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Shaun Apr 9
Today, I got to open the door
They **** everywhere
They **** in the elevator, in the
long hallway, in the truth vending machine:
My brave heart sought a glance from,
Countless(not always) times averted had I,
Now I sought(in snatches)- vain and askance
I stood, exacted by the same meekness.
I could've atleast cried aloud within,
My throbbing brain alone.


Resolve and break off, neatly tucked away.
'Egomaniac!'
They **** in my bathroom. They are in a storm. But eyes unclouded, I could see!
Them *******, Their hands all over...
Exhaust pipes mirroring worlds, for all they care. They are clad in white, faces and all.
When I lie, telling the truth again:
Following it. Asking favours when dumb.
Part of them now stick out of me, Devolving white into the storm. They're seen with my
eyes, trained in my mind, Open my door.
Will May 2019
Every day begins the same, every week longs for the next to begin.
The tree outside my windows scrapes and tears, begging to come in from the cold world outside.
Neighborhood birds sing a song whose lyrics are a mystery to everyone except me.
My dog barks at the neighbor as he mows his lawn on a rainy Monday night.
Cats in the alley hiss and fight over some trivial thing.
The apartment above me seems to have a party going on, which makes no sense since it is in the middle of the week.
Opening my friend's cooler reveals the beers inside, all light brews, sadly.
Staring up into the stars above causes me to wonder if we truly are alone.
If the universe is infinite, filled with millions of stars, always expanding, never-ending, always shining, always destroying, always finding a way; then my does my heart feel empty today?
My mailbox is empty yet again, even Evelyn across the street got a letter from her son.
I light another cigarette, causing my dark jail cell to light up in a blaze.
"Get him out of there!" they laugh and scream.
But inside I burn, along with my dreams.
Annie Feb 2019
All of my thoughts are melting
Inside my mind into a lake of dreams
In which I only see reflections
Of thou and all of thy belief

I cannot touch thy picture clear
Or grasp beneath the surface
Unless I blight or chase away
All what thou hold and bear

I can't do anything but listen
For any silent sound
Watch every detail of expression
And stay on trusted, solid ground

Unless when every light but thy
Vanishes before my eye
I see you everywhere but here
And search for thy embrace
That I can only find inside
The mere of thoughts inside my mind
I take a dive, I fall asleep
And search thou in my dreams
Inside a long forgotten place
Of inner peace and faith

I take thy hand
I hear thy voice
Until I understand
About a young man, understanding his faith and connection to his god in a dream. (Fictional)
NeroameeAlucard Nov 2016
I wish i could chase them
The radical dreamers,
And their wild untameable spirits
Following whims and whimsy
Around Like dandelion seeds in the wind
But then I'm in this place for a reason
I'm stable, but unfulfilled
I have a foundation but like steely Dan can't buy a thrill
So maybe i don't need to chase those following the dreams of childhood and even adulthood
Maybe where i am right now, though not exciting necessarily is a sign i should be content, so i have it good...
Rae Anne Nov 2016
Sometimes I wake up
During disturbing dreams
Bathed in my own sweat
Realty is not what it seems
It's a unfathomable
Paradox
And the key
To my subconscious Pandora's box
Is lost in my waking reality
From which cannot open.
Thou ill-formed offspring of my feeble brain,
Who after birth didst by my side remain,
Till snatched from thence by friends, less wise than true,
Who thee abroad, exposed to public view,
Made thee in rags, halting to th’ press to trudge,
Where errors were not lessened (all may judge).
At thy return my blushing was not small,
My rambling brat (in print) should mother call,
I cast thee by as one unfit for light,
The visage was so irksome in my sight;
Yet being mine own, at length affection would
Thy blemishes amend, if so I could.
I washed thy face, but more defects I saw,
And rubbing off a spot still made a flaw.
I stretched thy joints to make thee even feet,
Yet still thou run’st more hobbling than is meet;
In better dress to trim thee was my mind,
But nought save homespun cloth i’ th’ house I find.
In this array ‘mongst vulgars may’st thou roam.
In critic’s hands beware thou dost not come,
And take thy way where yet thou art not known;
If for thy father asked, say thou hadst none;
And for thy mother, she alas is poor,
Which caused her thus to send thee out of door.

