#themes
A sable veil, a crepuscular drape,
Wherein the soul, a phantom, finds its shape.
A nocturne played on strings of frayed despair,
A hollow resonance, a vacant, frigid air.
The mind, a labyrinth of obsidian hue,
Where phantoms dance, and truths are skewed anew.
A pallid moon, a sickly, waning gleam,
Reflects the void, a fractured, broken dream.
The heart, a sepulchre of frozen tears,
Where joy lies buried, choked by shadowed fears.
A silent requiem, a mournful, solemn chime,
For life's bright tapestry, consumed by creeping time.
The body, vessel frail, a spectral frame,
Endures the tempest, whispers not a name.
A brittle echo, in a vacant, vast domain,
Where solace flees, and only shadows reign.
A somber canvas, painted dark and deep,
Where anguished secrets, silently they sleep.
A cryptic cipher, etched in mournful prose,
Depression's shadow, where the spirit goes.
Mar 13, 2025
Mar 13, 2025 at 9:10 PM UTC
I close my eyes
A feeble attempt to get back to a dream
I realize
It's ridiculous to chase one particular theme
Too many tries
With no mind paid to what it could mean
I fantasize
But fantasies have a misleading gleam
The crystal ball lies
It's all a regurgitated, outdated scheme
My reality cries
But it's better than when it use to scream
©2024
Nov 30, 2024
Nov 30, 2024 at 8:37 PM UTC
I’m tired of influencers faking nervousness.
my generation wants to care less
these days.
it’s a counter-current hack.
we want to be less defined.
we can search and reflect for ourselves.
we’re sick of the emotion
that’s all over everyone’s faces,
the unsightly splotches of opinion.
the entire election machine,
the process of getting there, is smudged.
It’s a curated mess, an advising spin,
an incomprehensible hex:
“Oh profit pondering,
contradictory means to an end
- bless weave, and conceal,
bloodless dollar debt options,
painful penny pincher paradoxes,
and deadly debt bliss dilemmas..”
“Is this a witch or an arbitrager?” Lisa asked, after rudely leaning over and reading up to this point.
“I was shooting for a numinous type of beat,” I revealed.
“We’re supposed to be working on our thesis definitions,” she said accusingly.
“Are you not challenged, here, hour by hour?” I asked sarcastically.
“I need ideas - well - I have too many ideas, I need some focus, I wanted to see what you had.”
I deadpan looked at her, “Well, you broke the spell - I lost my train.” I complained dryly.
“Don’t put me in a situation.” she said, waving my gripe off as insignificant.
.
.
Songs for this:
Easier Said Than Done by Thee Sacred Souls
drive ME crazy! by Lil Yachty
Melt by Nilüfer Yany
Oct 14, 2024
Oct 14, 2024 at 3:06 PM UTC
It’s Harvard VS Yale this weekend, the vibes are just starting now. Everyone - and I mean everyone - has been asking about my game tickets, because guest tickets are $25 a pop. I’m more interested in the parties than the game, so I donated mine (Students get 1 free ticket and they can buy 2 for $15 each) to Lisa (one of my suitemates) for her family.
Lisa, Leong, Anna and I are getting ready to go down to the dining hall. Lisa asks the room, “Harry Styles’ new buzzcut - Yes, or No?”
“No,” Leong said, not looking up from her teen fashion magazine.
“Oh, no - God no,” I answered, “The worst decision of 2023.”
Anna blows a raspberry, “I think he’s trying to ditch his ‘pretty boy’ image and go hard rock.”
Lisa followed up, “And?..” “And NO, disaster NO, jump the shark NO,” Anna answered.
“I’m a NO also” Lisa admitted, and she’s a h-core Styles fan.
Later, Lisa was reclining on my bed, using every pillow I own to turn it into a chaise lounge that wouldn’t wrinkle her outfit. Her heels were on the floor and her bare feet were dangling in the air. Her toenails were a French tipped twinkly-pink.
She was slurping on a Coke-Zero - again - for a much-needed kick of caffeine before the night's events - which made me feel guilty, because she picked that up when I took her to Paris last summer. I’ve told her (a million times) how bad it is for her metabolism and endocrine system.
“How could you do this to me?” I asked, as if exasperated - which is currently our in-joke for everything.
