#ironic - Hello Poetry

tasks that stared at me for weeks, nay months get done when there's something worse worth avoiding and now I've tidied that room it looks great but the elephant pawing the ground won't avert its stare

0

May 18

May 18, 2026 at 10:48 PM UTC

eleanor-prince

Anything but...

tasks that stared at me for weeks, nay months get done when there's something worse worth avoiding and now I've tidied that room it looks great but the elephant pawing the ground won't avert its stare

12

The willow was alone on a big, grey hill— A place where even time would stand still— Until from the nothing, there came a small **** It wasn't much, but is all the willow did need— For years, they sat on the hill together— Through every hardship, and days with bad weather— The **** was happy, and began to spread— The willow's thick branches, hung high overhead— The grey hill was rocky and would sometimes be tough— But they knew with each other, it was more than enough— The flowers then sprouted. One, two and three— They all at once surrounded the root of the tree— The hill was soon green, and the willow was glad— Colorful and weedless, from the love that it had.

0

Apr 27

Apr 27, 2026 at 11:52 AM UTC

Archorex

A Willow in the Weeds

The willow was alone on a big, grey hill— A place where even time would stand still— Until from the nothing, there came a small **** It wasn't much, but is all the willow did need— For years, they sat on the hill together— Through every hardship, and days with bad weather— The **** was happy, and began to spread— The willow's thick branches, hung high overhead— The grey hill was rocky and would sometimes be tough— But they knew with each other, it was more than enough— The flowers then sprouted. One, two and three— They all at once surrounded the root of the tree— The hill was soon green, and the willow was glad— Colorful and weedless, from the love that it had.

14

life's all about contradiction the things i love make me bleed profusely

0

Apr 26

Apr 26, 2026 at 9:46 PM UTC

creamcoffee

fluidity

life's all about contradiction the things i love make me bleed profusely

3

A blockhead screaming all day long, Restless, loud, and going strong. Where did he find the nerve, the gall, To eat the jam — yes, eat it all! If your kid screams and won't be still, With mouth wide open, loud and shrill, Just know: it’s not for just a year, It’s here to stay, let’s make that clear. He screams at morning, noon, and night, No help or rescue is in sight. The neighbors think: "It’s plain to see, A thunder-beast moved in next knee." But there he sits, eyes glowing bright, With jam on whiskers — what a sight... I stand in silence, watch the show, And simply whisper, soft and low: — Well...

0

Mar 5

Mar 5, 2026 at 1:11 AM UTC

sukhodolln

"Screaming blockhead"

A blockhead screaming all day long, Restless, loud, and going strong. Where did he find the nerve, the gall, To eat the jam — yes, eat it all! If your kid screams and won't be still, With mouth wide open, loud and shrill, Just know: it’s not for just a year, It’s here to stay, let’s make that clear. He screams at morning, noon, and night, No help or rescue is in sight. The neighbors think: "It’s plain to see, A thunder-beast moved in next knee." But there he sits, eyes glowing bright, With jam on whiskers — what a sight... I stand in silence, watch the show, And simply whisper, soft and low: — Well...

17

Bookshelf filler by the psychotic charmer Black box of his terrestrial incarceration A myriad of non-reasons to own a ingot of spiritual gangrene Whirling in the bubonic well of blasphemic putrefied frogs Sellin’ all reasons to not sell any at all Let him enthrall while polluting the mental

0

Jan 1

Jan 1, 2026 at 1:18 PM UTC

HahaVoid

Own It

Bookshelf filler by the psychotic charmer Black box of his terrestrial incarceration A myriad of non-reasons to own a ingot of spiritual gangrene Whirling in the bubonic well of blasphemic putrefied frogs Sellin’ all reasons to not sell any at all Let him enthrall while polluting the mental

6

told you I was a liar; you did not believe me ironic, yet tragic how you trusted me so completely, but didn't take me at my word.

0

Oct 11, 2025

Oct 11, 2025 at 6:23 PM UTC

Lucida

Liar

told you I was a liar; you did not believe me ironic, yet tragic how you trusted me so completely, but didn't take me at my word.

