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Kata Jul 15
Curse the poets blood.
No matter how much I cut myself, I cannot bleed it away.
Curse the poets skin.
I cannot tear it off, it holds everything in.
Curse the poets feet.
The more I try to run away, the more they dig in, rooted to the words that ground my life.
Curse the poets tears.
They provide no comfort. They blur my vision, wet my pages and smudge my ink.
Curse the poets mind.
At times I dream of throwing it all away. But I cannot differentiate between reality and figments of creativity.
uv Mar 25
I am not social
I am scarse
I dont need to show up
If my heart does not ask

I am not available
I am not a farce
I dont need attention
Atleast not by the vast

I say i dont care
I say it, again.
Again and again
Till it feels like a mask

No need to follow
No need to like
I can grow, i can flow
I can be a social dislike

My talent is mine
It's whispers are mine
For me, for me
For me is the rhym.

You can leave me
You can, you can
Leave me you can
But i still love the best i can

I love the best i can.
Just pause, pause this race, you are more important than what others might think.
Odd Odyssey Poet Jul 2022
Circles—round a trip,
going all around the plains of plain thinking,
A blank mind; empty paper, ****** canvas,
As of the first I'll write: a masterpiece to create.

A shaking pen, a hold of my thoughts and emotions.
Dreams so unreal; feels so prohibited to a natural
thought. So I write them out in words.

Read through it, subtract, dissect,
read through it again; alter, adjust,
As many times, till I'm content with the piece.
But I'm never content; until the next piece,
the next piece, and next pieces after that.

Battling thoughts on whether to share or
archive for a later story. Post for likes, comments,
to please an ego—post for dispraise, inklings,
to better self, and writing capabilities.

For all-inclusive
Steve Page Jun 2022
In her previous life, my mother
must have been an architect.
She brought to each family occasion
her vision, her love of precision, her stability
- ensuring the family structure
was sustainable and capable
of longer-term development
- and we still bear her signature style.

In her previous life, I’m sure
my mother was a portrait painter
- able to take a fresh canvas,
such as mine and my sisters’,
and add layer upon layer
of colour, of texture, to portray
what she saw we would become
– each proudly bearing her inscription.

In her previous life, I expect
my mother was a pioneer
– not of paths yet travelled,
but of more frequented avenues,
boldly exploring the details and intersections
between friends and neighbours
helping us rediscover what we had in common
- each fresh bond bearing her seal.

In this life, my mother
was an endurance athlete, a gifted healer, a 5-star chef,
a respected teacher, a talented mediator, a wise counsellor,
an innovative financier, a diligent archivist, and our chief story-teller.

In this life, she was my mother.
Arvon retreat June 2022 - an exercise to narrate about family from a fresh perspective.  I recommend Cynthia Miller and her poem, Dropka.  Thanks to tutor Jonathan Edwards for helping me rework this.
Thomas Steyer Jul 2021
"I know where you live", he said,
"so it's best that you'll behave.
Don't get me angry or else,
I'll make you dig your own grave."

"Why are you like that", I said.
"I don't know what wrong I've done."
"You know what it's about", he yelled,
"you've been unfair to my son."

"But Brian is not the talent as you think,
he's insubordinate and mostly rude,
he will probably fail the term,
if he continues in this attitude."

"But isn't it your responsibility
to turn him into a decent being?"
"Education begins at home, you know,
although your kin might be disagreeing."
Juno Jul 2021
Sometimes I find myself wishing for more;
That I could make something better than before.
Everything I’ve done is a one-time exception;
I face myself with thorns rather than acception.

Surely my successes were merely chance!
Ideas don’t come to me like they did in the past.
People say they see talent in me, I see nothing—
Then again, would I even know I was good at something?
Brumous Jun 2021
I want to let go of something I hold endeared,
it pains me so,
but it'll hurt me more
if I don't...
let go
I want to stop drawing for a long while...
Zoe Mae May 2021
What the eff is up with this site?
Why is it most people on the front page can't write?
Folks just babble on and on...
Or spit out a two line poem
Which is fine if it's a two punch knockout
Instead of sounding like a grammar school dropout
And why do certain things get so many views?
I can't seem to get more than two
Post crap if you want, if that's what people write
But they should give everybody a chance on this site
So I don't write about flowers or blather on about paint
So I don't pretend to be something I ain't
We should all have a voice here, The good and the bad
The silly, the happy, the lost and the sad
So come on hellopetry, give gutter poets a try
If you'd rise just a bit, we could meet eye to eye.
So sick of seeing the homepage full of crap poetry.
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