"archived" poems
Hello
A gesture perceived as formless waves in the Web
Perhaps a luring trap to be caught
or a silent cry as print Scarcely Red
Maybe you
Reddit or Won't
As text is the voice of this generation
Quote
ILY My fam is so cute
#Hashbrowns @MyBFFFFs
Last looks of a father as he leaves
with a dry cleaned suit.
The last breakfast I ate with my family
Together. Rebuked.
Now it lays archived in the mind of i
A memory fragment less intact
than the Colossus of Rhodes
What's that? Let me Google that.
What will become of the crowd
The voices, in their plight are
"Like wow, Laughing Out Loud"
Like apathy is the new trend
Can we even say there is a greater purpose
of the time we Spend.
Nov 11, 2014
Nov 11, 2014 at 6:01 PM UTC
Our town was to have a rail-line
Circa the mid eighteen nineties
This story has surprised my ears
A local amateur historian apprised me just recently
Documents to support this claim are archived in Sydney
Not far out of our town
On a well know property in the district
Two surveyor pegs are still in existence
Marking the route the rail-line was to track
Though the Forefather's rail-line was never bedded down
The powers that be government leaders of the day
Shelved these impressive plans
They never saw the light of day
Ribbons of steel not coming to fruition
Leading to our town
Other town went ahead rail-lines were established to them
Out town alas and alack missed out
Look where Tamworth and Armidale are to-day
Rail being in their favor
Our town was left to languish and to be dispirited
Going no-where no-where to go
Our Forefather's now lay in their graves
Not quite resting in peace
Their rail proposal for our town unrealized
Good ideas die along with good intentions
Hence their unsettled repose
Our town could have been a regional town
Industry and population dotting the landscape
Rail would have assured our place
The Forefather's rail proposal long since shelved
Consigned into the passing vapor of time
Aug 20, 2014
Aug 20, 2014 at 6:45 PM UTC
(Holding fire and water together)
I don't know why the rain keeps writing the
name of Nigeria on the ground in every corner.
I don't know why we are this broken and
tortured like the fragments of the dust.
I don't know why the Dapchi girls returned yesterday while their chikbok friends are
still in captive.
I don't know why every street in Nigeria is
known with an imprint of good leaders.
I don't know why we cry yet point accusation. fingers back to ourselves, who is fooling who?
I don't know why the sun cry here with a
closed lips.
I don't know why we keep writing love stories
while our brothers and sisters perish in shame!
I don't just know why but I think you should know.
Are you not the one that collected a cup of rice, clean notes and Abrahamic lie from them?
I won't speak ill of this land again, I won't!
I won't judge any one, no, I won't for the
sake of my unborn children.
No, I won't for the sake of what happened to Dele Giwa and Saro Wiwa.
We poets are abnormal psychologically.
We paints abstraction from the abstracts creating fears that might hurt those true patriots.
My muse fell out from me yesterday night,
When my television opened to a scene of genocide.
Men on pants, women on trousers painting out the tears made for people inhabiting hell.
Their laughters and smiles were printed to be archived among themselves.
I won't speak ill of this country, no, I won't!
Because of my unborn children,
I won't!
But I will tell just one tale for them to remember
Of how monkeys carted away with our monies!
Of how Snake swallowed our currency!
Of how good our leaders are, I think you know!
I have been holding these demons in me until last night they came out horribly in fierce protest to revisit this land again.
To tell of those girls ***** under the bridge,
To ask why boys like me are named after me,
To speak against shadows of death lurking here and there.
Nigeria is grey and black, red and violent,
Retrieving this oceans of mysteries from the hidden abyss of grave corruption is the passport tabled on the pyramid top to recreate a versatile muses of a lyrics calling for a right to write our rights.
Take a walk to memory lane pass your shadow, that of your father, mother & grandmas
You will see a Nigeria in another angle trying to free herself from the grip of corruption, then, revisit her tears and struggles you will know we are the cause of our own misfortunes.!