6

What an irony— an over-prepared traveller, first at check-in, practically airport-camper— sprinting, breathless, for the only flight that truly matters. Bring what you can— No luggage claim planned

0

May 30, 2025

May 30, 2025 at 10:35 AM UTC

dianaligh

Final Boarding call

What an irony— an over-prepared traveller, first at check-in, practically airport-camper— sprinting, breathless, for the only flight that truly matters. Bring what you can— No luggage claim planned

9

🦊 Even a fox has heroic tales to tell Epic chases, Narrow escapes, Bravery under Moonlight. But, every victory was won against chicken. 🐓

0

May 20, 2025

May 20, 2025 at 1:34 PM UTC

Cadmus

The Fox’s Glory

🦊 Even a fox has heroic tales to tell Epic chases, Narrow escapes, Bravery under Moonlight. But, every victory was won against chicken. 🐓

10

it took violence to become this gentle it took neglect to become this loving it took apathy to become this understanding it took danger to become this serene it took adultification to become this patient it took abandonment to learn how to cherish and all it takes are those kind eyes and i break a p a r t

0

May 18, 2025

May 18, 2025 at 8:48 PM UTC

jaggedmosaic

❤️🩹

it took violence to become this gentle it took neglect to become this loving it took apathy to become this understanding it took danger to become this serene it took adultification to become this patient it took abandonment to learn how to cherish and all it takes are those kind eyes and i break a p a r t

16

One morning, while the sky still wore The shade of spoons left in a drawer, Mrs L. — composed, if rather keen — Noticed something odd. Obscene, In fact. Her husband’s cheek — once softly blessed With a dimple, modestly expressed — Was bare. A flat and dimple-less expanse Where once her gaze would often glance. “Where’s your dimple, love?” she said, Cradling oats and coffee-bread. He frowned — moustache beneath his nose — As though the answer might disclose Itself through grooming. “Which dimple’s that?” he dared reply, With sleepy brow and wary eye. As if he didn’t know full well The very place her kisses fell. It used to sit — just here — she swore, A quiet dent she once adored. Where sunshine danced and secrets slept, And once — she swears — a tear had wept. Now gone. Just bristles. Trimmed with care, Still scented faintly of “don’t you dare.” The dimple lost. And with it, doubt — Was this the same man, inside out? She watched him more in days that passed. The dimple gone, her questions vast. His ‘tache, unchanged, looked honest still — But dimples rarely leave at will. And then, one morning, just like that, It reappeared — both shy and flat. He smiled, a little off, but true — The dimple twitched, and there it grew. “Where’ve you been?” she half accused. But dimples don’t explain their moods. It only deepened — small, polite — As if to say, “He slept all right.” Since then she checks. Each morning, neat: Moustache? In place. Dimple? Complete. And if it's gone — she keeps in mind: Something’s brewing. Or he’s lied. But all was well... until that day She caught her own reflection’s sway — And found, beneath her sleeping frown, A moustache growing. Soft and brown.

0

Apr 29, 2025

Apr 29, 2025 at 4:01 PM UTC

malinkee

The Moustache and the Dimple (an ironic domestic poem)

One morning, while the sky still wore The shade of spoons left in a drawer, Mrs L. — composed, if rather keen — Noticed something odd. Obscene, In fact. Her husband’s cheek — once softly blessed With a dimple, modestly expressed — Was bare. A flat and dimple-less expanse Where once her gaze would often glance. “Where’s your dimple, love?” she said, Cradling oats and coffee-bread. He frowned — moustache beneath his nose — As though the answer might disclose Itself through grooming. “Which dimple’s that?” he dared reply, With sleepy brow and wary eye. As if he didn’t know full well The very place her kisses fell. It used to sit — just here — she swore, A quiet dent she once adored. Where sunshine danced and secrets slept, And once — she swears — a tear had wept. Now gone. Just bristles. Trimmed with care, Still scented faintly of “don’t you dare.” The dimple lost. And with it, doubt — Was this the same man, inside out? She watched him more in days that passed. The dimple gone, her questions vast. His ‘tache, unchanged, looked honest still — But dimples rarely leave at will. And then, one morning, just like that, It reappeared — both shy and flat. He smiled, a little off, but true — The dimple twitched, and there it grew. “Where’ve you been?” she half accused. But dimples don’t explain their moods. It only deepened — small, polite — As if to say, “He slept all right.” Since then she checks. Each morning, neat: Moustache? In place. Dimple? Complete. And if it's gone — she keeps in mind: Something’s brewing. Or he’s lied. But all was well... until that day She caught her own reflection’s sway — And found, beneath her sleeping frown, A moustache growing. Soft and brown.

