#freeprose - Hello Poetry

And there is too little Not enough softness And the world may One day do me in And cause me to turn To stone or nothing at all And yet I am too strong to Submit to these fears And life may be hard but So am I in my softness, my love And my compassion that comes so Easily to me that I may care for all And while I may hurt and feel weak still Now I know I may overcome all

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Dec 17, 2017

Dec 17, 2017 at 11:36 AM UTC

r-oeki

i wrote this out in five minutes i hope it's good

And there is too little Not enough softness And the world may One day do me in And cause me to turn To stone or nothing at all And yet I am too strong to Submit to these fears And life may be hard but So am I in my softness, my love And my compassion that comes so Easily to me that I may care for all And while I may hurt and feel weak still Now I know I may overcome all

14

I really don't understand Why people think they Have me figured out Sure, I'm well mannered Respectful and giving My natural introversion Proceeds me at times But believe when I say There's more to me Then what you see At face value I'm layered And I only open up To a select few The worst part is I haven't opened up to you I uphold my shy demeanor But in due time I won't hold back And my actions Will turn admirable

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Nov 3, 2015

Nov 3, 2015 at 12:27 AM UTC

jg-fletcher

Admirable

I really don't understand Why people think they Have me figured out Sure, I'm well mannered Respectful and giving My natural introversion Proceeds me at times But believe when I say There's more to me Then what you see At face value I'm layered And I only open up To a select few The worst part is I haven't opened up to you I uphold my shy demeanor But in due time I won't hold back And my actions Will turn admirable

21

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end. On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog. We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

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May 2, 2014

May 2, 2014 at 3:14 PM UTC

martin-narrod

Johnny 3:16

We know you, and your little dark colors too. A picture book in your purse penned in mustaches on the full faces of your fare. We call you from bed, 8 o' clock in the morning, dog-light you slow wander the Peruvian darkness making jellyfish tentacles with your hands while you feel your way through Salem. We're colder than night and we wake thrice the bits of your day gig. You collapse in a green field of dandelion where thrushes drown you in Brown. We gorge ourselves on mango slivers, pineapple yolks, a half of grapefruit. We know you are close to your end. On the tops of the cities you call to your lycan friends, the half-sick and muted bray allures them to you, from Bratislava and Mimon, the thoroughfare through the suq. We wait. The foregone untold, the beep beep jug jug swoop sound of the nightingale, in all her dun glory, we wait. Then, as if descending through the moor-lounging silver smoke, the cool stickiness to your fingertips; the fog. We are there when the blue-less and smoky screen surrounds you, when you shank the auburn Scot hair of the sly fox that stalks, say, a cigarette from your lips. When you take the corners swiftly, gadding the streets. The prize king of vulpicide. You rub its matte fur against your bristly gray beard. And while you lay in your lumps of twelve carat flesh you bleat and you nag. One day you will never come home.

3