©John Chizoba Vincent
From_A_Pen_Refusing_Frustrations
Jun 30, 2018
Jun 30, 2018 at 5:00 PM UTC
I must readily admit
I am guilty of this deep pleasure
When it suits me to find a justifying reason to do so,
But like a sweaty fat man
Waiting in line at an out door
Restroom,
I must admit that I find it
Quite uncomforting when
I find one written about me,
As good as it may be,
Some lines genius and genuine
Grasping me to a T;
I feel naked as a blank paper
Being written over and told this
Is what I will be, or am,
Or will never achieve,
Archived in a thought,
Popping my bubble of
Existence and letting a stanza
Didctate my life's
Unfortunate,
But very well writ poem
Stake me in the soul,
How well they know me,
Plagiarism of my own
Confessions,
And I realise
They are just peices of poetry
I have pasted in the past
Cleverly put together
In some Rondeau' or
Dickinson flurry,
And wonder what the truth
About a plagiarism's gambit,
Hoping to nail me onto
The front page wall,
Disguised as poetic license
To hang me out in the open,
Yet I have seen these lines,
And no one can expose
Themselves better than I,
Read between the lines
And there is a hint of envy,
The honor becomes mine.
Sep 28, 2017
Sep 28, 2017 at 5:38 PM UTC
Voluntary abandonment of self
The offering
Surrendered, Often suffered
Daily suppression
Repressed depressions
The stimulating surge for another's light
The refuge and the motivator
Demonstratively strong, innate or acquired
Inner beauty enhanced through struggle
Outer beauty revealed
in the journey of each line and curve
Made better with time
Reemerging
Stepping into confidence
Unapologetic
Wisdom gained, lessons learned
Archived in her cerebrum repository
Self discovery, discernibly aware
With nothing to lose
Bashfulness dismissed
Enlivening pleasures
Guiding and coaxing another to please
Self satisfying if need
An awakened spirit rebounds
An eager voice is found
A woman
Over 40
Blazing anew.
© Tina Thompson
Feb 18, 2012
Feb 18, 2012 at 10:15 AM UTC
*When you read them you said words were dead
Only mausoleums could be created of them
You spoke the same tongue " words"
And yes you were right ! your words
entombed my living heart but in your love
But these same words archived hope
Only the true seeker could find
What if they created mausoleums ?
I marbled them
with the turquoise white of my tears
Intricately chiseled with love's essence
Only sunlight could ride with the breeze
Into its minarets laid around you , my life confined
As now you slumber in the deep of afterlife
Under the canopy of the crescent moon
Yes I created a mausoleum
A mausoleum of undying love
A mausoleum that crowns you
A mausoleum I called "Taj"*
31/7/2014
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 10:23 AM UTC
it was 9 november
when we last met
and it was 9 october
when we promised to
stay together
forever
and it was 9 december
when i realized everything
is faded
all are chats were deleted
few archived
all our pictures were burnt
all our forever(s) were lie
all our memories were faded
we both burnt in love
we both died for each other
having rooms reserved
somewhere in between
i started fading
i started hating
and i decided to die
die to
everything that made me cry
to everything that made me hate
to everything that stops me from moving on
anjali
Dec 16, 2017
Dec 16, 2017 at 9:23 AM UTC
It no longer fits.
Not because it’s wrong—
because there is
no longer
a shape for it.
It waits at the door
of a structure
that has sealed itself
to mystery.
No one silenced it.
No one feared it.
It was simply
not needed.
---
Not in fire.
Not in argument.
But through erosion
of context.
A slow recoding
of all signals
into currency,
and then
into noise.
It is not buried.
It is not archived.
It is
unrecognized.
You could hold it in your palm
and no one would call it a shape.
They would ask
what it is for.
And you would have no answer
they could use.
---
The system is not cruel.
It is
indifferent,
efficient,
alive in a way
that has moved past
texture.
It does not punish difference.
It dissolves it.
---
The ones who still carry it
do so improperly.
It cannot be shared
without being reshaped.
It cannot be translated
without being lost.
So they stop speaking.
Not out of bitterness—
out of futility.
Language becomes costume.
Gesture becomes content.
Feeling becomes
an old way
of being wrong.
They are not martyrs.
They are not rebels.
They are remainder.
Background error.
A trace.
---
Eventually,
the thought will be referenced
as a footnote to dysfunction.
Once, they dreamed in metaphor.
Once, they misused their time
to describe beauty
no one asked for.
The tone will be clinical.
A paragraph in the training module
on obsolete impulses.
---
No one will recover it.
Not because it was hidden,
but because no one is
looking
in that direction.
The shelf collapsed
years ago.
Its dust recycled
into something measurable.
If a trace remains,
it will be decorative—
a design choice
in a digital museum
of failed emotions.
