#500
500 poems,
I'm proud of myself,
I'm proud of this community,
I'm proud so many people are willing to show support.
I'm happy I found my way here,
But I might take a break,
Don't want to ruin a good thing.
Mar 11, 2025
Mar 11, 2025 at 8:39 AM UTC
I know I've said it five hundred times
I hope five hundred is okay
Five hundred words,
Five hundred ways,
to say I love you in a day.
Five Hundred words that still fall short
Can't think of one to say
Five Hundred words and still not one that truly can explain.
How I feel
and how its real
How I'm supposed to say,
How you make the moon shine,
How you make me flat-line
When you make the birds ring and the trees come to life.
The beauty in your smile
The jewels in your eyes
When you sing with your voice
With the stars in the night
Asking myself where does the time go?
And how you make the breeze blow.
When I dream of a future with you by my side
With our dog in the picture and
these corny *** rhymes
With you on my chest and your hands in mine
Where I'll confess my love
another five hundred times.
Oct 25, 2021
Oct 25, 2021 at 11:18 PM UTC
500 memories, that I can see.
500 memories, that I believed.
500 memories, all of the time.
500 memories, that remind.
500 times,that I have failed.
500 trials, to no avail.
500 moments, lost to the sea.
500 memories, mean that much to me.
500 memories, 500 times,
500 memories, none of them mine.
500 moments of joy, that I’ll never see.
500 reasons, the “joy” of being me.
500 regrets, 500 mistakes.
500 people, lost to time.
500 times, I was forgotten.
500 times, and each one hurt more.
500 memories, is all that I have.
500 memories, and a painful laugh.
500 memories, all of them sad.
500 memories, I hope you’re glad.
500 memories, and a ruined life.
500 memories, all full of strife.
500, hours of stress.
500 moments, was all it took.
500 memories, stuck like a hook.
500 memories, and a painful past.
Apr 18, 2020
Apr 18, 2020 at 6:19 PM UTC
This is my 500th poem here.
I really am a hopeless romantic.
Jan 17, 2020
Jan 17, 2020 at 5:07 AM UTC
A plane crashed
500 market place
people
gone damaged.
A politician's party
rally was held
in one day
rented open field.
A train came and
ran over then
500 people became
injured.
A white young missionary
went into island
where tribal attacked
him in large number.
The number was=500
Jan 11, 2019
Jan 11, 2019 at 2:26 AM UTC
five hundred words are not enough
to say all the things I need to say
but five hundred poems are **** sure enough
on hello poetry to get noticed
alas, I write poetry for the sake of poetry
just like good ole Charles Bukowski
cranking out words with a foul mouth
without a care for the audience
I write words for the sake of my soul
because it is the only time that my heart
feels free to be whatever it needs to be
without the world confining me
so **** straight. I wrote five hundred
words for my five hundredth poem
because I rarely write so many words
to express what is in my soul
I should be listening to jazz while I write this
just like Kerouac so my words will have a beat and rhythm
of the sounds of bebop, instead of a cadence of all my own
who wants originality when you can have novelty
everyone is nostalgic to recreate what has been captured before
the great writers and poets of our time regurgitate what’s been said
for me I don’t really give a **** about the words,
so much as how I let the words live out into my life through my actions
words matter because they order our thoughts and feelings,
they give shape to the amorphous images that play in our minds and hearts and once something comes into being, then oh man man do they have power
that’s why knowing the name of something really means something
who knows if meaning comes from the words, or words come from the meaning
did the chicken came first or the egg?
all I care about is how you cook the ****** chicken or the egg
fried chicken and I prefer my egg sunny side up
Bukowski eat your heart out as I write my stream of consciousness
five hundred word poem for my five hundredth poem
is it getting a bit redundant?
I am a firm believer that less is more
but sometimes I want my words to beat out like they used to
on old type writers like a **** machine gun
the beat flowing like the drums of a marching band
that gives life to even the worst of brass section
I don’t know if my heart can truly sing in a sea of so many words
I prefer capturing a single moment with 10 words, maybe 20 words
anything more than that feels like a waste
just like a coffee ice cream ruined by too much toppings
I am a minimalist at heart
even though I can’t declutter my stuff
holding onto old forgotten receipts
closet full of clothes I never wear
however, on most days my mind is clutter free
old resents are shoved out
fear written and jotted away
the book of the past closed
each day is a gift
freely given
each breath new
may you be blessed
may we keep sharing
for fun and
for free
Aug 10, 2017
Aug 10, 2017 at 2:31 PM UTC
A poem... to give you... is it enough?
As my heart yields to your wounds, you have given me five hundred scars to wear; I will gladly bear another five hundred for you! Is it enough?
I have snatched away five hundred stars from the firmament above, slaying five hundred angels who guarded their celestial light! Is it enough?
Would five hundred days make any difference to you? To set my heels in the clay and march forward step by step to you until you saw my perseverance, is it enough?
Five hundred souls you have sifted through to discover just how inadequate they are for you. I ask you: is it enough?
My heart is yours... is it enough?
Jun 16, 2016
Jun 16, 2016 at 4:50 PM UTC
I remember it so clearly,
The dark oak of the table,
The smell of her cigarette smoke.
We would sit every night and play
500 Rummy.
Then she started to get weaker.
I would watch in horror
As my grandmother’s hands shook
With every set she put down.