“Now-now-now now-now,” she says, in self-defense, “what SHOULD I be drinking then?”
“H2-oh,” I say. “H20, as in water,” she sort of inquired, she then asked, “What’s the ‘2’ stand for?”
“Twenty,” I think, snarking back.
“Oh, you fancy, huh?” she laughed.
“I’m in college.” I shruggingly bragged.
I was shuffling through my closet, trying to pick out an outfit that would, at least, look ‘ok’ next to Lisa’s ‘in your face’ fun mix of pinks and purples sprinkled with neon greens.
Barbie herself could never.
I doubted I could keep with the theme.
My secret to dressing for these endless ‘theme’ parties, is to just tune out the noise and focus on your feels. If you give too much weight to how others will judge you, it’ll ruin the moment. I ended up wearing a vintage, deep blue, Betsey Johnson dress with matching tights and black ballet flats. Glittery, smokey-eye makeup and messy curls completed the 'très bien ensemble'.
I looked in the mirror, hoping for glam, and shrugged, “the scene’s going to be moody-lit anyway,” I said, as an excuse to the universe.
“You’re going to murder-der-der,” Lisa pronounced, as we gathered our bags to leave. “Murder-der-der?” I chuckled.
“Murder-der-der,” she confirmed, as if it were obvious.
h-core = hard core
Nov 14, 2023
Nov 14, 2023 at 8:09 AM UTC
****** Recognition Blues
Physicists speculating about a cosmic hologram
Anarchists debating about the next message from Uncle Sam
The archaic ageing of the technology of the Telegram
An innocent waiting for an answer from an Annogram
Images of scientific breakthrough projected onto a screen
Lineages of ancient history documented by a well structured meme
Silhouettes of a symphony expressed in classical themes
Pirouettes of a dancer expressing her physical dream
Instant ****** recognition at the local petroleum station
Distant ignition of a motor designed for mechanical elation
Vincent Van Goh without his human ear awaiting non-contamination
Stringent processes for fiscal accountability awaiting mass configuration
An ominous sound bellowing out from a lonely cello
A omnivorous hound yelling out the sound of “hello”
A discourteous round shot out of the mouth of the mellow
That song by Coldplay -you know the one that they called “Yellow”?
Can you see the beauty of your most recent failure forming?
Do you feel the energy shift when dawn turns into morning?
Have you seen the tired child overworked from labour yawning?
Did you hear the broken poet howling sadness out as her calling?
Fundamentalist extremists theorising about their obsessions
Confrontationalist activists eschewing material possessions
An environmentalist prophesising scientifically based confessions
A conversationalist espousing verbal directives and regressions
Would you exchange your ideology for the sake of monetary gain?
Could you pertain to philosophically abandon your perception of pain?
Or would you abstain from phenomenologically documenting the acid rain?
Or could you categorically state that you’d like to decide before you refrain?
Precision elements of reflective detail in recollection
Decisions and components of defective mobilisation in your direction
Narcissus falling in love with himself, staring at his own reflection
Self-confidence that is so pure and strong that it is beyond external correction.
Humanitarian aid distributed fairly with efficiency and action
Egalitarian ways ignited by early proficiency and dissatisfaction
A Libretarian on display as surely as a well defined mathematical protraction
A maternity ward without a doctor waiting for the next contraction
Remember what the cost was when you held corruption to account ?
Dismember all that’s been lost when you want to make it count ,
Engender memories of the Holocaust as you view Auschwitz from a mount
Contender for the Nobel Peace Prize focusing on all that’s paramount
By Elizabeth Moroz Copywrite 2023
Aug 10, 2023
Aug 10, 2023 at 7:24 AM UTC
The incessant twang of complexity against my ribs
Accompanies the unwanted phantom touch on my hips
But the gentle caress of healing only barely brushes my lips
This is a beginning, but it feels like an ending with no postscripts
The things I used to find comfort in are futile
Against the battering of emptiness against my chest; it's brutal
But physically, I'm intact. Selfishly, I'd feel better if it was gruesome
However, only my mind is in disarray, if I'm being truthful
Do you know what it feels like?