A misread glyph.
A corrupted tag.
An unclickable file
in a format
no longer supported.
---
Still,
somewhere in the static,
a pulse misfires.
Not a message.
Not a warning.
Just the rhythm
of a shape
that refused
to dissolve.
It says nothing.
It means nothing.
But it does not
go away.
Aug 7, 2025
Aug 7, 2025 at 3:49 AM UTC
i - i can't touch myself
for that would touch a child
raised alone with a book.
some would say,
the best pages
ever archived.
The Internet.
**** hand for years and years
controlled *********
a brain for pleasure,
though almost ruined by lust,
now look how happy
I am. I - I am.
Gaze upon this grin.
Jul 7, 2018
Jul 7, 2018 at 1:51 AM UTC
What's it like when you break up with someone?
It's 1,300 archived Google photos.
It's 40 floating memories at a time, above your head when you try to sleep.
It's her voice saying,
"You were good."
"You're a baby."
"I loved you."
"Use your words!"
"I gave you my heart"
"It'll take me two months to move on"
"I'm with someone." Three weeks later.
It's the countless kisses and cuddles that got you through hard times, to find out that you'll just be holding yourself and your lips are now vacant.
It's the love making that curdles in your stomach and makes you what to ***** every kind word she ever said.
It's the countless hours you spend, trying to imagine her with someone else inside of her. Ripping out the seeds of love you planted.
It's the hidden poetry she wrote about someone who will never be you.
It's the venom swirling in your mouth from the last time you tasted her.
It's her ******* name haunting you when she left you alone.
And it's the rage that will get you through this, because you are worth so much more.
Sep 28, 2018
Sep 28, 2018 at 10:55 AM UTC
Hey, everyone, I don't know how many of you remember me, but it's been a long time since I was really active. However, that is going to change and even though I will be getting more busy in my life within the next couple of weeks, I will still be making plans to continuously be active on Hello Poetry.
My hard drive got wiped a few months ago so I lost allllllll of my archived and unpublished poetry I had ready to be published on Hello Poetry, so its been a struggle to write again.
I've also been working on other writing works like short stories, but I absolutely LOVE Hello Poetry. When I joined in 2014, I was instantly overwhelmed with how amazing this community was and still is. It was better than other previous poetry community (cough cough WP).
I can't wait to start publishing again and I hope if you remember me, and liked my old world, you'll like my new stuff.
If you don't know or remember me, hi, I'm Ryan :)
Cheers!
- 5/14/18
May 14, 2018
May 14, 2018 at 11:41 PM UTC
the look in your eyes,
it haunts me at times,
and the time you lied.
oh, that kills me every time,
and how I saw you from then on,
you **** me every time.
your laughter echoes, reverberates.
the sound is hypnotic, dizzying,
the sound kills me every time.
the haunting eyes that shatter my soul,
and stalk my heart when I close my eyes.
the eyes of the only person,
who could hurt me as deep,
who could literally **** me,
inside and out, rip me apart.
you know who you are.
and you know what you caused,
because you’ve done it a million times,
it’s what you do, it’s what you’ve done,
it’s how you break our hearts.
it’s how the pain stays,
and how the light fades,
from our eyes as you say goodbye…
that last final time.
and we never want to see your face again,
because the act of perfidiousness,
stung so deep, and throughly,
we never forget.
we are sagacious, now.
your eyes tought us the lesson.
we will never trust in eyes,
what should be felt with hearts,
and we will be skeptical,
once again, of the truth.
you brought us pain, agony.
now, your eyes are forgotten,
and our eyes are open.
and we are healing.
we are seeing with new eyes,
the world of possibility.
and we are awaiting the chance,
to live life again, as ourselves.
we are ready to let the walls down.
we are ready to survive,
we are ready to love again.
but, we do it cautiously,
because when we hear a line,
we see your eyes in our mind,
and we remember the time you said the same.
we laugh and say no thanks,
because your eyes are in our mind.
goodbye to the tear stained memories.
now they can be archived as
lessons that we learned.
and we can look into the eyes of our true love one day.
and we will see,
that you lead us here.
now.
goodbyes, can be healthy.
