Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Slime-God Sep 2020
Colours of the fringe
Amethyst runs through the sky
Burning down the night
Slime-God Sep 2020
Like a tiny moth
I am drawn to these pages
To perish in flame
Thomas W Case Sep 2020
When I was an
ideal and dreamy teenager walking amidst the
trees in the backyard,
there, curled up beneath a pine, I discovered a small creature and stared at it.
I gently picked it up and held it to
my chest.
It opened its eyes.
I felt The power within .
It went back to sleep,
and I set it down.

The next morning
when I walked
out the back door,
headed for school,
the little creature
was sitting there,
wide awake,
looking up at me.
It had the most
unreal looking eyes.
They seemed to change color.
Apart from English and art class, I hated school.
I didn't quite fit in .
I had good friends,
but I always felt lonely.
Bouts of melancholia struck me at the strangest times,
soon after, I found
it to be the
terminal affliction of being a poet.

I stayed home from school that day and played with the
creature.
It seemed to
hear me, almost understand me.
I liked the feeling.
it became my
best friend.

I fed it every day
and it grew and became unruly and hard to control at times, but overall, it caused me much more joy than pain, way back then.
I missed it when it
was gone,
and threw my arms around it when it
came home.
I named it buffer
because it was an equalizer for me,
and the world, and pain,
It went inbetween the sharpness and vividness, in which I didn't know how to cope.

It got big
and became
a beast.
I had a love / hate relationship with
the thing.
I sacrificed a lot
for it at the
altar of idolatry.
It wouldn't let anyone get close to me,
My wife, my kids,
I chased them
all away.
I was alone with
the beast.

After years of
pain and degradation,
I put the beast down.
I shot it in
the back of the
head, like a rabid dog.

Life raged on.
Pain and joy came with equal measure,
but I no longer
needed a buffer to
keep living, laughing, and learning.
I finally figured
out how to
truly love.
As many of you know, I've struggled with addiction for years. This is a poem about the struggle and the power of addiction. Check out my poem ****** on bandlab
Thomas W. Case. https://www.bandlab.com/thomaswcase  .   It's a spoken word version of the poem over a musical backdrop. ****** Master track on band lab
Mark Toney Aug 2020
¯\_(?)_
8/13/2020 - Poetry form: Shape - © 2020 by Mark Toney. All rights reserved.
Olivia Catherine Nov 2020
There is a house with only one window,
And seventeen locks on the door.
There is a porch with an ivory doorbell,
That doesn’t get rung anymore.

There is a room with cracks in the ceiling,
And cobwebs that carpet the floor,
There is a box made of tarnished old silver,
With a rusted old key and a door.

An old music box that is all out of music,
And dusty with years of denial,
Inside the box is a little glass dancer,
Whose legs haven’t danced in a while.

There is a house with only one window,
And seventeen locks on the door.
There is a coatrack of cedar and pine,
That doesn’t hold coats anymore.

There is a clock that’s forgotten the time,
Whose bells have forgotten to ring,
There is a cage on a spindly old table,
With a bird who forgot how to sing.

An old fireplace that no longer holds fire,
A collector of cobwebs and lint,
Alone with a matchbox that’s all out of matches,
And a steel left without any flint

There is a house with only one window,
And seventeen locks on the door.
Haunted by ghosts of the dreams that once were,
But just don’t make sense anymore.

There is a room where broken things hide,
With no window to let in the light,
Pretending that they’re safe behind seventeen locks,
From things that go bump in the night.

A room where the silence is thick on the air,
But the quiet, no comfort imparts,
To the girl in the corner made of paper and glass,
With seventeen holes in her heart.
This has been sitting in my drafts for a bit. woops.
MisfitOfSociety Aug 2020
Where does it end?
Where does it begin?
Is there a start at all?
Or has it just always been?

The cycle starts again.

Feels like I’ve been in this place before,
On the ground crawling on all fours.
Another lap around this body,
Swallowing the serpents tail.
It hisses just behind me,
Covering every track I make,
When my eyes turn to see the trail,
It’ll be consumed by the snake.

My own ouroboros.

Muscles expand and contract,
Pulling me further in.
I feel myself dissolving,
The future is the past again.

**** the lights,
Take my eyes,
I don’t want to see,
The repeat of me.

My own ouroboros.
A Poet Jul 2020
Dwindling, spiraling, running out
Life is naught but a mayfly

No time but now
Yesterday, the only guarantee
But for a mayfly, there is no yesterday
And tomorrow is already out of the question
Yesterday and tomorrow
Mean nothing to the mayfly
And so we live today

Hummmmm
Goes the heart of the mayfly
Beating tirelessly, loving endlessly
Each indiscernible thump
Exuding the rich melody of life
Until it stops
And we return to dust

But oh! How passionately our hearts did beat!
Intoxicated by the pure joy of being
How could we be wrenched away
From the moments we shared
The moments we called trivial and routine that
We now romanticize

The mayfly lives for five minutes
The mayfly lives for the moment
The man lives for 79 years
The man lives for tomorrow
Until there are no more tomorrows

Until the cumulation of every unfulfilled dreams and desire
Come crashing down like a great wave and
We return to the dust

The mayfly has no tomorrow
The man needs not tomorrow

Dwindling, spiraling, running out
Life is naught but a mayfly
Next page