Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Kenneth Gray Jan 2021
The clouds exude tears as a sign of God's sorrow.
For the fate of mankind in the hands of the morrow.
For mankind's heart has grow callused;
With his eyes set on greed.
Forsaking God's goodness
For all his lustful needs.

All the while the earth moans and it groans.
As mankind's heart is compared with the hardness of stone.
Consumed and devoured by the lusts of the flesh.
An expulsion of THE LORD;
A refusal to mesh.

Disease and strife have set in -
A move oh so bold.
As mankind grows more distant,
Isolated and cold.
And the skies continue to weep as man struggles to fight.
Darkness envelops the lands -
Darkness blots out the light.

Will the battle be fought?
Will mankind ever win?
Will the skies clear up
As man conquers his sin?

May he lay down his sin -
Then turn face and run.
Then may THE LORD show him mercy
And unveil THE SUN!

May the harsh weather of sin
Finally be cleared.
So that mankind's unclear future
Have no need to be feared.
I guess you can find inspiration from the least expected places. It was snowing and I got to thinking about clouds and rain. Then a light bulb popped up in my head like they do in cartoons. That was my inspiration for the first couple lines. Just wrote in the rest as I sat there and though about things.
Nicholas M Dao Dec 2019
Place to place, person to person
Each and every moment.
A second, a minute
An hour, always more.
The continuous stream of instances,
From start to end, however droll,
However wondrous, NEVER THE SAME.
A life is but an amalgam of the countless 'present'
An ever-reaching macro experience.
Moments will come that shake one's very core,
A 'hurt' so great, it may break you down.
Other times will heal the wounds,
Accentuate every breath,
Burst forth unto many, a joyous light,
A giddy warmth, seeping into the surrounding
Fractal filaments of space;
A kaleidoscopic haze, spontaneously shifted,
Made anew, in crystal clear focus.
For all the highs and lows, living holds meaning.
Each breath, each glance
Every step or touch
There is worth to be found.
Another moment felt, another memory kept.
Born we are without option,
Better now to 'choose' to find purpose
EmB Sep 2018
I won’t get your name tattooed on me,
just in case
Claire Hanratty Aug 2018
I was travelling along a busy road-
Eyes opened and closed.
I had music in my ears so loud that
I could hear the sound of
Ringing with every note.
Way out of the window,
I raced the ****** train to Scotland
Up a dual carriageway and felt rapid
Time dispel all notions of
Going nowhere in life.

Without warning my world was jolted and
Came to a stand still.
We were in motion but
I was trapped and uncomfortable as
I remembered that yesterday,
In your thoughtful, rash way,
You texted me from a tent in Leeds
Telling me that
It was over.

Grass looked so much greener on the other side
Of the glass, yet I was
Unable to let go of the past.
I thought to myself  
'This is not how I planned my life would turn out'
At least, not today.
It hit me that I can
Never plan to be happy because
On the days I plan to be happy I will
Think of this moment and
Be sad.

Earth seems out of tune as
I lose the race through thoughts of you and
Begin to
Hate my favourite songs;
I love you.

I should have known better.
I can't decide whether to
Live my life and jump onto the train ahead or to
Jump in front of it.
I'm sorry I wasn't enough and
I could never be
No matter how hard
I tried.

