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At the writer's congress at the round table
Discussed the beautiful life over the hill.
At the parent's school meeting
Germany was discussed specifically.

In the office of the director
The Caymans and Burma were discussed.
At bus stops
Discussed port wine and pepper *****.
Nathalie Aug 2018
If you sit quietly and ponder on the story of your life, how is it unfolding?

Does it read more like an adventure or a mystery novel? Would you be curious or even interested to buy a book that recounted the tales of your life up to this point? Would you be excited to see what unfolds next or want to put it down after the first Chapter. What high points in your life would you enjoy reading about? Are there lessons that would stand out and capture your attention more than others? What themes keep on recurring and how closely do they intersect with opportunities that have been presented to you?

Life is like a puzzle, every piece eventually fits in perfectly to complete the bigger picture.

Starlight Jul 2018
I'm seeing nooses in the shadows on my walls,
Shadow puppets dancing a mournful song,
Flashing visions of a knife over my veins,
Of my eyes closed as I accept the unacceptable.

Terror seeps into my skin as I realise my thoughts,
Pools down in my gut like acid,
Burning rings of fire through my stomach,
And I know I will think it again.

An itch on my neck keeps me awake at night,
Hissing in my ear of the pressure and release,
Tugging at my skin of how flimsy it is,
Of how temporary the pain would be.

A dark figure lies next to me,
Hot hissing breaths against my closed lids,
Whispering sweet nothings of taunted half held hearted promises,
Cooing as if I were a babe easily swayed into their arms.

So easy
It wont even hurt
An ending
An answer
No more pressure
You could be free
So easy

And I lie there,
Stiff as I pretend to sleep,
And the monster in my bed curls arms around me,
A lying mimicry of comfort.

My eyes clamp shut,
Nose flared in fear and exhaustion,
Arms wrapped around my torso to protect me from the enemy inside,
Blankets pooled in chains.

I will get through the night,
Ignore the whispers,
Sleep, I pray,
And repeat the ritual tomorrow.
Don't read if it will hurt you! Safety first.
Bryce Jun 2018
In the fragments of my dream-state, I saw a past I didn't wish to uncover.

My old home-street.
It was the summer of a childhood memory, and the air was temperate-- like lukewarm water, suspended and perfect, almost vacuous-- without breeze or gust, as if strung up in some test-tube of a world.

The suburban houses lined the path, it felt the dawning age of autumn-- that though the trees were green, I could feel them ready to release themselves. to fall and die-- but not yet.

In the front lawns of these houses, exotic vehicles-- Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis-- an Italian road show strange and deeply uncouth.

With bright fantastic colors of cherry red and enamel white and neon green and twilight blue and midday yellow and magenta-- they portrayed as monuments, movable statues, and like a hometown get-together the families of the houses stood next to them, proud...waiting. For something.

I walked past, the spectral calls of my childhood friends and neighbors following and whispering inaudibly behind me-- a muffled shadow of voice that I yearned to understand, but could not. They laughed and spoke of illusory things, and within their voices dictated golden, pleasant memory, and a creeping sense of melancholy.

I could see my house at the end of the street. As we walked, it was as if a million summers came and went-- fathers pruned their oak trees, waxed their automobiles, pantomimed cooking and eating and drinking and mirth-- while the sunless sky glowed soft and infantile, a cloudless blanket.

Deep in my consciousness, I felt dread to return home. There was something off-- and as the dream world strips you of your familiarity, of your defenses and rationale, the raw beating flesh of fear spasms.

We reached the house, the procession of childhood friends all but dissipated. The old oak tree in the front lawn had been removed, the soft scent of lavender replaced with the vibrant colors of red rose and lanky yellow tulips that stood in piqued attention, long leaves of perfect green-- a new garden for a new soul.

An unfamiliar girl/woman-- perhaps the new owner of my lost home-- opened the garage, guided me inside.

Inside there was a McClaren, grey and yellow and unbelievably beautiful-- but dark and covered in dust. The garage was always dusty. How interesting that she would leave her prize hidden from the festivities...

She opened the door, in I walked.

In dreams often what we understand of geography and place shifts radically-- so that we may encounter a more unfamiliar world, to recognize it as distinct from waking memory. Perhaps so that we do not get lost-- to give us a way out, a logical incongruity to feed ourselves-- to convince ourselves that this world is imaginary, that it is irrational and inexplicable.

Yet when I entered my home, it was as if I had never left. The television cabinet, the floral couches, the wrought-iron fence through the kitchen door-- all of a sudden I was home again. For all the times I wondered, imagined the new family that took my childhood home--it was okay. It was safe. it was respected.

In the living room, the new family was unpacking posters. Old cartoons and comic characters next to the Christmas fireplace. Upstairs I heard muffled conversation-- bouncing off the vaulted front atrium to my ears, they were in the rumpus room-- the room I had so often called my own-- where I lost myself in books and games and puzzles and dreams. I wanted desperately to see it, yet I felt a slight unease-- I did not wish to push further than I would be let.

The woman guided me to the family room table, where we would so often have our family dinners-- and I would hide myself underneath the legs of unknown relatives, playing with the dog or tracing my finger along the exposed, unfinished wood of the underbelly-- and these memories flooded my dream-- a daydream within a dream-- calling with it a deluge of melancholic nostalgia-- a sort of hypnogogic recollection.

