Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
TheLees 7h
If you lose me, would you come look for me too?
When you killed that man—did your dream come true?
Maybe it was justice. Maybe just for you.
But if I went missing—would I be your dream anew?
Are you in love with me, how far can it go?
Could you rip out a heart, could love take you so low?
If you lose me, would you **** for me too?
Would you hunt for me?
Would you **** for me—not you?
Would you tear out the part of you that’s me?
Or **** for love, for loyalty?
Kezexxe 3d
Coming through,
To the flame,
Is it true,
Or just the same,
Loving love,
Hold on tight,
Is it real from above,
Or it it nothing but a sight,
True is it true,
Real is it real,
You is it you,
Feel can you feel,
Or is it nothing you cant fight.
If I ever taught poets to read
the worth of knowing when
in life to pretend to know
what it is that makes
a boy become man,
the couplet
rhyming died and lied,

Here it is, my Ai had it for me…
----
Kipling, Common Form:
If any questions why we died,
Tell them, because our fathers lied.
-------------
Future ever
when the glory
of military privilege lures the young
to follow a National Pride Promotion,

-another war for holy reasons
to end all wars, if we win...
then
Common Form

that one would be read,
in all my classes,
if If were ever mentioned, as essential.

------------ a response ---- how can I say I know

----- or think, why, I know Kipling felt shame
I know I would.

I have wept with men who believed such lies.
If.
If was written at the height of the Great Game in Kim,
Jungle Book was written
for the son born during the Raj
whose eyesight exempted him

but, he was the son If addressed,
as were all his upper class mates.

John died
in his first ww1 combat
at the age
of almost 18.

What son
of the man who wrote If
would not,
confess the pressure
to join the righteous push against the Huns.

What laureled poet would not regret,
the call to courage only faith
in truth commands
-we must believe the call
to defend the faith

stiff upper lip, keep calm, carry on
taken as a lesson
from a horror, drilled deep
into any real warrior,
real men won't miss
a chance to fight...
to learn the price
of cowardice
- who can resist such urge
the charge, ours not
to reason why, ours but
to do, and die

If you can keep your head, my son…


the lie he relied -- any surviving father
would not be proud, he would grieve, just walk in his shoes.

War ought never be given glory nor honor, hate is man made.
Truth validates poetic license, but I know Kipling regretted that his son loved IF. Teacher's tasks should not be any person's first National Duty... nor should the office of President beheld by a liar, but that's the way it is, not always, just now.
Nolan Willett May 26
It’s true, I’ve thought it
Through,
It isn’t right to feel this blue-
You told me too, you always
Knew
I shouldn’t have thought the world of
You
A M Ryder May 23
I was never
Afraid of
Anything before
You showed up
All of a sudden
I loved you
And that
Was terrifying
When you find the one, no worry,
I’m sure you’ll end up just like me.
All memories you wish blurry,
******* to live you’ll hate to see.
No, never wishing the worst through,
Yet, bad times just come to find us.
Chased away the good in us flew,
Left a darkened hole filled with ****.
No matter how drained our souls are,
There’s some fight in us yearning more.
Perhaps love doesn’t reside thar,
Maybe the sound of it can bore.
Or maybe it’s all in our head -
True love? What’s left till it’s all bled…
Daniel Tucker May 20
It's a cold world with so many people who don't seem to care about anything. It's a cold world with so many people who are waiting like a scorpion to sting.

Some people don't give a ****, are you one of them too?! I don't know if you care about me, but I give a **** about you!

It's a cold world, but there are still people who would want to believe in you. It's a cold world, but there are still people who would want to stay close and be true.

Some people don't give a ****, are you one of them too! I don't know if you care about me, but I give a **** about you!

Some people don't wanna help, some give a penny or two. I don't know if you care about me, but I give my all to you! I give my all to you!!!
©2025 Daniel I. Tucker

Take a stand. Lend a hand. Try to understand... Give a **** !!!

Oh yeah, and don't ever quit!

[P.S. when I get Writers Block, I resort to posting lyrics of songs I wrote. haha]
Karijinbba May 16
Two Lost and Found butterflies.
Tears rolling down.

The most rewarding scenery is the landscape of the lovers innermost feelings and emotions  for each other and both twin butterflies.
Surely a twin's true love that never failed, even bottled in a dark dungeon- it still holds evidence of greatest reigns plotted since eges past.
Like a diamond polished, unworned by its true queen.
Its still a diamond grown in greatest friction and much heat.
A fire burning for the longest time.
Yes it may now be in the finger of the greedy liar divider murderer
on speed.
The evil trashing defamatrex
Is still a great Impostor
****** a true queen bee's,
first landscape pradise.
Forgive my metaphorical poor grade here.
I am still no poetess
Just a tragic true life kinder Garten observer of sorts.
A possible self portrait of loss and undying grief
Drowning in true events that inexplicably give me life worth living.
Its essence,the magic of true love, lost and found, found and lost,
And against all odds,retained wiithin its infinite truth
poweted only by eternal love and gratitud.
I remain in love, my beloved's
pure loves ashes,
that heals me to my core

And I'm no longer lost nor alone.
My lonely thorny crooked path,
i have left behind.
--------
By: Karijinbba
Mr and Mrs Andrews the oainting.
Rddbba All Rights Reserved.
https://youtu.be/KR-kHtqs7vs?feature=shared
Laokos May 12
the trees branch as they grow,
the wind cuts through the forest,
the sea breaks into itself eternally—
this is cleaving,
this is creation.  

cells split,
shadows stretch long and thin
over trimmed grass
as the light returns
to the other side.

and now the moon floats
in ghostly meditation,
hinting at what’s hidden
and how close
it all seems sometimes.

I was never far from myself,
except when I was,
and writing this doesn't
make any sense—
why should it?
who’s keeping score?

who’s the grand cosmic judge
of all artistic expression everywhere
across all
dimensions and time?

nobody.
that's who.
nobody cares.
that’s the point.

it doesn't matter what
I say on this page,
even if it's terrible,
even if it’s rotten,
even if no one reads it.
it felt right
to let it flow freely in the moment,
to spill it all out.
that’s what matters—
the spilling of it.

there’s a sweetness in that.
in the clean slice of the razor
and the blood it draws—
quiet,
quick
and true.

drip,
drip,
drip,


all over the page.
Next page