Sometimes it feels dreamlike
More aptly nightmarish, but lifelike
A distant reality, objective, almost businesslike
It feels like a sordid, shameful affair
Although I played no part in the cause of my despair
I am the one who has to deal with it, so I send up a prayer
My soul hopes for speedy repairs
Nov 16, 2020
Nov 16, 2020 at 5:41 PM UTC
Themes from above
Inline with the divine
A sea of pure information
We are but processes through time
Which is relevant
for stages of development
Clear through the chaos
Write down a desire
Words bind and magick works
Form your own sigil
Things will happen to inspire
Feb 16, 2020
Feb 16, 2020 at 11:36 AM UTC
At the writer's congress at the round table
Discussed the beautiful life over the hill.
At the parent's school meeting
Germany was discussed specifically.
In the office of the director
The Caymans and Burma were discussed.
At bus stops
Discussed port wine and pepper *****
Mar 29, 2019
Mar 29, 2019 at 4:08 PM UTC
I'm seeing nooses in the shadows on my walls,
Shadow puppets dancing a mournful song,
Flashing visions of a knife over my veins,
Of my eyes closed as I accept the unacceptable.
Terror seeps into my skin as I realise my thoughts,
Pools down in my gut like acid,
Burning rings of fire through my stomach,
And I know I will think it again.
An itch on my neck keeps me awake at night,
Hissing in my ear of the pressure and release,
Tugging at my skin of how flimsy it is,
Of how temporary the pain would be.
A dark figure lies next to me,
Hot hissing breaths against my closed lids,
Whispering sweet nothings of taunted half held hearted promises,
Cooing as if I were a babe easily swayed into their arms.
So easy
It wont even hurt
Relief
An ending
An answer
No more pressure
You could be free
So easy
And I lie there,
Stiff as I pretend to sleep,
And the monster in my bed curls arms around me,
A lying mimicry of comfort.
My eyes clamp shut,
Nose flared in fear and exhaustion,
Arms wrapped around my torso to protect me from the enemy inside,
Blankets pooled in chains.
I will get through the night,
Ignore the whispers,
Sleep, I pray,
And repeat the ritual tomorrow.
Jul 10, 2018
Jul 10, 2018 at 5:45 PM UTC
In the fragments of my dream-state, I saw a past I didn't wish to uncover.
My old home-street.
It was the summer of a childhood memory, and the air was temperate-- like lukewarm water, suspended and perfect, almost vacuous-- without breeze or gust, as if strung up in some test-tube of a world.
The suburban houses lined the path, it felt the dawning age of autumn-- that though the trees were green, I could feel them ready to release themselves. to fall and die-- but not yet.
In the front lawns of these houses, exotic vehicles-- Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Maseratis-- an Italian road show strange and deeply uncouth.
With bright fantastic colors of cherry red and enamel white and neon green and twilight blue and midday yellow and magenta-- they portrayed as monuments, movable statues, and like a hometown get-together the families of the houses stood next to them, proud...waiting. For something.
I walked past, the spectral calls of my childhood friends and neighbors following and whispering inaudibly behind me-- a muffled shadow of voice that I yearned to understand, but could not. They laughed and spoke of illusory things, and within their voices dictated golden, pleasant memory, and a creeping sense of melancholy.
I could see my house at the end of the street. As we walked, it was as if a million summers came and went-- fathers pruned their oak trees, waxed their automobiles, pantomimed cooking and eating and drinking and mirth-- while the sunless sky glowed soft and infantile, a cloudless blanket.
Deep in my consciousness, I felt dread to return home. There was something off-- and as the dream world strips you of your familiarity, of your defenses and rationale, the raw beating flesh of fear spasms.
We reached the house, the procession of childhood friends all but dissipated. The old oak tree in the front lawn had been removed, the soft scent of lavender replaced with the vibrant colors of red rose and lanky yellow tulips that stood in piqued attention, long leaves of perfect green-- a new garden for a new soul.
An unfamiliar girl/woman-- perhaps the new owner of my lost home-- opened the garage, guided me inside.
Inside there was a McClaren, grey and yellow and unbelievably beautiful-- but dark and covered in dust. The garage was always dusty. How interesting that she would leave her prize hidden from the festivities...
She opened the door, in I walked.