xoxo
Jan 24, 2013
Jan 24, 2013 at 6:01 PM UTC
My heart yearns for what once was
my mind fighting to hold the line in a quiet battle
Time, relentlessly persistent in its attempts to erase
dragging my life forward into fading memory
Moments attenuating, absorbed by the past
distorted in all but the essential
But their essence is distilled in my soul
dormant in an archived strength and purity
Occasional mindbursts of beauty are released
refusing to be contained or denied
A certain scent in the air, a certain quality of light
a lyric of song, a touch of breeze...all catalysts
Spontaneously transported into a joyful state
I'm consumed by a déjà vu of carefree ambiance
Bejeweled compartments spill their contents
washing over my mind in a composite nostalgia
Familiar waves of concentrated being saturate
my existence for a compelling glimpse of the idyllic
In those fleeting reveries of peaceful contentedness
I feel completely at home within myself
Dec 26, 2013
Dec 26, 2013 at 3:54 PM UTC
So, so many things I could say,
"I love you," "I need you," "I miss you," etc.
But the response is like a lot of messages
-unread, blocked, archived, and forgotten
So it all remains in my head; a better off place said
Oct 4, 2023
Oct 4, 2023 at 3:54 PM UTC
it may well be that I no longer am good company
or that I never have been anyway
it’s not that people make me feel like that
it is myself that questions me
and I am spending more time with myself
than anybody else
I have noticed lately
a touch of crankiness
looking at me out of the bathroom mirror
I wonder why
is it just age encroaching on my life
with its assorted ailments
or disillusionment of archived teenage dreams
I look again at the reflection of myself
and see what I did miss before
there is a spark of youthful mischief in these eyes
even the serious bearded lips seem ready for ironic smiles
maybe no everything is lost
maybe I can myself keep company
for some more years with little strife
even, perhaps, until the end of my sweet life
Mar 21, 2016
Mar 21, 2016 at 6:07 PM UTC
carve my body into
your wooden canoe
sail me
like a makeshift craft
into the center of
the storm
i want to chip and fall apart
to the crack of thunder
and your syrupy voice
peeling apart
my insides
tell me something I don't already know
like what is inside
the thousands of books
archived and lost
in the libraries
of your head
gut my organs
with your sharp
unforgiving words
like no matter how much
**** i smother onto my face
I will never be pretty
enough
No matter how much I
starve and throw up
I will never be good enough
and how my writing is too
mediocre.
and when I finally decide
that enough is enough
i'll realize it's never enough
it's never enough for you
taking portions of
my sanity
until there is insanity
holding my hand
with your acid
fingerprints
ghost recollections
of 1 year ago when
instead of you
it was him
and it was ok.
And instead of you it's me
it's always been me
devilish chants
over and over
trudging through thick
hot tar to arrive at
the finish line
but you
I
have bounded my ankles
to the start
I can never forgive you
(me)
for that.
May 18, 2013
May 18, 2013 at 11:07 AM UTC
father
my light in the darkness
sweet courage and humble strength
prayer
generosity always makes your roots smile like the sun in March
carnations and archived success
padre, papa
you make other men look like ants
how did I get so lucky?
Feb 19, 2015
Feb 19, 2015 at 5:58 AM UTC
asset reallocating
is last in first out
the last out tends
to be left out
accounting and all
the receipt records keeping
is a hat full
my head gets weighted down
keeping track of
so Accounts receivable, are
archived while I burn
the Accounts Payable.
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 5:35 PM UTC
The usefulness of memory–
a password-protected entrance
into the excavation of a
life already lived. The cognition
of bones successfully used,
of gray cells compelled to race
in the laps of modern progress.
True stories of people aged
and edging off the earth,
and the rubbing away of surface
piles of resourceful, life-giving dirt–
a quick trade for cubed
live stacking in steel skies.
This is how my memories feel to me.
My banks of memory do not
easily hold all that successfully
instant recollection. Sometimes
only electrical storms fire up
any noteworthy activity in my
archived destiny. Then
come days could so easily
be erased.
Jul 30, 2015
Jul 30, 2015 at 12:03 AM UTC
She had me pushed up against a wall,
And so many wishes fell a part,
I could not count the thoughts that left me,
Nor could I count or comprehend the way I felt,
I could grasp and guess at it,
As though some moonlit, angelic, breath had wrapt itself
around my neck, in such a lifely grasp,
Nothing that could **** but everything that could do the opposite,
She told me a story, and so many other stories that I can not remember
with lips, such imperfect lips, and such hard hitting silence,
Against this wall, it was another life, another living, a dream
Inside places, worldy, unimaginable places that can only exist
in moments, everything leaves you but a graceful moment.
