Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Benjamin Fox Sep 28
Morning sheets ****** with their embrace

Heat from my body sinks into the coolness
and
It's getting easier to ignore the separation

I am incoherently enchanted

All around
The either way world is stirring
Getting up
and
Coffee clearing a pleasantly foggy head
Seems within reason
but
Remaining in these sheets
It seems in season

My intricacies have hibernated before
They whisper so powerfully this time of year

Dreams are waiting - well practiced in the wings
And I am exiting stage left
Josiah Bates Sep 27
I'm tired of fighting
feelings so fleeting
this lonliness in my weary heart

I'm tired of writings
of the feelings I fight
so light a fire under me
and burn my feelings clean off my bones.
B D Caissie Aug 25
I've the wherewithal that time is brief
What time has taken like a thief

A bird above and pebble below
Standing between is all I know

An archway taunts me through the spruce
Hounded by whispers of being obtuse

Left by the forest right on the river
My eyes are open wider than ever

Listen to the ripples upon the water
Finding  peace with my heavenly Father

Oh how those wildflowers have grown
Where I forever rest my weary bones
Around a thousand faces
Among a million smiles
Across a billion miles
I still find my heart weary of Your lies.
Anna Jun 12
I am a kite
lightly floating in the gentle breeze
I am a cloud
dancing in the skies delicacies

I feel only wind
I see only light
carried only by the sky's currents
I am almost out of sight

As I dance the winds settle
the clouds and sky are now more
brutal than they are gentle

I am no longer a kite being carried
fooled by the skies shifting
by the dying breeze
I am wearied
Jack Brandon May 29
Therapy Session,
To release the misconception.
Turn the depression into a lesson into a message.
The stem of the universe trapped in a mind,
Questioning existentiality like a child learning to ride a bike.
The root of the issue seems to be external,
But the issue is no more than the perception of a mortal.
We see, we think, we do,
We misunderstand, we think, we choose.
The clouded screen that obstructs our vision,
Is in reality what makes our decisions.
Is the judgment what lights the spark?
Or our perception of the words thrown at us that light the gasoline?
To breath and step back and accept the truth-
No one can truly judge you, except you.
We respond on emotion
Without thinking through,
The more gentle truth that tells you that it’s really not you-
No one can truly judge you, except you.
We feel attacked, abandoned, betrayed,
Like the things people say hold some meaning that should sway,
Our views of our self,
Only bound by our self.
When they look you in the eye and tell you the lies,
Remember,
Others do not decide who you are,
Do not let them define you;

You are

Who    you    are.
This is a poem that I wrote after waking up in the middle of the night.
KMH May 14
Before,
This was a home.
Now,
It is poison.

I want to breathe but
The air is toxic and
Your words- they are harsh-
Cut deep
and they hurt.

I want to sleep but
The monsters keep me awake.
They haunt
Only me.

I want to rest my
Weary, aching feet but
The chair, the sofa, the bed-
This house
is made
of Fire.

Before,
This was a home.
Now,
It is only poison
.
Before, this place was a home. Now, it is only poison and fire and pain and I just want to rest.

© KMH 2019
A broken haze drifts down
form a gray and weary sky.

Who has cast this blanket?
It is dampening our light.

Lift this dull affair.
Bring the sun back to our lives

End this tiresome evening
of speckled windows and soft sighs
#13 of my Year One collection, from notes on 1/3
Shivani Lalan Apr 30
sometimes,
my brain finds solace
on a sweet picnic table -
set up for a short tea,
on tatami mats,
in a garden with half a blanket
of pink-white blossoms
sleeping on the earth.
on such days,
my words settle into
seventeen sweet spots -
no fuss, no muss -
like schoolchildren after a field trip,
too tired and hopefully
too content
to rebel.

sometimes,
my words come to rest
as if my heart and my hands
are all weary travellers,
and i sent them to retrieve riches
that are way beyond
belonging to seventeen neat corners.
and so i apologize,
i call it laziness,
offer some food for thought,
and a warm place to rest
between the
three
simple
lines
of a haiku.
Next page