In dreams often what we understand of geography and place shifts radically-- so that we may encounter a more unfamiliar world, to recognize it as distinct from waking memory. Perhaps so that we do not get lost-- to give us a way out, a logical incongruity to feed ourselves-- to convince ourselves that this world is imaginary, that it is irrational and inexplicable.
Yet when I entered my home, it was as if I had never left. The television cabinet, the floral couches, the wrought-iron fence through the kitchen door-- all of a sudden I was home again. For all the times I wondered, imagined the new family that took my childhood home--it was okay. It was safe. it was respected.
In the living room, the new family was unpacking posters. Old cartoons and comic characters next to the Christmas fireplace. Upstairs I heard muffled conversation-- bouncing off the vaulted front atrium to my ears, they were in the rumpus room-- the room I had so often called my own-- where I lost myself in books and games and puzzles and dreams. I wanted desperately to see it, yet I felt a slight unease-- I did not wish to push further than I would be let.
The woman guided me to the family room table, where we would so often have our family dinners-- and I would hide myself underneath the legs of unknown relatives, playing with the dog or tracing my finger along the exposed, unfinished wood of the underbelly-- and these memories flooded my dream-- a daydream within a dream-- calling with it a deluge of melancholic nostalgia-- a sort of hypnogogic recollection.
I could feel the stinging ache of these memories. I could hear myself weeping against the chair leg, looking out the french doors into the garden full of roses and grass and lilies and tulips-- familiar yet alien, alive and dead, lost and found. The ache was painful, yet when I suddenly awoke I found myself overcome with a sort of exhausted pleasure-- the kind of feeling one gets after crying for a long time, crying into the end of one's breath-- at the end of a long period of pain, or a resolutive tantrum.
Jun 6, 2018
Jun 6, 2018 at 4:54 PM UTC
Follow the trend
Sell your soul
Climb to the top
Tell me what its like
In the end
Maybe if you are finally happy
I can take the knife out of my back
May 1, 2018
May 1, 2018 at 6:35 AM UTC
When no one is looking, words burst from my head
Inside my skull are colours, scents and sounds
And my life is played out to a relentless sonorous soundtrack
Sometimes the music collapses with waves of resonance
And in others it is plucked like strings, individual and soft
It’s perceived by my inner ear, it’s not for others to hear
When I am out of sight, I’m truly at my very best
For life is like a swirling whirl of different shades
Different shapes and forms, some almost difficult to perceive
I try to put these on paper, shape the thoughts that I have
But the best, these arrive in the depth of the gloom
And in the early morning, they are once again forgotten
These words that slip through the fingers of my recollection
Flowing with the brightest of sparks, glowing embers of ideas
Impressions lost in the falling mornings sunlight
In front of my keyboard I then sit, puzzled chin in hand
Fingers tap the keys and yet nothing of excellence appears
So another day, with the words remaining inside my head
Feb 3, 2018
Feb 3, 2018 at 6:40 AM UTC
Bring your empty words
I will re-charge them again
And make them potent;
The hollow words---
Bring them to me and
I will make them sing,
In the summer afternoon
On the glistening lips of
The workers in sweat
Working on construction sites;
Bring your faded words
I will make them shine in the forge
Of blacksmith whose sinewy hands
Will form them into forms that appeal;
Bring your sad words,
I will make them smile
On the faces of war-orphans
Street children
And cancer patients,
Because when sterile words
Of poetry come into contact
With unsaid suffering of the
Larger silent humanity,
They become fiery,
Gleam,
Mesmerize and
Truly become
The sweat-soaked words and entire syntax
Great transcendental poems!
@Sunil Sharma
May 8, 2017
May 8, 2017 at 12:07 AM UTC
I will pen a real long poem,
One that goes on and on.
It will be Universal,
Get added to all categories:
There's two thousand plus
Themes we write on,
From first breath
To the dust we lie in.
My poem would weave
The Fabric of Love,
Dripping from
A Heart that Hurts,
To offer solace and love's comfort.
It couldn't be one of
Ten Words,
But myriads in
A Sea of Thoughts;
Added to
All Time Favourites,
And Words Worth a Thousand Pictures.
If you like Beautiful Tragedies,
I'll jot a verse on Life Stories.
I'd pen a stanza for Love for the Moon,
Lines to make An Exceptional Poem.
