Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Slowly
He walks

It's not like
Anything is making him
Have to go faster
Than he is going

Frail bones shake and tremble as they move
A weak smile is on a wrinkled face

He sits
Unsure of what to do
Getting from one place to another
Is not quite exciting

A lamp hangs above him
And he looks up at the light
It is warm
It is soothing

The room is quiet and lonely
No one is seen but him
As he sits beneath the light
A golden glow shines upon him

The youth has been drained from his being
But not from his eyes
Or his smile
Or his laughter
Or his voice

He is happy
He is smiling
Though he is lonely
He feels content

The light continues to shine
The man continues to stare
He waits
Until the light flickers
And is gone
But he is still smiling
He is still content

Just because you're alone
Doesn't mean you can't be happy
I like to say I am a childrens book writer,
When I'm asked what it is that I do,
Some people say "he's a modest old blighter!
He's written good stuff for adults too."

I'm afraid I must correct what some people view,
As the simplelest past of my work,
So I say "That's correct, I write adult stuff too,"
And then over my face spreads a smirk.

"But my childrens poetry is much better stuff."
(And at this point their eyebrows arise),
"The audience", I tell them, "is far more tough,
They need intrigue, and twists, and surprise,

At every stage of the story, on every page,
To keep them listening from cover to cover,
Otherwise those dear kiddies fly into a rage,
And will start screaming at father and mother.

But adults are far easier to calm with a book,
It's the children's stuff of which I'm proud"
They then tend to fall silent, and give me a look,
As if what I said wasn't allowed.

Some try to argue; "But surely," they say,
"A thick novel is what good writers aspire
To be known for?" but I don't feel that way,
My aspirations are much, much higher.
Childrens books will always have a place among my favourite works, and I'm inclined to rate childrens books by such authors as Roald Dahl, Lewis Carroll and Hans Christian Anderson alongside the likes of Auden, Yeats and Dickens. Childrens literature is most certainly not something to be looked down on when compared to adult literature.
Without words,
We sang into the night

I used to be your moon,
giving off a warm, dim light

Without you,
I am just another star in the deep dark sky


Without you,
I am free to breathe again

But I'd rather be choking on this hold you have on me
Than be without you.
I really miss her
I'm  so horribly in love that I've been writing bad poetry with only one thumb and one eye closed and if I ran into her tomorrow I would belive it must be a dream and do something stupid and fall to one knee and propose and she would laugh and say no because thats the kind of thing that  happens when one writes bad poetry with one thumb and one eye closed
I was literally lying down in my bed "writing" with my thumb and one eye closed when I wrote the last few poems... love, you burn it down to the ground and the ashes haunt you.... you break your heart again and again and the ****** thing keeps coming back for more, with all the ash ghosts close behind... burn it or break it, I just can't shake it...f'ing love...
This petal says he loves me,

And I’m as happy as can be-

All the love I’ve been searching for

Is right in front of me


This one says he loves me not-

I guess that’s plain to see

From the way he up and left

Without a word to me


Plucking petals off a rose

And bleeding from its thorns

We may play at being angels,

Yet each still have our horns


This petal says he loves me,

Of that I had no doubt;

But this one says he loves me not,

Or, it seems to have run out


I wonder if the flower knows

Or ever wonders why

I’m picking all its petals off

With ever-heavy sighs


Searching for an answer

I don’t really want to find

When all along I’ve known the truth

Deep within my mind


And yet I’ll pluck a dozen more

To find the answer that I’ve sought

Of whether he still loves me,

Or truly loves me not
Dance, my little marionette,

You’d best complete your act-

Lest I send up Punch and Judy

To beat you blue and black!



Twirl and spin, my puppet;

But be mindful of your wires,

For if you end up torn and tangled

I’ll feed you to the fire!



Do your best to thrill the crowd,

But it best be good enough-

If my coffers don’t come back full

I’ll grind you into dust!



Listen to your master,

I am your puppeteer,

On stage I’m in control-

I am no puppet here



So sing and dance, my bauble,

And obey my every whim-

For the curtain, now, is lifting

And the show must soon begin
XVI
girl goes to bed with makeup on, wakes up with sore muscles
girl goes to bed without locking the front door, wakes up in the driveway
girl goes to bed without saying goodnight, wakes up to brother shaking her shoulders
girl goes to bed with the phone off the hook, wakes up with mouthful of *****
girl goes to bed in the bathtub, wakes up with an armful of black thread
girl goes to bed in brother's room, wakes up with the tv still on
girl goes to bed next to boy, wakes up before he does
girl goes to bed without sleeping, wakes up the same time as always
girl goes to bed with a candle burning, wakes up to the sound of herself choking
girl goes to bed early, wakes up to obituary
girl goes to bed with her hand in the cabinet, decides not to wake up this time

— The End —