I could feel the stinging ache of these memories. I could hear myself weeping against the chair leg, looking out the french doors into the garden full of roses and grass and lilies and tulips-- familiar yet alien, alive and dead, lost and found. The ache was painful, yet when I suddenly awoke I found myself overcome with a sort of exhausted pleasure-- the kind of feeling one gets after crying for a long time, crying into the end of one's breath-- at the end of a long period of pain, or a resolutive tantrum.
I'm still thinking about this dream, and the one of the night before. Long has it been since I have had such vivid hallucinations, as with indiscriminate drink and smoke managed to mostly eliminate them from my life. It is both disturbing and satisfying to see them once again-- to perhaps withdraw meaning from them once more.
Fowsia May 2018
Follow the trend
Sell your soul
Climb to the top
Tell me what its like
In the end
Maybe if you are finally happy
I can take the knife out of my back
Don Moore Feb 2018
When no one is looking, words burst from my head
Inside my skull are colours, scents and sounds
And my life is played out to a relentless sonorous soundtrack

Sometimes the music collapses with waves of resonance
And in others it is plucked like strings, individual and soft
It’s perceived by my inner ear, it’s not for others to hear

When I am out of sight, I’m truly at my very best
For life is like a swirling whirl of different shades
Different shapes and forms, some almost difficult to perceive

I try to put these on paper, shape the thoughts that I have
But the best, these arrive in the depth of the gloom
And in the early morning, they are once again forgotten

These words that slip through the fingers of my recollection
Flowing with the brightest of sparks, glowing embers of ideas
Impressions lost in the falling mornings sunlight

In front of my keyboard I then sit, puzzled chin in hand
Fingers tap the keys and yet nothing of excellence appears
So another day, with the words remaining inside my head
Vexren4000 Aug 2017
We are all but children,
hoping for the others,
To say we have grown up.

Sunil Sharma May 2017
Bring your empty words
I will re-charge them again
And make them potent;
The hollow words---
Bring them to me and
I will make them sing,
In the summer afternoon
On the glistening lips of
The workers in sweat
Working on construction sites;
Bring your faded words
I will make them shine in the forge
Of blacksmith whose sinewy hands
Will form them into forms that appeal;
Bring your sad words,
I will make them smile
On the faces of war-orphans
Street children
And cancer patients,
Because when sterile words
Of poetry come into contact
With unsaid suffering of the
Larger silent humanity,
They become fiery,
Mesmerize and
Truly become
The sweat-soaked words and entire syntax
Great transcendental poems!
@Sunil Sharma
Towards a new poetics
Francie Lynch Nov 2016
I will pen a real long poem,
One that goes on and on.
It will  be Universal,
Get added to all categories:
There's two thousand plus
Themes we write on,
From first breath
To the dust we lie in.

My poem would weave
The Fabric of Love,
Dripping from
A Heart that Hurts,
To offer solace and love's comfort.

It couldn't be one of
Ten Words,
But myriads in
A Sea of Thoughts;
Added to
All Time Favourites,
And Words Worth a Thousand Pictures.

If you like Beautiful Tragedies,
I'll jot a verse on Life Stories.
I'd pen a stanza for Love for the Moon,
Lines to make An Exceptional Poem.

The keen reader adds it to Genius Speaks,
The younger hearts to Sweets for the Sweet.
The darker side clicks Macabre and Mayhem,
They too are Becoming Human.

I'd accept a like for Best Sweet and Sour,
I'd  be happy with Whatever, Whenever.
The weird add it to Psychopath,
The regular to Treasureworth.

It may contain the Inspired Word
To advise those trapped in Parenthood.
Oh My Goodness, it's A Poem to Keep,
One to read, then Read and Repeat.

But mine will lie in Buried Treasures,
Disappear in Endangered Species...
Hey, I got a Thank You For Sharing,
This Made Me Smile.

I think you get my drift, indeed,
I've written The Best of Hello Poetry.

So, Poets Speak Loud on **** Good Stuff,
Write The Story of Life, The Ultimate Poem,
On Love is the Purpose, or Who We Are,
I'll add your verse to Top Notch,
And yours is one of *My Favourites.
Edit and repost.
With so many themes, who can claim writer's block.
rohini singal Sep 2016
She sits alone, in the dark recesses of her mind,
Memories resurface like a drowning child.
Things never imagined mar her ****** form,
Her mind is retreated, into a world of its own.
She serves those above her,
she serves those below,
she thrashes and cries out, but she never stirs.
Images fade into darkness and days pass her by,
An empty shell of the life she once had despised.
And then the footsteps on the hard, dingy floor,
Announcing an arrival, as unwanted as a sore.
An automated routine, a drugged consciousness,
Then, once more she is dark and alone,
With nothing but her tears, reflecting the pain,
The only thing she owns.
Slowly but surely, light creeps into the sky,
One more day to survive, one more day to die.
Her head is raised slightly as sunrise colours the sky,
Stirrings in the human dwellings, people passing by.
The tiny ounce of hope she held is shattered at the sight,
A ghoulish figure that could have been on the other side.
The tattered hand of destiny, playing havoc with lives.
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