I'm in a traffic jam now.
I watch the sun become eclipsed by the clouds and
I wish you were
Romance isn't dead but I sure am
Lina Banzaca Jul 2017
Is there something wrong with you?
Are you okay?
What happened to you, Lina?
You seem depressed.
Where is your strength and determination?
Why do you sleep so much?
Get up and do some work.
I work several hours a day.
You don't see me complaining.
I feel perfectly fine. Perfect.
Maybe you should try to be too.
Be perfect, Lina.
Be perfect, just like me.
Stop wearing that dark eye makeup, and listening to that horrid music.
You only get one shot at life.
You need to make the most of it.
Stop lying around and wasting your days away.
You aren't gonna get anywhere.
Stop devoting yourself to those stories, music, and those god ****** angst poems.
Stop spending your time writing that *******, in a world where people that get degrees, succeed.
And stop picking at your lips and chewing your nails.
It's disgusting.
I don't care if you think it helps or calms you down.
It looks disgusting.
You're ruining your lips like you're ruining your life.
My lips are perfect.
Smooth and glossy, like the hair that sits upon my perfect head.
Why are you so far down?
You need to be up here.
Maybe listening is some kind of crime to you.
Otherwise, you would have listened to the billionth time I told you to stop picking at your lips!
Stop picking your lips like some kind of garbage.
You cannot be garbage.
You have to be perfect.
Be perfect. Just like me.
Stop telling me how you feel.
Because you need to be perfect.
Pay attention.
Stop daydreaming and staring up at the sky.
Like the clouds are supposed to give you all of your life's answers.
Because it won't.
Because your life is a mess, just like your lips.
Cracked and broken.
****** and red.
Stop writing Lina.
Stop wasting your life away.
No, I don't hate you.
No, I'm not mad at you.
I'm just trying to help you.
Trying to set you up for a bright future.
Trying to let you be successful.
You have to let me love you so you can be perfect.
Just like me.
Brittany Downer May 2017
Young: dreaming
of impossible possibilities
Unrestrained, untethered from reality
Unaware of the ticking, of the passing
of the seconds, of the hours,
of the years to the end
of eternity.

Climbing and
to the hope that one can dream forever
and as the feet are swinging
the child, fearless of pain, fearless of the fall, is ever
naive, and never expecting
that one day the dream may end.

For what was once a child is a child no longer

Mature: daydreaming
of the past, yet troubled of the future
Unfeatherd, grounded in reality
All too aware of the arching clock hands
and the hours that turn into seconds
and the days that pass into years
begin to fade into

Falling and
to realize that the feet now rest upon the ground
and the child that was once fearless, is fearing
the depths of a future not yet found
forever doubtful yet hoping
To continue to dream at day’s end.

What was gained was equally lost
And with this knowledge in hand
The child finally stands
Holding on to the dreams of tomorrow
Grasping the fantasies of yesterday

Indeed, what once was can never be again
To march forward never to return
What awaits are only questions, what remains are only “ifs”
But what stands tall is neither a realist nor a dreamer

What stands is a child no longer
Keda Kanye Apr 2017
I have something to say
It's a beautiful day?
I have something that I want
To tell you
I can't
Look at the shape of that tree
And the way it moves with the wind…

What I wanted to say was…
Hey I never noticed
That building before
Hey are you cold?
I'm cold
Should we go somewhere else?

I have to say this just listen
I can't see you anymore
STLR Oct 2016
The Future to me is Walking Toasters and Cars that glide and go faster than roller coaster

No more big screens nothing but virtual TVs & invisible gun holsters Art Displays still magnificence in portable posters.

Images and pictures are no longer created by hand
they are simply imagined then transferred to an electrical canvas through the movement of sand.

Homes are bought with credits in the digital lands all types of music played together with the mystical hands Medley's majestically moving the fans  

No more war or hate just peace by command it’s amazing to see the future in conceptual hands, emotional bangs and physical hangs dominated by the extraterrestrial man.

The future is no place for a regular man a scholar must know mathematics and formulas to simply understand love as a feeling and how it stands.

Vagabond walkers on the side of the technological wastelands
everything that's trash is thrown in biological waste cans then mutated among each other to create bands.
Jason Harris Sep 2016
Everyone always talks about it, marches blindly toward it
with its hopeful and bright days but what does the future,
the expected child of history, mean? Is it hidden in the next
sentence? In the shadow of tomorrow? A year, two, three

from now? And yeah, everyone always thinks about it,
makes plans and to-do lists for it, waits for the ease to come,
for the hardship to pass, for the bullets, like hummingbirds,
to stop flying but when I get there, will I be safe? Will the sun

rise for me? Will the crickets sing and stop as I pass them
on the street? When I get there, will my wife be safe?
Will the sun rise for her? Will the crickets sing and stop
as she passes them on the street? When I get there, will our

children be safe? With their fair skin and brown eyes? Or
will the bullets, like hummingbirds, continue to fly? I can
picture it now: driving home on the stretch of interstate
between work and home on a Friday evening, content with

the will of the week, eager to share what joys and concerns
revealed themselves within the seconds of my day, the lake a
floor of blue covered in diamonds bobbing in my peripheral,
when over the radio a journalist reports another unarmed

Black body was murdered by those trained to serve
and protect the future.
Next page