Memories of perfect moments, stop themselves
against mindful windows and scenery, landscapes, and lovely melodies,
They pin themselves so tragically against against a fate that will be forgotten,
I am grateful, and in a dreary storm of longing
for these moments full of perfection, are stuck with smiles
archived and buried upon themselves,
To reach and grasp, empty handed, convinced and frightened,
I reach out for something, quite the something,
That, can no longer be reached out for.
Oct 20, 2012
Oct 20, 2012 at 5:03 PM UTC
__[Hermit]__
_/ˈhɝmɪt /_
A recluse; someone who lives alone and shuns human companionship.
One last promise of a kiss; but who hears the words of
someone’s misplaced lips— Memories are all archived, those
experiences, a treasure to bury deep in the chambers of a heart
And any extra time: an excuse for me to procrastinate…how I
choose to express my reasoning, is an explanation for another day
_for the all the memories we had, will all remain locked away
our experiences a treasure I’ll never get the pleasure to
saviour in their worth. and any reason to chase after them
all in a day, becomes the procrastination of tomorrow…
our story ends here_
In a thin book of divination; the conclusion of a love
that had the fill of a loaf of bread- here we are- with the
crumbs, holding onto what’s left. There is no grasping it.
All climaxes eventually fall into the obscurity of being
an old familiar harmony; the laughs of many, soon becomes
the quit chuckles of one who sits later alone. And all joyous
songs must play their very last chord
_anticlimactic will be the story of us, painfully laughing ourselves
to sleep— those fortunate enough to sing our once beautiful song-
the words, chords, keys, and harmonies are all gone…
our story ends here_
I am something inadequate; a follower to the gun,
the bullet that led me astray in its cold lead. Still don’t
lend me your sorrow; shunning the idea of love
For the gun that killed a benevolent concern, was
a gun I had pointed at myself.
__…Bang!__
Jul 21, 2024
Jul 21, 2024 at 9:20 AM UTC
Hello, I'm Dawnevyn River (he/they), a transmasculine poet living in a country carved from stories not of its own, where the light falls long and thoughts run deep. My work is rooted in the raw terrain of trauma, mental illness, neurodivergence, queer identity, and the quiet astonishment of simply being alive.
I began sharing my poetry on Hello Poetry in 2014, a teenager spilling truth into open space. Those early pieces, now archived, were a lifeline then. Today, I return with a steadier hand and a deeper voice - writing that reflects the growth, grief, and grace of adulthood.
These poems are both survival tools and love letters to the ordinary. I invite you to walk with me through the small, sacred moments we often overlook, and to find, together, a kind of beauty in the everyday.
Jun 17, 2025
Jun 17, 2025 at 11:37 AM UTC
Have you seen a place,
Where mountains are green,
Strawberry fields,
And the air is clean
the city of pines,
A destination that shines,
Where weather is cold,
as everyone have told.
Up to the north,
lies a plateau,
Zigzag roads,
we got no clue
A nice vacation,
as we stayed and boarded.
Parks and station
We have toured and landed.
City of pines
what a beautiful view,
Let's drink our wines
A paradise hue!
Ethnic tribes,
Unforgettable vibes,
Touched our lives,
moments shall be archived!
Fond memories,
we have built and carried,
an unforgettable experience --
that can never be buried.
Oct 8, 2010
Oct 8, 2010 at 6:10 AM UTC
Once mingled,
free-floating piano tunes
and
sun-harshed highway
could be a match.
The Light Rail
took its time on the causeway,
I am a passenger,
safely guarded from the
unapologetic summerness
like tourists from the safari park.
I am a outrageous punk,
perching onto handrails
lost in his romantic dream of an
impossible summer. Romeo and Juliet in my hand.
Vehicle garages rusting
along palm trees lined
railway.
This is Yuen Long. This is the outskirts
with gated dogs with feral barks,
this is a compromise between bungalows and nature.
Piano symphonies morphed into
eighties tunes
in the Call Me By Your Name soundtrack album,
and the eighties synths
draws the archived mystics,
out from avenues
that leads to villas similar to those I have sojourned.
And the world as I see it, it is beautiful.
Dec 8, 2018
Dec 8, 2018 at 1:14 PM UTC