#natureasmetaphor - Hello Poetry

For what river truly cries — when it drowns in its own tears? What walls speak for themselves, too busy listening to your gossip to hold any secret of their own. What gospel is worth quoting, when you recite only the lines you prefer, picking faith like fruit, discarding the bitter parts? Versions of reason, disgusted, and all collected in an old jar sunk to the bottom of a restless sea — for if a river weeps too long, it swells beyond itself, becoming another ocean too vast to contain. Walls that bend to every word you say will crumble under a single honest breath, and quietly falling like forgotten prayers, For when scripture just becomes a mere script; should I even wonder why so many of us perform the cold act of believing without believing at all — we're all so good at acting.

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Nov 7, 2025

Nov 7, 2025 at 3:28 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

An Act of Living

For what river truly cries — when it drowns in its own tears? What walls speak for themselves, too busy listening to your gossip to hold any secret of their own. What gospel is worth quoting, when you recite only the lines you prefer, picking faith like fruit, discarding the bitter parts? Versions of reason, disgusted, and all collected in an old jar sunk to the bottom of a restless sea — for if a river weeps too long, it swells beyond itself, becoming another ocean too vast to contain. Walls that bend to every word you say will crumble under a single honest breath, and quietly falling like forgotten prayers, For when scripture just becomes a mere script; should I even wonder why so many of us perform the cold act of believing without believing at all — we're all so good at acting.

14

Standing on top of each morning briefly stopping by each evening shortly unmindful, my eyes are chasing, my eyelids are sweeping with light the sky splattered with colours pilled out after hitting horizon's last shore. I am thinking what is this crimson, colour of lovers' hearts torn from each other and taking on to opposite paths, or the reddish glow of minds come together after dark moments of separation? Half of my life is soaked in colour watching these red glows spilled over the side-door that admits the day and the bamboo portals that shut out the day, but could not understand whether this earth and sky part in the evening and meet in the morning or part in the morning and meet in the evening! -०-

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Jun 9, 2025

Jun 9, 2025 at 1:06 AM UTC

sumanpokhrel

Colour of Horizon

Standing on top of each morning briefly stopping by each evening shortly unmindful, my eyes are chasing, my eyelids are sweeping with light the sky splattered with colours pilled out after hitting horizon's last shore. I am thinking what is this crimson, colour of lovers' hearts torn from each other and taking on to opposite paths, or the reddish glow of minds come together after dark moments of separation? Half of my life is soaked in colour watching these red glows spilled over the side-door that admits the day and the bamboo portals that shut out the day, but could not understand whether this earth and sky part in the evening and meet in the morning or part in the morning and meet in the evening! -०-

26

I poured champagne on the garden, just to see what wouldn’t grow. A rebellion disguised as art, too small to leave a bruise. The idea felt poetic— a confession spilled like incense, settling heavy in the soil, thicker than regret. By dusk, the dirt turned sticky, a graveyard for good intentions, gold on a barren altar, pearls drowning in sweetness turned sour. A bee circled the spill, its wings trembling, caught between greed and retreat. I wanted to tell it, Save yourself. But even the flowers had given up, their petals folded like apologies too late to matter. I stood barefoot in the dirt, watching bubbles rise slick against the roots of something already dying. At least the garden refused me honestly— its silence more forgiving than any answer you gave me. I laughed at how pathetic it felt— a toast to nothing, a promise unraveling, luxury offered to the lifeless. I’ll wake up tomorrow and call it nothing, but the smell of champagne will linger on my palms. And you’ll linger, too, where regret always does— settled deep in the soil, refusing to grow.

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Jan 19, 2025

Jan 19, 2025 at 1:34 PM UTC

Kiernan515

I Poured Champagne on the Garden

I poured champagne on the garden, just to see what wouldn’t grow. A rebellion disguised as art, too small to leave a bruise. The idea felt poetic— a confession spilled like incense, settling heavy in the soil, thicker than regret. By dusk, the dirt turned sticky, a graveyard for good intentions, gold on a barren altar, pearls drowning in sweetness turned sour. A bee circled the spill, its wings trembling, caught between greed and retreat. I wanted to tell it, Save yourself. But even the flowers had given up, their petals folded like apologies too late to matter. I stood barefoot in the dirt, watching bubbles rise slick against the roots of something already dying. At least the garden refused me honestly— its silence more forgiving than any answer you gave me. I laughed at how pathetic it felt— a toast to nothing, a promise unraveling, luxury offered to the lifeless. I’ll wake up tomorrow and call it nothing, but the smell of champagne will linger on my palms. And you’ll linger, too, where regret always does— settled deep in the soil, refusing to grow.

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