48

A. wasn’t one to mince her words. Fierce, quick-tempered, loyal to the bone — the sort who once played handball, and could silence a room with a single look. These days, she stuck to peppermint tea and the occasional passive-aggressive text, often punctuated with “...” and a well-placed fine then. Her husband, V., was the quiet sort. Kind, in that maddeningly detached way. Spoke in half-sentences, disappeared into the shed when emotions flared, and claimed he was “thinking” whenever things got awkward — which, frankly, was often. Then one morning, A. woke up and noticed her right index finger had vanished. Not broken. Not bandaged. Just... gone. Like it had got fed up and walked off in the night. — Have you seen my finger? — she asked, holding up her hand as if she'd misplaced her keys. — Have you checked the bedside table? — V. said, without even looking up from the crossword. — Oh yes, darling, it’s probably nestled next to my dignity and your listening skills. She glared. He blinked. Back to business as usual. The days ticked by. She managed — stirred tea with her pinky, tapped out angry messages with her thumb, gestured like an arthritic conductor. But something in her simmered. Because she’d been building up to something. Something final. You know the sort — the big conversation. The “we need to talk”, the emotional hand grenade with the pin already halfway out. She had the whole thing rehearsed. Words sharp as cutlery. Tone set to devastating but controlled. And when the moment came — she raised her hand, ready to metaphorically pull the trigger... Nothing. No finger. No bang. Just her, stood there with a half-formed point and a face full of steam. V. looked up, calm as anything, and said: — I think I saw your finger near the mirror. Might’ve slipped off while you were rehearsing all those dramatic pauses. She didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him with a cushion. Since then, she’s kept the finger in her coat pocket — not for pointing, but just to remind herself: sometimes, not saying it is the louder choice. And V.? Well, he’s started coming back inside when there’s shouting. Even makes the tea now — once in a while, unasked.

0

Apr 29, 2025

Apr 29, 2025 at 3:52 PM UTC

malinkee

"The Finger" (a peculiar tale of one missing digit and a bullet never fired)

A. wasn’t one to mince her words. Fierce, quick-tempered, loyal to the bone — the sort who once played handball, and could silence a room with a single look. These days, she stuck to peppermint tea and the occasional passive-aggressive text, often punctuated with “...” and a well-placed fine then. Her husband, V., was the quiet sort. Kind, in that maddeningly detached way. Spoke in half-sentences, disappeared into the shed when emotions flared, and claimed he was “thinking” whenever things got awkward — which, frankly, was often. Then one morning, A. woke up and noticed her right index finger had vanished. Not broken. Not bandaged. Just... gone. Like it had got fed up and walked off in the night. — Have you seen my finger? — she asked, holding up her hand as if she'd misplaced her keys. — Have you checked the bedside table? — V. said, without even looking up from the crossword. — Oh yes, darling, it’s probably nestled next to my dignity and your listening skills. She glared. He blinked. Back to business as usual. The days ticked by. She managed — stirred tea with her pinky, tapped out angry messages with her thumb, gestured like an arthritic conductor. But something in her simmered. Because she’d been building up to something. Something final. You know the sort — the big conversation. The “we need to talk”, the emotional hand grenade with the pin already halfway out. She had the whole thing rehearsed. Words sharp as cutlery. Tone set to devastating but controlled. And when the moment came — she raised her hand, ready to metaphorically pull the trigger... Nothing. No finger. No bang. Just her, stood there with a half-formed point and a face full of steam. V. looked up, calm as anything, and said: — I think I saw your finger near the mirror. Might’ve slipped off while you were rehearsing all those dramatic pauses. She didn’t know whether to laugh or hit him with a cushion. Since then, she’s kept the finger in her coat pocket — not for pointing, but just to remind herself: sometimes, not saying it is the louder choice. And V.? Well, he’s started coming back inside when there’s shouting. Even makes the tea now — once in a while, unasked.

