Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Life is not easy, my love
Life is too short
But we yet listened to them
instead of holding our hands

We didn't trust ourselves
our trembling, doubting heart.
I think I got scared
and made us move apart

A stranger you were
but I fell in love
so, I tried to sense myself
avoiding have me hurt

Now dearly I do  pay
as many poems as I wrote
my heart is still in pain

All these feelings, my love...
Will you fight for me
or should I throw them away?

I feel your reluctance once again
but you've shown me boldness back then
What is now? I  don't understand

A clouded veil all over you
I feel it always there..
Are you in pain, my love?
Did I  hurt you someway?
Or just your pessimism prevails?

Many things remained unsaid
It's time the play came to an end
Don't you think too, my love?
that truth is the only way
to push the pain away

I understand that words may come out wrong sometimes
but your eyes...
they never lie, my love

Big, sparkling eyes
charming like you
but a long, sad story
I see behind the blue

Just remember
I  care about you

Now, heal my wounds
Give my hopes a stay
or make clear to me
I  won't be yours anyway
BSween Apr 15
We were met on two shores
trying to get to the beach
we both knew the terminus
stood just out of reach
and we settled for us
with the thought in our heads
that if something improved
we’d move out of there.

Then the storm had subsided
and none of us cried it
was more than we’d hoped for
and mother just moped there for
days but we’ll raise her spirits
buy in more spirits and drink her a toast
while the waves belt the coast.
BSween Feb 21
I sit beside you
A thousand miles away,
Holding your hand in my heart.
I can see your eyes
That can only look back
To where the sun was hot
And your childhood stretched
Beyond peace.

Until dreams undid you.
Your heart wasn’t big enough
For the monstrous three time loss.
But  the fourth broke you
And Hope eloped with Happiness.

Living became coping
And you, ever grateful for a nod.
In your prison you did your best,
But broken tools don’t always mend
You were wrong, it turns out -
Love isn’t always the answer.
Betty Dec 2020
Unborn plans to which we aspire
broken daydreams piled ever higher
one day when we finally expire
they end up on our funeral pyre
a few lost hopes to fuel the fire!
Jack R Fehlmann Dec 2020
These dreams
attached
to that which
cannot be
feel so real
in settings that
are surreal.
Confusion sets the theme
an unending quest to obtain
The precious state
of being
of a need
to close that chapter
which I have been unable
to read for loss of a last page.
I always see the face that only looks away.
I weakly plead
to be regarded,
lowering my guard to demonstrate
my need, my willingness
to feel.  
Scenes like these change
and the choices hold
one consistent course. 
 In these dreams
I can barely speak above a whisper.
I become enraged, and try to scream,
so impotent
to feel so inconsequential.  
I often wake and lay still.
Struggling to recall details
just to be
once more unable
to do anything more than wonder.  
Will I ever change.  
When will my obsession
finally evaporate. 
How can I still cling
so desperate
an unobtainable thing
a heart that does not care. 
 To loathe my mind and despise
my heart for
the foolish act of loving
someone more
than could ever be real. 
 To sleep
and never dream.
If only, no more.
Leila Oct 2020
My heart craves contact
My skin screams for touch
My eyes long for a looker
Gabriel Aug 2020
Arch your fingers, clasp your palm,

touch the keys as if pulling

at the heartstrings of a lover;

back in the looming financial crash of 2007

when a family bought a piano

and a new house,

and a young girl ached Chopin.

With your hand out of the window

and the car on the motorway,

talon hands, poised,

feel the air as a shotput;

smooth, round, permanent -
oxygen bubbles

puppeteering pale fingertips

until the window goes up

and the radio is heard again.

Speaking three languages,

la mort, la mort, la mort;

D – E – A – D 

the keys cannot spell ‘childhood’,

but her fingers reach

more than an octave now

(her thumb still ******).

Chopin welcomes her

to her final decomposition;

her piano, dusty

and blooming with flowers

through each key,

plays discords

that don’t quite make

a funeral march.
Something I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in first year of university.
Gabriel Aug 2020
I’ll lie to you tomorrow,

but tell you today

that the next 24 hours

will be the start

of something beautiful;

a lie only becomes so

when the truth is impossible –

for all the times 
I say tomorrow

will be wonderful

there’s a possibility

unfulfilled.

So get a load of this,

me, again,

smiling to show my gums,

me, again,

writing down plans

and burning them,

me, again,

hoping that the ash

will be taken by the wind.

Unfulfilled.

Sunrises are the start 
and the finish line;

it’s so easy to run,

but it’s harder to stop

before I’m not
unfulfilled.

Here we are again,

the peak of the trough,

and I’m telling everyone

once more

that tomorrow

I will be (un-)

fulfilled.
Something I wrote for a creative writing portfolio in first year of university.
Bea Burnett May 2020
I am an empty vessel
Swaying in the water,
I am a still pool
Under summer heat,
I am a willow
That feels no breeze,
I am a sun
That never rises.
A meal never eaten, a song never sung, a rug never beaten, a bell never rung.
A railing never held, a stair never troden, a river not sailed, a sponge never sodden.
Not reaching full potential or amounting to something
Next page