#newhere - Hello Poetry

Somewhere in the village, where the ground is made of flowers, God sprinkled salt— the stars— across the night. Two souls were born on this fragile, bombshell earth. Mother asked with joy, "Honey, what shall we give them?" And Father replied with an innocent smile, "Love and Friendship." They grew up, always close to each other. Love— everyone’s favorite, the heartthrob of the village. Easy to find, hard to make stay. Friendship— sweet, soft. Started with an innocent "Hey!" and ended up building bonds so strong, even scientists banged their heads on walls trying to break what could not be broken. But time flies— too fast. And Love and Friendship began to crack like shattered betrayal-glass. Love started hating Friendship. Silly Love never understood Friendship. The fight turned worse— so much worse that thunder broke the ground of hope and innocence. Flowers stopped smiling. Stars stopped sprinkling. And started itching on the backs of those born dumb by fate. And— boom. Gone. Both gone. Now this world is left with the thorns of dead roses. The earth grows cold beneath the sprinkle of betrayal. Why? Because Friendship, too, never understood Love ~BLUE HOUR

0

Feb 25

Feb 25, 2026 at 11:32 AM UTC

Bluehour

Dead Roses

Somewhere in the village, where the ground is made of flowers, God sprinkled salt— the stars— across the night. Two souls were born on this fragile, bombshell earth. Mother asked with joy, "Honey, what shall we give them?" And Father replied with an innocent smile, "Love and Friendship." They grew up, always close to each other. Love— everyone’s favorite, the heartthrob of the village. Easy to find, hard to make stay. Friendship— sweet, soft. Started with an innocent "Hey!" and ended up building bonds so strong, even scientists banged their heads on walls trying to break what could not be broken. But time flies— too fast. And Love and Friendship began to crack like shattered betrayal-glass. Love started hating Friendship. Silly Love never understood Friendship. The fight turned worse— so much worse that thunder broke the ground of hope and innocence. Flowers stopped smiling. Stars stopped sprinkling. And started itching on the backs of those born dumb by fate. And— boom. Gone. Both gone. Now this world is left with the thorns of dead roses. The earth grows cold beneath the sprinkle of betrayal. Why? Because Friendship, too, never understood Love ~BLUE HOUR

66

In her eyes, a universe unfolds, Where whispered dreams and truths untold. But barriers rise, a fortress tall, Against the tide, I yearn to fall.

0

Sep 21, 2024

Sep 21, 2024 at 11:56 AM UTC

_mjz_poetry_

"Her" (an excerpt)

In her eyes, a universe unfolds, Where whispered dreams and truths untold. But barriers rise, a fortress tall, Against the tide, I yearn to fall.

8

How painful is it to be a poet, Who can't write. A poet who has thoughts, Terrible ones, But can't express. A poet with emotions. But was never heartbroken. A poet of a few words, And even those are not the fascinating ones. A poet who wants to, but can't rhyme. A poet who wants to but cannot write. {Like a Doctor Who Can't operate But a doctor can also be a poet from the heart.} A poet not so poetic. A poet like me. They tell me don't try too hard. It all comes from within. But how and when? Because I am desperately waiting for the time to come, When those words will flow out of the nib of my pen onto the paper/blank. As smooth as a river going into the ocean. Like a fine aged wine from the bottle. Because it is too heavy, To keep it all inside, Troubling my mind and soul, Like a thousand years old ghoul. But it is all Stuck up, jamming all my words. HE never gave me those beautiful words. I read, I read and I read a lot. Hoping It would be able to turn into something like it. (into those words) Like a poem. A flawless poem which leaves you gasping for breath. I want to become a poem. I want to become a story, Which makes you cry, itch and then leaves with an ache for more. I wish I could use those brand pompous words. The mesmerizing vocabulary, Impeccable rhyme, The exceptional emotion, preposterous thoughts. I don't complain. I just want to be. Why is it never enough just to be? And if you have to choose between, Being you or a poem: What kind of poem would you be? All these magnificent poets And yet there I am. Did I mention? Poet of a few words. Alas! Again Words, Words, Words, I wish I had a way with them.

