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his train of thoughts
carried his mind
wandering into different places
feeling so divine

a world which turned
hallelujahs been gone
an enemy has returned
stop it‚ÄĒ I'm done.
toleomato Oct 18
Hesitantly at first,
It stutters before
Being forced open
By an impatient passenger;
The doors of a train.
Matt Oct 14
My baby passed away
And now I'm feeling blue
My baby passed away
And now I'm feeling blue
I thought she'd be my baby, but she has
Other plans

She hopped aboard a train
And now she's riding West
She hopped aboard a train
And now she's riding West
She said don't do it
Don't buy a ticket

My love's gone forever
Buried six feet deep
My love's gone forever
Six feet underneath
Oh, how she's the death of me
Way she says never
Hannah Sep 25
Look- the train of thought!
An unexpected turn left.
Wait, what was I saying?
Norman Crane Sep 18
We came but our children have barely time
for us for they are leading busy lives.
When we were younger we had barely time
for us for we were leading busy lives.
How it passes: like the train that brought us,
winding but with purposeful direction.
How it passes: like steam above tea cups,
a gently rising evaporation.
We had tea with the widow of our son.
Our train returns home early. Life goes on.
Inspired by Japanese director Yasujiro Ozu's 1953 film Tokyo Story. Ozu's simple and gentle style is one of cinema's great treasures, and I hope to one day be able to do it justice in words.
Sarah Strack Sep 13
Train horns pierce the muggy night.
Persistent in their cacophony.
They shake the walls and sound the time.
Like midnight roosters.

I shift beneath my stuffy sheets.
Roused from fitful sleep.
My eyes move to the bedroom window.
Drawn to the alure of night.

The moonlight has me in a trance.
Stray beams beckon me.
Dancing light to call me closer.
Through intermittent haze.

Now I feel the fog behind my eyes.
The night's hold has loosened.
I drift away until I'm awoken by birds,
Or the siren songs of boxcars.
Jake Welsh Aug 29
books written in symbols
were attempts to mimic the language of the heart

somewhere i jotted within an admission of love

i wonder who knew it first
and how profound it could be when it was there the whole time


i find myself at Union Station,
where people pass time sitting silently in pews.

closing doors kick a breeze that weaves between the columns
holding up the heavens
the hair on my arm waves like wheat stalks

i’ve got a hunch i could go just about anywhere from here

the halls here just go on and on.
it’s not the whole world, but it’s the only place i want to be.
hi everyone, i haven't posted here in a while, but i thought it would be appropriate since i just released my new poetry chapbook. if you like this poem, you should check out some of my samples on my etsy page!

take care,
Ruheen Aug 16
Do you ever just think about how you ended up thinking about something, and then try and retrace your thoughts?
Why am I trying to figure out how I thought about this?
Ohhhh. That's how I ended up thinking about this.
Why can't I remember? Ugh.
Why did I think about this?
I need to write something for HP. It's been a while.
I need to sleep.
I think that's how I thought about this. I think. Usually, I can retrace my thought pretty well, but this time, I just don't know.
I still like it.
Might make more of these.
A lost hungry vagrant
on a train to nowhere
everywhere's his home


     on a patch of hay
     in the heat of day
     he doesn't bother to get
     on his knees and pray

          everything he wants
          is in his sweat and blood
          the shirt on his back
          and his matter of fact


¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†­¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬†¬† no one can touch his
                                               solitary freedom
                                               even when burdened with chains
                                               and in heavy rains


                    he flies through time
                    known by himself
                    on a patch of hay


        in an empty, lonely cart
        on a train to nowhere
        wandering the face of the earth


yearning for Starlightūüíę
Unknown souls reside
in the most deserted places‚ÄĒ
such as the minds of the Parallel;
the hearts that bear the rebellion
and the agonizing shadows that stalk
behind the familiar faces.

Where the souls whom we do not know‚ÄĒ
finds places in the garden-like of Arcady
its rustic magnificence and endless streams.

The whitest marbles that mirror the true form
of one's self‚ÄĒ
the sculptures of liberty and honor
enchanted voices of wood nymphs
that serenades every heart's frightened‚ÄĒ
and harmonious hands clasping together‚ÄĒ
souls traded their bodies for a one-way ticket;
this is where the last train stops.

The mind seeks for the Parallel‚ÄĒ
when a desire craves,
it reaches down to the deepest pit‚ÄĒ
from where the tree reaches down to the lowest ground,
should its own branches reach the tallest clouds?

Behind the rushing blood
of spirits being awakened‚ÄĒ
should the deserted soul
stride its feet in the garden of Arcady?
‚ÄúIn each of us, there is another whom we do not know.‚ÄĚ Carl Jung
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