The keen reader adds it to Genius Speaks,
The younger hearts to Sweets for the Sweet.
The darker side clicks Macabre and Mayhem,
They too are Becoming Human.
I'd accept a like for Best Sweet and Sour,
I'd be happy with Whatever, Whenever.
The weird add it to Psychopath,
The regular to Treasureworth.
It may contain the Inspired Word
To advise those trapped in Parenthood.
Oh My Goodness, it's A Poem to Keep,
One to read, then Read and Repeat.
But mine will lie in Buried Treasures,
Disappear in Endangered Species...
Hey, I got a Thank You For Sharing,
This Made Me Smile.
I think you get my drift, indeed,
I've written The Best of Hello Poetry.
So, Poets Speak Loud on **** Good Stuff,*
Write The Story of Life, The Ultimate Poem,
On Love is the Purpose, or Who We Are,
I'll add your verse to Top Notch,
And yours is one of My Favourites.
Nov 4, 2016
Nov 4, 2016 at 11:13 AM UTC
She sits alone, in the dark recesses of her mind,
Memories resurface like a drowning child.
Things never imagined mar her ****** form,
Her mind is retreated, into a world of its own.
She serves those above her,
she serves those below,
she thrashes and cries out, but she never stirs.
Images fade into darkness and days pass her by,
An empty shell of the life she once had despised.
And then the footsteps on the hard, dingy floor,
Announcing an arrival, as unwanted as a sore.
An automated routine, a drugged consciousness,
Then, once more she is dark and alone,
With nothing but her tears, reflecting the pain,
The only thing she owns.
Slowly but surely, light creeps into the sky,
One more day to survive, one more day to die.
Her head is raised slightly as sunrise colours the sky,
Stirrings in the human dwellings, people passing by.
The tiny ounce of hope she held is shattered at the sight,
A ghoulish figure that could have been on the other side.
The tattered hand of destiny, playing havoc with lives.
Sep 22, 2016
Sep 22, 2016 at 1:21 PM UTC
Rain, pain, sun, moon,
Grass, love, the sky at noon.
Poets often echo the most popular of themes,
Because these things are common it seems.
It's not bland to bleed what life delivers,
Onto paper, pen moving, ink flowing, a river.
It's especially beautiful when someone can write,
About these things in a captivating new light.
So don't shy away from popular themes,
In life, these things are common, it seems.
Nov 13, 2015
Nov 13, 2015 at 12:52 PM UTC
Ghosts of the day
give way
to the gloom
between street lights
where shadows move
in the sourness of solitude
when little changes
except time, tides
and dreams
with a variety of themes.
Oct 27, 2014
Oct 27, 2014 at 7:00 AM UTC
Little boys
unsupervised
genetically designed
like toys
beguiled by fantasies
spontaneously play
improvised games
like actors
with imagined scripts
depicting violent scenes
as common themes
reflecting personalities
blooming slowly
in the park
at the bottom of the street.
Oct 7, 2014
Oct 7, 2014 at 11:58 PM UTC
Crumbling stone towers
And withering flowers
Stormy skies
Breaking my trust with all their lies
Racing through the Forum roads
With every breathing second breaking their code
Codes of ruling and giving
And living and loving
Black shadows with silvery daggers
Around my crimson lover, who staggers
His golden laurel crown
Clashes and clangs as it falls to the ground
How many throats have they slit?
Or poisons given?
Or pushed strong men past the bounds of heaven?
To dark and shadowy and desolate lands
Where light flys fleeting from open hands
It pains me now as I hear him scream
With an unearthliness that sounds like a dream
A horrible dream where things are
Nothing as they seem
His beautiful starry purple robes
Fall between the Tiber and a thorny rose
Yet somehow even as I see them make their mark
I believe in nothing but the beating of his heart
Sep 30, 2014
Sep 30, 2014 at 11:37 PM UTC
Cherish these memories.
Precious as can be.
Blindly chasing goals,
has is own penalties.
And your enemies,
will swipe your knees.
As best friends,
won't always be.
I'm proud of you,
You not proud of me.
A bond formed, with trust
Will always be most important - you'll see
May 6, 2014
May 6, 2014 at 3:27 PM UTC