Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Red
Squishing busy ants
Her finger stained red
She'd much rather sleep
Than count all the dead
 Sep 2017 Andrew Rueter
Bob B
A heat wave has hit.
While some people are boasting
About their cool air,
In our house we're roasting.

Fans help a little.
But frankly I have found
That all they tend to do
Is blow hot air around.

People say, "Be cool!
No reason to fret."
Easy for them to say.
I hate to sweat!

I have to tell myself
If I'm crabby and terse,
That I should feel lucky.
Things could be much worse.

A wise man once said,
"Here's some food for thought:
When it's cold, be cold;
When it's hot, be hot."

Wise words, I thought.
I'll apply them now,
As I downed my water
And wiped the sweat from my brow.

Still, when winter comes,
I know my thoughts will teeter,
And you'll be sure to find me
Shivering by the heater.

-by Bob B (8-31-17)
Her hair is red on a cotton dress of blue
Her voice has that spice that makes me a fool
But the hair is falling, the dress now a gown
The honey ***'s gone shallow, you're leaving town
Shadows have overcome, the sky's begun to pout
We have come to learn that you are on your way out
My world begins to shake, the walls continue to crumble
Once again on your feet, you begin to stumble
Your eyes stil sparkle, your lips quiver
You cannot be saved from what's within your liver
You once said to me "Don't cry when I flee"
If I do not, what will that make of me?
The years we have walked; the miles we traveled
The laughs we talked; the secrets kept raveled
I wish to carry you away from the light
Take your hand and help you win this fight
A turn for the worst was the doctor's vote
The memory of you I shall forever tote
The hair is on the floor, the dress hung out to dry
Buy tell me my darling, why must you die?
 Sep 2017 Andrew Rueter
Vale Luna
I believe the unknown
Is much more interesting
Than the famous.

Because why read
A piece that's been read
A million times
When I can be the first
To lay eyes upon
The becoming.
 Sep 2017 Andrew Rueter
Bob B
While on my walk I spied a flower
With huge petals, ruffled, yet tender:
A dazzling yellow-gold hibiscus,
Glowing with majestic splendor.

I couldn't help but stop and stare
At its striking beauty and gentle grace.
Not to acknowledge such elegance
Would definitely be a disgrace.

As I gazed upon the bloom,
I heard a quiet voice that said,
"They say it isn't nice to stare,
But go ahead…go ahead.

"Most people walk right by.
They see the flowers on the plant,
But their true ability
To grasp what they see is scant.

"Can you see me for who I am--
My individuality?
Or do all blooms appear as an
Anonymous totality?

"Yes, it's true that all of the flowers
Create a lovely impression together.
Think of gardens teeming with roses,
Fields of daisies, or hills of heather.

"But can you see my unique nature--
The deep essence of my being?
Am I more than merely one
Of many? Tell me what you're seeing."

Speechless, as though in a trance,
I stared awhile, then walked away,
Pondering every meaningful word
The beautiful flower had to say.

-by Bob B (9-1-17)
 Aug 2017 Andrew Rueter
Vale Luna
Do you ever write something
So good
That you feel like you've peaked
As a writer?
And everything from then on
Is a question in your head?

Maybe you should never
Pick up a pencil again
Because your writing career
Has already been wrapped up
Tightly with a bow

Maybe you planned to be a poet
Get a proper creative writing degree
And forever make a living
Off the rhythm of words
But every idea now
Seems like a steaming pile of ****
Compared to your last masterpiece
So it just sits
Rotting in your brain
Until you stink
With a lack of genuine creativity

Maybe you've written so much
That your rhymes
Begin to sound tired
And overused
But if you don't rhyme
It sounds as if you've gotten lazy
So no matter what you put down
The effort doesn't show

Maybe writing about the ordinary
Seems boring
But writing the extraordinary
Has already been done
And every option in between
Seems like a cheap plagiarism

Maybe your standards got too high
And people expect more from you
So every ounce of energy you have
Is wasted on doubting yourself
Until you're too exhausted
To write at all

Maybe you dreamt too big

Maybe quitting while you're ahead
Sounds better than actually trying

Maybe the emptiness you feel
When you don't write
Is worth not risking failure

Maybe saying goodbye
To your dreams now
Will be easier
Than a downward spiral
From the inability
To write something better than before

Or maybe
You're just overthinking it.
Wow, the feedback I'm getting from this poem is amazing. Tbh, THIS was one of the poems I had written that I doubted and almost didn't publish cuz I thought it wasn't good enough.

Moral of the story. Keep writing no matter what. Some things will suprise you.
Playgrounds turn to battlefields
as our children grow into children
who **** children
and it's always us vs them
as sneakers filling with sand
turn into boots filling with blood
but blood is cheap
and easy to make
the less we educate
the more likely our babies
will make babies of their own
while they are still babies
so take away birth control and information
and it doesn't have to be safe ***
as long as they keep getting pregnant
consensual or ****
lets keep that fetus safe
we need new feet to keep marching
to keep those old war drums banging
late into the night
to keep our enemies hating
on what we do because
they just don't get our idea
of what it means to be cool
it's live by our cross
or die by our sword
in the might of the dollar
and the words printed on every coin
we know we're always right
so military or civilian just bomb them all
and let god sort them out
because blood is cheap
and the dollar needs
  more
    more
      more
of that beautiful thing we call war
What malady attracts humanity
what fevers chill our blood?

Out there
there is worse to come,
the universe would be a
colder place
if not for a billion blazing
stars
and we only manage
one sun?

is that all the universe can spare

Come at me with comets or
an asteroid belt,
leave marks on my body,
have you ever felt the
pulse of a quasar or ran your
fingers along the curving of time?

There must be more that we're
unable to see,
or maybe we see it and
don't
recognise it

what ties it together for me
is the malady that humanity
attracts,
packed as we are on a planet
that turns on the turn of a card
and each hit becomes harder to take,
every reflection of light that ever bounced
off a lake goes back where?

back out there to the billion blazing stars?

I struggle to find inner peace of the kind
that Buddha should have explained better
or perhaps
I'm just dumb,
but
still,
only one sun
seems mean.
Next page