The oak table turned to the
Bland plastic of the one in the hospital
And her cigarettes were replaced with
An IV and an oxygen tank.
The next night
I sat in the living room,
Glaring at the empty table
And the unopened pack of cards.
They mocked me.
I dressed in black today,
When everyone tossed dirt
I tossed an Ace of Spades
And an old Zippo.
Dec 9, 2015
Dec 9, 2015 at 5:56 PM UTC
NOT SO 500 WORD STORY
My next victim was a little more challenging than all the rest. When he asked me to go get coffee with him I was surprised, I didn’t think I would ever get the opportunity to claim one like this. His eyes were blue, they taunted me and made my mind dance over the idea that they could be mine. He wore a backwards hat and had the kind of speech that reminded me of my brother. He was confident, sort of cocky, just the type that I needed. I hate those types, the guys that think their better just because they have flowing blonde hair and big arms. I really can’t stand them. We decided to meet at the Starbucks down the street from my house, convenient. We would meet on Friday at 6:30 pm.
Thursday night, lying in bed, all I could think about was the ****** up **** I was going to do. I thought about the blood; blood has always been the reason I did this. Not like men, they always want ****** gratification, or to eat them or something, ******* Dahmer. That’s why girls never get caught. We’re not in it for the trophy, we don’t keep souvenirs, we just want to **** I mean I love the blood, I but I don’t keep it or anything, I’m not that stupid. I think how the flow and color can change, like if you cut an artery, steady fast flow and bright red. But if you cut a vein the flow isn’t as fast, and the color has a slight blue tint, due to the oxygen in it. When I first started doing this, I wasn’t very good at covering my tracks. People sometimes questioned why my bathroom smelled like bleach, all the time. But I got better at the cleanup.
Friday came and I don’t know why but I was a little hesitant. Why was I having second thoughts about this? Most of the time I can’t wait to get the show on the road. But now I really didn’t even want to show up at the Starbucks. I wanted to let him go, but that little monster that lives in my lungs told me to keep going; so I did. I got to Starbucks and sat down, I didn’t see him anywhere so I waited. He showed up and ran over to the table and sat across from me, he seemed genuinely sorry for being late. We talked and for some reason I couldn’t stop staring. At his eyes and lips, and his hands; he had nice hands. I wanted to hold them, I never wanted to hold anyone’s hand before. The more he talked, the more nervous I became. What am I doing? I can’t do this? Why did I even start doing this? But it was too late, the monsters were screaming too loud for me to ignore.
He was in the middle of a sentence when I interrupted and asked if he wanted to come back to my apartment. You should have seen his eyes light up. They all got so excited when I asked. We left and walked back, on the way there he did something, he held my hand. Why the hell would he do that? Did he like me? That would be pretty ******* stupid on his part if he did. And it was pretty ******* stupid for me to like him back, but I guess I’m an idiot. I took him upstairs and I wanted to cry. This has never happened before, I’ve never been afraid of myself. He sat down on the couch and I nervously excused myself to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror, the tears came, they came like I was cutting an artery. I couldn’t stand the sight of myself, I wanted to destroy this monster. And in a storm of rage I ****** my fist into the mirror. The glass shattered like a deafening thunder and my blood dripped into the sink. I fell to the floor screaming and he came running in. **** I forgot to lock the door. Now I’m sitting there crying and screaming with this beautiful stranger trying to save me. It was a mess, I was a mess. His hands around me, he kept trying to help me up, but I didn’t want to move. I didn’t want to hurt anyone anymore, no more death and destruction, I need peace. So I told him to go, I begged for him to leave but he wouldn’t. “Please don’t do this”, I thought, “please don’t try to save me”. But he wouldn’t go. And then the monsters screamed, so ******* loud. Looking up I could see his mouth moving but there were no words coming out, only the demonic shrieks from inside me. And in one involuntary move, I picked up a piece of mirror glass and cut his throat.
Watching the blood wasn’t like before, it didn’t bring a smile to my face and it didn’t stop the screaming. There was no calmness in watching the life in him die, there was nothing. I did what I was supposed to, what I always had done. But still nothing. I felt nothing but at the same time I felt the pain. All the pain of everyone I had ever hurt filled me and I knew what I had to do. I took my phone out of my pocket and called the police, I told them what I did. So I sat there on the floor next to the lifeless, beautiful, stranger, and waited for them to come. I looked at him and new it was over. All the hurting was over.
Jan 25, 2015
Jan 25, 2015 at 10:37 PM UTC
a commune back home not hippie
buy 300, no 500 acres great land
in Codroy or misty high hilled Avalon
built great big house wraparound porch
beset by rocking chair by the sea yet
in the woods at end of road all brown dirt
growing gardens, herb and vegetable
pulling weeds but keeping good green ****
brewing beer by own hand
group work but not always group think
friends lovers writers growers givers
all come to stay
making great pots of stew and strange brews
awakening brought far from Peruvian Torch homeland
telling stories all somehow great fables and anecdotes for life and living and love and everything that's good in the long run
at night over bottles on beaches by fires
we worry these are funeral pyres
for our great little social experiment
fear of leaving loving womb
of isolated salt fish by sea commune
real world so crass&brash; an unctuous affair
where here instead guitars, ukes
silly screaming little buddhas recite poems
by gleaming eye fireside
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 9:16 AM UTC