ደራሲዋ ለመጽሐፋ

ስትፀነስ ጀምሮ የቅርፅ ህፀፅ
የሚስተዋልብህ አንተ የአይምሮዪ ክፋይ፣
"ሀ" ብለህ ይህን ዓለም ስታይ፣
ታማኝነት በጎደላቸው ጓደኞቼ
እስክትውል አደባባይ ፣
ያልሻትከው እንዳንለያይ፣
ቡትቶ ደርበህ ፣
የህትመት ብርሀን አየህ
ስህተት ተብጠርጥሮ፣  
ለጀማ ሂስ የሚጋለጥበት አድሮ!

አንተ መልቲ (በህትመት)
ተመልሰህ መጥተህ
እናቴ  ስትለኝ
ቀላል ሀፍረት አላገኘኝ!
አይን ስለምትጎረብጥ  በእይታ ማእዘን፣
ገሸሽ  ማረግ  መርጬ ነበር አንተን፣
ግና የእኔ ስለሆንክ ስሱነት፣
ከቻልኩ እንዳርቅህ ገፋፋኝ፣ በሂደት፣  
ፊትህን ሳጥበው ወጡ  ህፀጾች ጎልተው ፣
ዝም ብያ  ሳፀዳ  ብቅ አለ ሌላ ህፀጽ እንግዳ
መገጣጠሚያህን ጎትቼ
እግር ልሰራልህ ስጥር፣
አካሄድህ ፋይዳ ቢስ የሚያሽቀነጥር!

እኔማ  በልክህ  ጨርቅ ቆርጬ
ልቀይርልህ ነበር ያን ቡትቶ፣
ግና ቤት የተፈተለ ሸማ
ላገኝ አልቻልኩም ከቶ፣
እናም ለብሰህ ይህን ድሪቶ፣
ከወፍ ዘራሾች ጋር ዙር ተደብልቀህ፣
ሃያሲዎች እንዳያገኙህ ሸሽተህ !

ስለአባትህ ከተጠየክ
ንገራቸው እንደሌለህ
ካስጨነቁህ ስለእናትህ ማንነት
"ልጅዋን የሽኘች በምስኪንነት !”
ተናገር   በድፍረት

አኒ ብራንድስተር


ትርጉም ዓለም ሃይሉ
ደራሲዎች አንዳንዴ ህቡ በሆነው የሰው ልጅ አይምሮ የሚንቀሳቀስን እንደነውር የሚታይ ሃሳብን በፈጠራ ስራ ይገልጻሉ። ስራው ቢታይብን ብለው ይፈራሉ ! /

Anne Bradstreet

Anne Bradstreet wrote in the Elizabethan literary tradition and became one of the first poets to write English verse in the American colonies
Writers and poets sometimes pen down what lurks in their subconscious and become afraid the vulnerability of print.I think most of us share this.I experienced this fact after I wrote my poem No ****** no ***!
why do some poems enjoy a mammoth hit but no comment?I think even if readers appreciate some poems they become afraid to associate themselves with the theme,which may be considered as a taboo .I also wonder why some poems are treated with a cold shoulder in some blogs and enjoy appreciation in others.Is it because a difference of taste?
Anyway the aforementioned poem has given me a good lesson; what about you?If you are interested on this issue goggle and read about psychoanalytical criticism and reader response criticism.Thank you for your patience
Denel Kessler Nov 2015
You must begin early
while it is cool and your head clear
discernment, a sharpened tine
probing the rocky darkness
for all things latent and destructive.

Be aware that the velvet sage
of the leaves belies their power
to take over every space, remember
roots burrow deep, anchoring in
fissures we don’t even know exist.

You must delve as close
to the origin as possible
or the **** you think eradicated
will bide its time, germinating
in the still secret ground

waiting for light
to penetrate the moist earth
waking the sprout
who voraciously pushes up and out
a curled blemish

in your otherwise carefully tended garden.

— The End —