22

Мы как две школьницы я - прилежная а ты одеваешь пижаму в форме птицы после прыгаешь с крыши исходов будет немного Ну а меня будут дальше насиловать старики в туалете каждый день после уроков Но я буду терпеть как русский как христианин

0

Apr 23, 2025

Apr 23, 2025 at 11:09 AM UTC

danya-2

Untitled

Мы как две школьницы я - прилежная а ты одеваешь пижаму в форме птицы после прыгаешь с крыши исходов будет немного Ну а меня будут дальше насиловать старики в туалете каждый день после уроков Но я буду терпеть как русский как христианин

14

We cut one another Down to the very flesh While we miss each other Deep inside our bones Isn’t that ironic?

0

Feb 18, 2025

Feb 18, 2025 at 9:21 AM UTC

PeterGerstenmaier

Ironic

We cut one another Down to the very flesh While we miss each other Deep inside our bones Isn’t that ironic?

5

When you express yourself, The minute the thoughts come out, That's when the guns come out; YEAH, BABY! COME GET SOME! I'M EAGER FOR BATTLE AND WILLING TO BE A SOLDIER! MARCHING ORDERS, MADAM! AT YOUR WORD, SIR! IF I CAN'T DO IT, IT'S BECAUSE I'VE ALREADY DONE IT. EXACTLY TO YOUR DECLARATIONS, FOLLOWED TO THE LETTER YOUR INSTRUCTIONS! A humble, level-headed person.

0

Feb 15, 2025

Feb 15, 2025 at 12:18 AM UTC

manx-kronos-pragna

One Squawking Parrot

When you express yourself, The minute the thoughts come out, That's when the guns come out; YEAH, BABY! COME GET SOME! I'M EAGER FOR BATTLE AND WILLING TO BE A SOLDIER! MARCHING ORDERS, MADAM! AT YOUR WORD, SIR! IF I CAN'T DO IT, IT'S BECAUSE I'VE ALREADY DONE IT. EXACTLY TO YOUR DECLARATIONS, FOLLOWED TO THE LETTER YOUR INSTRUCTIONS! A humble, level-headed person.

13

Ironic, isn’t it, To be seen by so many, Eyes upon your every move, A window to the world, Yet a door locked shut. A false sense of connection, More friends than ever before, Likes that flood your screen, But how many really know The you behind the mask? Fingers swipe, messages blur, An endless stream of faces, Yet in the quiet moments, Who remains? Who hears the whispers of your soul? So hold to hope, and trust the few, Who see the world beyond the view, For in their hearts, you’ll find a place, Of genuine warmth, a true embrace.

0

Jan 10, 2025

Jan 10, 2025 at 7:44 AM UTC

sam-s-1

Beyond the Digital Maze

Ironic, isn’t it, To be seen by so many, Eyes upon your every move, A window to the world, Yet a door locked shut. A false sense of connection, More friends than ever before, Likes that flood your screen, But how many really know The you behind the mask? Fingers swipe, messages blur, An endless stream of faces, Yet in the quiet moments, Who remains? Who hears the whispers of your soul? So hold to hope, and trust the few, Who see the world beyond the view, For in their hearts, you’ll find a place, Of genuine warmth, a true embrace.

19

You said not to fall apart And yet here we are You went on to neglect me When our troubles became hard You said I couldn't see What you imagined us to be Fully awake but you're still asleep Always dreaming instead of accepting me I admired you from afar With my own kind of art I guess I'm a painter after all But my work was mine and never ours And then you found it was always me That I was all you'd ever need Guess you finally came around To acknowledge I'm a human being But love, I'm gonna accept you Like the way you accepted me Hoping that the flaws I see Will eventually come to be The end of you. Goodbye...

0

Nov 29, 2022

Nov 29, 2022 at 1:24 AM UTC

simpathi

You Said

You said not to fall apart And yet here we are You went on to neglect me When our troubles became hard You said I couldn't see What you imagined us to be Fully awake but you're still asleep Always dreaming instead of accepting me I admired you from afar With my own kind of art I guess I'm a painter after all But my work was mine and never ours And then you found it was always me That I was all you'd ever need Guess you finally came around To acknowledge I'm a human being But love, I'm gonna accept you Like the way you accepted me Hoping that the flaws I see Will eventually come to be The end of you. Goodbye...