0

Mar 24, 2019

Mar 24, 2019 at 11:55 AM UTC

Prerna

Poet of a few words.

How painful is it to be a poet, Who can't write. A poet who has thoughts, Terrible ones, But can't express. A poet with emotions. But was never heartbroken. A poet of a few words, And even those are not the fascinating ones. A poet who wants to, but can't rhyme. A poet who wants to but cannot write. {Like a Doctor Who Can't operate But a doctor can also be a poet from the heart.} A poet not so poetic. A poet like me. They tell me don't try too hard. It all comes from within. But how and when? Because I am desperately waiting for the time to come, When those words will flow out of the nib of my pen onto the paper/blank. As smooth as a river going into the ocean. Like a fine aged wine from the bottle. Because it is too heavy, To keep it all inside, Troubling my mind and soul, Like a thousand years old ghoul. But it is all Stuck up, jamming all my words. HE never gave me those beautiful words. I read, I read and I read a lot. Hoping It would be able to turn into something like it. (into those words) Like a poem. A flawless poem which leaves you gasping for breath. I want to become a poem. I want to become a story, Which makes you cry, itch and then leaves with an ache for more. I wish I could use those brand pompous words. The mesmerizing vocabulary, Impeccable rhyme, The exceptional emotion, preposterous thoughts. I don't complain. I just want to be. Why is it never enough just to be? And if you have to choose between, Being you or a poem: What kind of poem would you be? All these magnificent poets And yet there I am. Did I mention? Poet of a few words. Alas! Again Words, Words, Words, I wish I had a way with them.

54

Originality over Success I’ve only wanted what’s best Success is in pride But pride will not drive Me. To win what is mine. For that, you may not have to try. For that, you may not have to think. And for that, you must stop. To get on top, you must rock. The world inside you for what it’s got. Why think, when you can do. Overthinking can be the death of you. The death of you. The death of you. Overthinking can be the death of you. Don’t think, just do. And remember try not to lose What is yours and what is mine, What can be found inside the mind. Don’t think, just do. Overthinking WILL be the death of you. Just start, then climb. It’s the best way to keep what’s mine. I’ll keep what’s mine until I scramble From then on, it’s hard to find. When you’re scrambled, you’re fried. You have lost what drives the mind. So don’t think, just do. Utilize what is left of you.

0

Sep 29, 2016

Sep 29, 2016 at 4:00 AM UTC

LilyTaylor

Somethink Different

Originality over Success I’ve only wanted what’s best Success is in pride But pride will not drive Me. To win what is mine. For that, you may not have to try. For that, you may not have to think. And for that, you must stop. To get on top, you must rock. The world inside you for what it’s got. Why think, when you can do. Overthinking can be the death of you. The death of you. The death of you. Overthinking can be the death of you. Don’t think, just do. And remember try not to lose What is yours and what is mine, What can be found inside the mind. Don’t think, just do. Overthinking WILL be the death of you. Just start, then climb. It’s the best way to keep what’s mine. I’ll keep what’s mine until I scramble From then on, it’s hard to find. When you’re scrambled, you’re fried. You have lost what drives the mind. So don’t think, just do. Utilize what is left of you.

28

How foolish we are to deny the thing we want most. I lay while staring at the screen knowing this attempt could either make the heart race once more, or sink low. I look at your contact and decide the heart can endure one more night of ache.

0

Apr 21, 2016

Apr 21, 2016 at 11:11 AM UTC

anie-zapata

Staring at the text.

How foolish we are to deny the thing we want most. I lay while staring at the screen knowing this attempt could either make the heart race once more, or sink low. I look at your contact and decide the heart can endure one more night of ache.

1