"agnst" poems - Hello Poetry

When I was a wee little 8th grader, I was so excited for highschool. I was ready for the next step in life. But now that Im older, I know that I couldnt have been more wrong. The summer after that 8th grade year, I lost everyone I had loved. Including myself. I was then thrown into this huge whirlwind of teen agnst and juuls pods. Im supposedly experiencing the best years of my life. But how am I supposed to experience life When by now, Im barely alive?

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Aug 7, 2019

Aug 7, 2019 at 1:58 AM UTC

Saige

a story for you.

When I was a wee little 8th grader, I was so excited for highschool. I was ready for the next step in life. But now that Im older, I know that I couldnt have been more wrong. The summer after that 8th grade year, I lost everyone I had loved. Including myself. I was then thrown into this huge whirlwind of teen agnst and juuls pods. Im supposedly experiencing the best years of my life. But how am I supposed to experience life When by now, Im barely alive?

11

THE HEART BECOMES NUMB OVER THE EXAGGERATED AND THE VIOLENT. I FEED THE MALADY AND DIG MYSELF A SELF LOATHING PIT FOR NOT ONLY MY CORPES BUT THE PEOPLE I UNWILLINGLY DAMAGED. THE CRACKS IN MY MIND ARE CLAWED WITH FEAR AND THE AGNST PACES AND PACES. EVERYTHING THAT EXISTS FOR INFINITE MILES WITH IN ONE IS DEAD, EVERY INCH OF LIFE IS UNFAMILIAR. I POUR OUT WHAT LIFE I HAD INTO MY PETITE PLANTS AND RESONATE THE GREENS IN MY BITTER CHEST THAT CANT CLINCH ANY BREATH OF RURAL STILLNESS THAT HELPS ME NOT SPILL MY ORGANS ONTO MY FLOOR. THIS OVER EXHAUSTING BETRAYAL OF MYSELF AND THE RIVALRY AGAINST MY MIND CANT TAKE REST FOR AS LONG AS THE ROOTS IN THE SOIL ARE TANGLED AND NOT BREATHING I AM NOT WILLING TO SHARE ANY COMFORT. THE LIFE THAT WAS ONCE IN FIELDS OF MIDDLE AMERICA ARE GONE AND I MISSED SO MUCH JOY I SOAK IN THE BITTER TAKE ON THE 2016 WINTER.

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Dec 7, 2015

Dec 7, 2015 at 6:23 PM UTC

RyanLindsey

Winter of 2016

THE HEART BECOMES NUMB OVER THE EXAGGERATED AND THE VIOLENT. I FEED THE MALADY AND DIG MYSELF A SELF LOATHING PIT FOR NOT ONLY MY CORPES BUT THE PEOPLE I UNWILLINGLY DAMAGED. THE CRACKS IN MY MIND ARE CLAWED WITH FEAR AND THE AGNST PACES AND PACES. EVERYTHING THAT EXISTS FOR INFINITE MILES WITH IN ONE IS DEAD, EVERY INCH OF LIFE IS UNFAMILIAR. I POUR OUT WHAT LIFE I HAD INTO MY PETITE PLANTS AND RESONATE THE GREENS IN MY BITTER CHEST THAT CANT CLINCH ANY BREATH OF RURAL STILLNESS THAT HELPS ME NOT SPILL MY ORGANS ONTO MY FLOOR. THIS OVER EXHAUSTING BETRAYAL OF MYSELF AND THE RIVALRY AGAINST MY MIND CANT TAKE REST FOR AS LONG AS THE ROOTS IN THE SOIL ARE TANGLED AND NOT BREATHING I AM NOT WILLING TO SHARE ANY COMFORT. THE LIFE THAT WAS ONCE IN FIELDS OF MIDDLE AMERICA ARE GONE AND I MISSED SO MUCH JOY I SOAK IN THE BITTER TAKE ON THE 2016 WINTER.

7

beyond tired, beyond sleep, far down the winding track of insombulance at the forked tongue place, known as... the insomniac's state..... there is a gilded room where poets do keep their muses, fair and unruly... and those, who think deep, philosophical notions and they wait, with lethivian patience, but little grace... in the shadows, ...until invited, by sleepless souls, to share, wine and cheese and a word or two.... then, they muses all, are delighted to discuss, at length, all manner of things.... and suggest topics that, need be, revealed, re-examined, rewritten. ....and to talk about, how, to make readers, smitten with the words, you have enscribed, the ideas you extault and extoll, the emotion you extract from your very soul. but when the dawn breaks they, the muses all, take their words wrapped up in scrap paper and off to bed they crawl.. leaving you, the scribe dark shadowed of eye to cope with the agnst of it all.... fickle hearted beings... one and all.... but oh, how i crave their company...

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Dec 17, 2014

Dec 17, 2014 at 6:11 PM UTC

betterdays

musement likes company

beyond tired, beyond sleep, far down the winding track of insombulance at the forked tongue place, known as... the insomniac's state..... there is a gilded room where poets do keep their muses, fair and unruly... and those, who think deep, philosophical notions and they wait, with lethivian patience, but little grace... in the shadows, ...until invited, by sleepless souls, to share, wine and cheese and a word or two.... then, they muses all, are delighted to discuss, at length, all manner of things.... and suggest topics that, need be, revealed, re-examined, rewritten. ....and to talk about, how, to make readers, smitten with the words, you have enscribed, the ideas you extault and extoll, the emotion you extract from your very soul. but when the dawn breaks they, the muses all, take their words wrapped up in scrap paper and off to bed they crawl.. leaving you, the scribe dark shadowed of eye to cope with the agnst of it all.... fickle hearted beings... one and all.... but oh, how i crave their company...

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