22

Ironic as it seems: I know someone unfaithful longing for real love.

0

Aug 31, 2022

Aug 31, 2022 at 1:20 PM UTC

spacewtchhh

Hypocrite Hates Himself

Ironic as it seems: I know someone unfaithful longing for real love.

3

A cloudy sky is a terrifying one. See it’s subtle ripples Through the brisk autumn wind. See how close they come to suffocate, As they trap the light within. Ebb and flow, They shrink and grow, Patched, attached, detached, Never-ending. A cloudy sky is terrifying. See the colours dull. Everything washed over with a grey hue. Don’t get me wrong, I still find it beautiful. Heads are lowered and humbled. Travellers move faster with direction. Chats are shortened. Thinking “get out of the way of a rainy day.” Like a cloudy sky is an affliction, Strengthening the addiction to the sun. A cloudy sky is a terrifying one.

0

Mar 24, 2022

Mar 24, 2022 at 6:34 PM UTC

icouldimagine

A Cloudy Sky

A cloudy sky is a terrifying one. See it’s subtle ripples Through the brisk autumn wind. See how close they come to suffocate, As they trap the light within. Ebb and flow, They shrink and grow, Patched, attached, detached, Never-ending. A cloudy sky is terrifying. See the colours dull. Everything washed over with a grey hue. Don’t get me wrong, I still find it beautiful. Heads are lowered and humbled. Travellers move faster with direction. Chats are shortened. Thinking “get out of the way of a rainy day.” Like a cloudy sky is an affliction, Strengthening the addiction to the sun. A cloudy sky is a terrifying one.

21

The petals are already wilting Is their stay really so short? What irony twists is whim but such is life there is no end to a rim The hoops of my own eyes mirrors that of reality itself also that of my own sanity Is it sanity that makes me seek infernal truth? Is it a different sanity that makes others blind? Is it insanity which seeks eternal youth? Is it insane to wish of seeing petals in perfection one last time?

0

Nov 3, 2021

Nov 3, 2021 at 5:39 PM UTC

pilgrims

Spring Flowers

The petals are already wilting Is their stay really so short? What irony twists is whim but such is life there is no end to a rim The hoops of my own eyes mirrors that of reality itself also that of my own sanity Is it sanity that makes me seek infernal truth? Is it a different sanity that makes others blind? Is it insanity which seeks eternal youth? Is it insane to wish of seeing petals in perfection one last time?

13

thanks for letting me know you won't feel the same, it made me more inspired to write about you. how ironic.

0

Jan 29, 2021

Jan 29, 2021 at 11:58 AM UTC

soularis

you have my thanks

thanks for letting me know you won't feel the same, it made me more inspired to write about you. how ironic.

1

Said I was sheltered Then showed me some real ****** up **** I could never forget You left a mark In the worst way Like an earthquake You shook me up Opened my eyes To all the lies Opened the door To all that was hidden I should have never seen Knew me the best And still did what you did No respect For me **** hit differently After seeing it so vividly And I can’t deny Thought **** wasn’t fair to me But now I see it so clearly Tunnel vision The bigger picture appeared to me Something bigger I’m meant to be n.y.g

0

Jan 2, 2021

Jan 2, 2021 at 3:02 PM UTC

natxlia

Ironic

Said I was sheltered Then showed me some real ****** up **** I could never forget You left a mark In the worst way Like an earthquake You shook me up Opened my eyes To all the lies Opened the door To all that was hidden I should have never seen Knew me the best And still did what you did No respect For me **** hit differently After seeing it so vividly And I can’t deny Thought **** wasn’t fair to me But now I see it so clearly Tunnel vision The bigger picture appeared to me Something bigger I’m meant to be n.y.g

26

Isn’t it funny how Earth, forged from the universe Will die by our hands?

0

Aug 23, 2020

Aug 23, 2020 at 3:47 PM UTC

imperfectstranger

Haiku: The Irony of the Universe

Isn’t it funny how Earth, forged from the universe Will die by our hands?

3