Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
At least not all the time
They only have to tell others
       What you think or feel
                                        About over here
Or maybe there
                       A poem can be anywhere
I mean anything
                    It doesn't have to rhyme
         But maybe it does sometime
I meant something
                           You know structures not important
         To some degree it makes things easier
Who I am trying to please anyways
      Art is art
  If that's what you believe in your heart
Or maybe your head
                            Could be your soul
             If you hadn't sold it already
     Wait what.....
Where was I going with this....
                 Oh yeah, poem.
I mean why not
Life moves you along, its destination unknown
In melodies of songs, draped in liquid tone
Some harsh, some soft, some mere whispers
To taunt you to doodle, create your own figure
Which will make you unique, one of a kind
In a world, thirsty for leaders, and
masterminds

.....amp
Sometimes, my mind ends up feeling stuck.
The juices won’t  flow, and I’m all out of luck.
Yesterday I didn’t even have to try,
The pen went to paper and I just let it fly.

Maybe I can create from this frustration,
something to encapsulate my aggravation.
At wanting to write when nothing wants to come out.
That struggle is what this is all about.

I hope it’s easier tomorrow than it was today,
So I can let my mind wander and play.
Words jumble in my head.

Frantically, I attempt to sort my thoughts.

They swirl endlessly, but never reach a clear concise ending.


I slam my pencil down onto the table.

Scribbles and ink litter my white paper.

Annoyance sweeps over me as I am unable to get past the first sentence.


My legs launch my chair backwards.

I stand up quickly, and pace around the room.

My cranium pulsates from being filled to the brim.


My brain screams his thoughts inside my head.

His concerns add more pressure to my skull.

He waves his hands frantically around at the demons.

I have let too many out, and he does not know how to rane them in.


He scowls at me as he flicks the switch to my creative box.

A grey shadow is casted over the previous well lit room.

My brain slams the room door shut, and places a large lock on the door.

Its glistening metal taunts me as it hangs from the latch.


I plead with him to unlock the door, and to turn the light back on.

He firmly shakes his head at me, and gives me a disappointed glare.

I fall into my chair with despair.

Turning away, he leaves me to wonder when this mental block will come to an end.
It's hard to feel alive when things
are constantly dying inside you.

Some nights, I comb through all my well-kept chaos
as if a secret lover visiting a grave.
These nights, I forget to breathe.

I am sick of asking the cobwebs
how the smallest gap in my ribs
can make room for this much pain.
It has grown into a woodland —
and I, the lost, the helpless prey;
the odd girl out.

Look for my bones among wild lilacs,
covered in forest soil, darling,
and you'll know that some deaths you don't mourn
and some deaths you can't.

Some nights,
I comb through all this well-kept chaos
in search for a sign of life,
but my flesh has been a map
of cigarette burns
and vague memories of dying;
strangers have been sick of laying kisses
on things that taste like
they've been bleeding —
on things that taste like death.
Maybe one day, I, too, will be sick enough
to stop prodding wounds open
to leave poems in the doorstep
of the things
rotting inside me.

Then again, some sorrows
you don't turn into poetry.
Some sorrows you just feel.

Some nights, I comb through
all this well-kept chaos.
Other nights, I bury it
beneath my floorboard,
hoping that there will be no haunting —
no pounding;
just peace.

But then, some chaos you learn to live with;
some, you don't survive.

Some deaths you can't mourn.

Some deaths you just die.
fray narte Sep 11
You were my only chance at the calm, it's no secret. Not when my skin had become a topography of city light and anomalies waiting to happen. Not when broken wrists and collarbones had defined my name. And for years, my fingers had held onto rusting street signs, pointing to where my flesh had started to decay under the nipping of the butterflies — places to avoid touching, otherwise I'd break.

But you were the calm.

And for so long, it had evaded my side of the bed. And I know you had tasted dead dahlias and maladies off my tongue. Poets don't write about lips like mine — those that repel clarity and softness — those that had forgotten the words to a prayer. And it's no secret that I had spent years walking on a tilted axis and screaming at the pitfalls of my own doing. And yet you kissed me; for once, my skin had learned silence — raw, and in broad daylight. For once, I didn't have to be the storm that I was.

And love, whoever knew you would betray the calm, when you were my only chance at it?

Now, nightfalls just feel like bruises starting to show way too soon. Now, September nights are just cold and are filled with blunders. Now, this heartbreak seems like it may outlast all my well-kept sunsets, waiting for me at the end of this storm. And it could've been you, still — it could've been us. Now all that we were is a wreck to behold. And love, must all beautiful things rot?

You were the calm, but poets don't write about tragedies like these.

Maybe it's better off that way.
Aseel Sep 8
.
We, who write passionately about love
Never find someone who love us the way we write
Ruheen Sep 8
Confined in concrete and silence;

The serrated edges; scarring.

With blank spaces, impatient for thoughts

And handholds with which I can peek.

As I push myself higher,

My hands catch hold of a fence.

When I sit over the edge,

The fence digging into my legs,

My palms scratched and ******,

I decide; a mere jump cannot take

From me the pen I have longed to hold;

And so the inkless pages begin bleeding ink.
I haven't been able to write. I've been forcing words out, but I think I did it with this one.
Just had to jump over a wall. Piece of cake.
Betty Sep 8
To be a writer
Is to burn with words,
tiny living birds risen from our ash and dust, because we must.
We take a part of ourselves and give so that we can live and fly and fill the smoky amber coloured sky with wings,
although we know not why.
Next page