell what a poem is
better than any poetry I've read.
Like: fragments, ghost, allusion.

I like the way my ribs move
when someone talks about storytellers;
It's a pride I taste more than during a story told.

A review says 'intricate' and 'masterful'
So I put the thing on a pedestal of stolen adjectives.
My crown jewel is 'aesthetic' and I own it, lying.

What is a creator without his critic?
Condemnation and commendation
mean more to me than original construction.

But then--poets are just the translation of Creation.
And never has a word of soaring perfection
surpassed the garden, fallen.
Grace Jan 4
Having a crush is like being in the Summer Rain
It's hot outside and you feel no pain
And the ice cream in your hand taste so good
And all the innocent children are riding their bikes down your hood
Laughter fills your lane
And you feel so tamed
The sun shines on you
The sun shines on him
You both smile
With the silent agreement that you feel some chemisty
(And that you want to make history together)  
No clouds
But you feel a sensation of rain
And a single drop appears
That smile fades (maybe he didn't feel the same)
But it still hot outside
Back turned, he runs for shelter
And you stand there in the middle of the pavement unable to move
And the rain pours down on you  
And streams of ice cream sinks through your fingers
But its still hot outside
And your heart which was once filled with so much joy
Is left wet even though its hot outside

- You end up watching something becoming nothing
V Dec 2018
Grandmother had told me tales of the past,
Fairytales that we’ve all heard of,
The maidens in the scullery maid attire,
transforming to the princesses with the
embroidered and jeweled gowns; rivulets of silks and satins,
blue as the sea, greener than the highlands, more purple
then the dusky skylines, a true stamp
of royalty, poise, eloquence, and beauty.
And ensembles topped off with gold
encrusted and amethyst crowns.
Sure, the fairytales were what I lingered
onto during the years of my inexplicitly
innocent childhood, that I wished I still had.

I missed it, the tales, the anecdotes
that shaped my perception on love, hope, and faith,
far off from what I viewed in the looking mirror today.

I missed my grandmother’s hands, brittle and worn,
but kind and warm; I still thought about them
as I cleaned out the attic in which I’d forgotten existed.

And I grew up, my memories of it faded,
now covered in cobwebs and bristling wind
that sent a chill up my spine, but I found
much more than what my memory had allowed me to collect.

Amulets from what I assumed to be my grandmother’s youth
were stowed and tucked away in the alcove of a velvet shelf,
hidden by the splintered of decaying wood.

Next to the swell of the dresser, the door of the
furnishing remained ajar, revealing manila
colored increments of letters, some harbored
by the envelopes, some pierced out in the open.
The edges had crippled away,
flecks falling to the sandalwood bottom.

They were timeless, old, maybe not important,
to the wandering eyes of a stranger.
But to me - they held a mystery
that was waiting to be unraveled.

A story of my grandmother’s life she never shared with me,
just as private as she was open, perhaps I’d find in those envelopes
the same mindset I also had when I was young.
Perhaps she believed and dreamt of fairytales I had once done,
paraded around in the jewels and bangles hidden way,
basked in the ambiance of a sweet love
that was doomed to end in the decay of both parties.

Little figurines of silver and gold were placed under one
of the drawers parked away in the furnishing,
toys form her childhood, weighted by standard and price.

Her words I had adored as a child,
ate them up like sickly syrup and supported
them as if they were undiscovered treasure, but
now I finally got to “see” my grandmother’s
treasures deposited in her attic, the very place she
had hidden the most interesting stories that she
left for me to discover after she left.
Jordan Hudson Dec 2018
Where do I go?
I know they are slow
But I know the way
In the lanes on the road
The road is wide
And I can drive
To get to and from
The other side
They will chase me
They are now running
Away from here now
Bridges, tunnels, in town
You can run but can't hide
They will find
You while you hide
Keep going
Keep going
The clouds in the sky
Will die tonight
And rain will fall
Won't stop at all
Then it might
Storm a cloud
Like a wall
Tornado style, cadejo smile
Deadly sky, we will all die
Live it right, stay alive
Listen to this beat and rhyme
A story to tell about a dog's eyes
Gleaming in the snowy Alaskan night
Cadejo and his eyes
Pointless poem but it is still decent
Fọlá Nov 2018
An order to the chaos.
A sense to the madness.
A breath to the lifeless.
A light in the darkness.

A silence to the loudness.
A quake to the calmness.
A ripple in the stillness.
A joy to the hopeless.

Trash to the priceless.
Cruelty to the kindness.
An Equal to the peerless.
Gift to the wickedness.

A blot to the brightness.
A sweet to the bitterness.
A delicacy to the tasteless.
A figure to the countless.

A difference to the indifference.
A Rarity. A Uniqueness.
An Antithesis, A Weirdness.
An Oddness.
Please, read and enjoy. Thank You.
Arianna Nov 2018
Slow motion daydream
Silk-winged dancer fluttering,
Fan swoops through the air.

Chimes keeping time, rhyme
With the shamisen: stringed trance,
Half-turn and a glance...

As haikus do not typically rhyme, I have taken some liberties with the format. Thus, while the syllabic count is maintained, the stanzas here are not necessarily "true haikus" in the traditional sense.
******* are itches like skin conditions
forget the admissions and feelings and visions
find yourself in a position where decisions
are void, because there's no choice,
no recognition, my voice is an imposition

With no occupation, or real reason to function
I'll spend my money on medication 'til
I'm believing what I'm seeing
Something is weighing on my mind heavy,
roll up another blunt-skin,
***** open another bevy,
Something is playing with my mind lately,
just write a couple bars
Yeah, that'll tell them nothing maybe

My hopes were up, but they have come down
It's too often we carve a smile out of a frown
just to fit in
           when we were born to stand out
So as a rule tell others how you feel,
not let em figure out
Honesty's my policy, unless I think they're on to me
and now I've lied again
I better turn my life around
In a short life, I've been much, I've been proud
I've been up, I've been down,
I've been chewed and spat out
Left out in the sun, left out to dry up on the ground

But all the aspirations that I'll never meet,
can be recycled to ambition if I get back on my feet,
But all the things I was promised, that's deceit
the act or practice of deceiving,
concealment or distortion of the truth,
for the purpose of misleading, so they got me bleedin'
and everything I want, I'm not receiving
and everything I need, I know they're keeping
Below is the link to my 2nd book, can't believe I just said that but I'll appreciate if all of you would read it. It's just some of my most personal writings. Even if you don't read it,  thanks even for considering it
Blissful Nobody Nov 2018
I  don’t mean to compare,
Past and the present,
It’s just a game I play,
What-ifs of my existence,
I have a vivid imagination.

I am sans the thoughts,
That makes it appropriate,
The wordplay, I indulge in,
I am sans the guilt,
Of the aftermath it brings.

Many are held captive ,
More are repulsed,
The gears in action,
Churning, burning ,moving,
I keep going on.

I don’t mean hurt,
I see, you are enraged now,
It’s where I stop the play,
It’s not a test or measure,
These are just stories,
So hear me now .
Next page