Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
james Oct 7
your hair was golden blonde
and your eyes were equated to stars
far more than once
by an ocean of sands within an hour glass

his hair was shimmering bronze
and his eyes were blue as the sea
and he saw you
and he smiled as he answered your loving plea

i assume he felt like four leaf clovers, and shiny lotteries
oh all the sands in the hour glasses
when i spotted you among the masses
couldnt match the yellow hyacinths
that sprouted so surely from me-

for you walked in
hand in hand.

you are an angel bathed in light
as anyone could see
does it make me so blind to shift my gaze;
to know the light was he?
(you are a fair maiden with smiles so saccharine)
(i am a boy much darker than i am sweet)
(so why do i cry to the midnight sky)
("he should've loved me- he should've loved me!")
Rebeca Sep 29
You're holding my heart
With your delicate hands and
long fingers
And you caress it with tenderness
and care.
You hold it like it's the most valuable treasure in the world.

But then you start squeezing it
crushing it
squashing it
'Till it bleeds out and all that is left
Are a few shards scattered into the dark
of the void night
Nicole Sep 27
You keep telling me our lives will not touch

And I'm starting to believe it.

Unlike the time my sister sat me down almost

2 years ago

And told me this herself

With worried eyes and palms extending.

And the worst part of waking up from that terrible nightmare

Was realizing that even you were imaginary.
Nat Lipstadt Aug 23
The Deepest Twist

for my friends who know that when HP says this my 1300th
poem, it’s off the mark by hundreds; nonetheless
1300 is worthy number to celebrate your affections

you return back my older children, fully grown,
my eldest word babies who never ever visit,
blessing them anew, lavishly, with special wishes

take them,
with both hands, a reacquainting occurs,
the old words, deep twist, now hurtful hurt because
reimagining when and how easy they came to be birthed and
how the replication of that process is now a
practiced impossibility

how they burst forth, in purple majesty, wheat waving,
wholly formed, bathed in holy water, leaving no stretch marks,
only just an empty sac inside instantly needing,
needling me into auto-refilling right away

even the twenty four hour, hard deliveries,
long and arduous, were so easy created faust-fast,
that the errors of typography contained,
became lasting hall marks, iconic nomenclatures of
passionate loving-nonpareil

now, well past point of urgent addiction,
unlike then every glance, each sidewalk cracking,
lamppost shadow casting was
a sea story for a deep dive delving asap

supplied answers for the internal badgering incessant
happy ****** need, mine, to go, spill the words,
cab or bus motion nursing them,
now they come slowly strolling,
semi-formed, needy, inconclusive, reused,
and feeling as trite as a cloth coat from an old thrift shop,
so wanting for tender loving care,
which is to provide when you are
four score

wondering how easy it was in prior times when inspiration
fell like a deciduous tree’s fall colorings gifts or
as little children’s nightly multitude variety of dream tales,
when whole worlds uncovered, nay, universes,
hidden between summers green grass blades,
or in unique snowflakes

the semi-forgot love affairs that parented poems
by the score of scarred orchestral scores,
now love circle-turn in holding patters in the
crowded skies above nyc,
awaiting for a trafficked man to give permissions
to “run-away”land that rarely is granted

once, poems in turbulent fluid born, noisy ripping of skin,
****** by the emitting of  constant calming tenderous words,
wonderful drippings, so many multiple births in a moment,
even the OBGYN is complaining,

give other poets a chance at parenthood!

the awesome anger of human tragedy is now so shopworn
from over experience,
even god visits less and less, for it is written,
nothing new under the sun*

though soon his annual visitors day approaches (Day of Atonement) and god will require new
words of human comforting,
a new poem acknowledging that being godlike
is ******* hard work,
for humans are annoyingly capable of incredulous kindness

how can one justify allowing unlacing acts of insane violence to tear
the hand stitched lacing fabric that’s ever ready
to bring us together in an instant elegiac joining

the truth is every one of todays poem are clawed,
shovel dug out from cavities and crevasses,
your new words of recognition of the oldies but goodies,
iron of irony, make it hard, hard, painful to write
without an epidural to numb the painful
dumbing down

when I am breaching my waters, I am hard to spot,
we ancient humpbacks live beneath the deep distanced,
cold waters for many more minutes
than we need surface for breathing,
the show-off fluking, less and less,
and when we birth,
every two years,
must bring the calf-poem to the surface instantly,
to breath, lest it die,
all the while repeating to ourselves:

what was miraculous writing is now nearly invisible,
to blinded fingers that arrhythmically cane tap,
words difficult to recall, recalculate, recalibrate
into a wholly poem

only the **** tears,
that same shameful violin permanent-accompaniment,
they laugh at me when now, they alone
come first quickest, all too easy,

appearing nataurally,

without a formal
“He says, "Son, can you play me a memory
I'm not really sure how it goes
But it's sad and it's sweet and I knew it complete
When I wore a younger man's clothes"

Sing us a song, you're the piano man
Sing us a song tonight
Well, we're all in the mood for a melody
And you've got us feelin' alright”
Cat Lynn Aug 5
After two years of trying to figure it out
When the root of the problem ended up being upside down

Every piece of the puzzle now perfectly fits...
But God... I was not expecting this kind of plot twist
Still trying to fully grasp it
Luvanna Jul 28
I wanted to be an open book
until I realized I don't like being read upon
as if I am predicatable and have no twists and turns
Whispers echoing in a trusted ear,
spoken to another ear.
Echoing louder than once before,
exaggerated and twisted
for you find everyone knows
those whispers you called secrets.
As it spread like a chain,
to one trusted person of theirs
to the next
The identity of those whispers
are no longer secrets but rumors.
Ikigai Poet Jul 18
You were the plot twist
in this young man's story.
-Ikigai Poet
Everybody needs a plot twist, no?
Luís Jun 15
Neste dia a minha lamuria tem dois metros,
O meu amor é este fragil ramo.
A minha vida é esta cadeira.

Neste dia ponho-me a cima da vida.
pois o momento de atar a minha lamuria ao meu fragil amor chegou.
Assim tenho um bilhete só de ida
Com esta atitude pontapeio a vida
a minha lamuria estica,
pois ela assim me farta
e a minha ultima esperança é que o meu fragil amor não se parta.

On this day my grief is six feet long,
My love is this fragile branch.
My life is this chair.

On this day I put myself on top of life.
For the moment of tying my whining to my weak love has come.
So I have a one-way ticket
With this attitude I kick life...
my grief stretches,
for she's making me sick of it.
and my last hope is that my fragile love won't break.
Next page