Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
eF Sep 2018
“You’re not good enough”
Is the one sentence you should
Never tell yourself.
Hi. I’ve been struggling with this my whole life. It’s like I’ll never be able to convince myself. I feel like my poetry is at a decline. I feel as if nothing I write is good. I couldn’t tell you the amount of “drafts” &  private poems I have on here just because I’m afraid.
Afraid of ridicule.
Afraid of hating myself more.
Afraid of everything.
eF Apr 2017
They say the home is where the heart is,
But all that's left in my chest
Is an **** mess, a vacant nest.
Another day, another stress.
Feeling like the prize isn't worth the
*Contest.
Quick something.
I wanted to keep it going.
But didn't want it to feel forced.
Last line had me sold.
eF Jul 2017
You dug your own grave.
Now you're upset because it's
Too deep to get out.
eF Jul 2017
Lying to myself.
Can't seem to escape this ****.
Feeling overwhelmed.
Hi.
eF Sep 2017
When I am a ghost.
Those that weren't around, will say
They were there the most.
Where were you when I needed you most?
Only around for the good times.
the champagne,
And the toast.
eF Dec 2018
Christmas is pointless
Since they misinterpreted
Presence for presents.
Hi.
You can’t buy time.
No matter how hard you try.
Caitlin Jun 2018
In the in-between stage where there is just enough alcohol in my veins to try and convince me that what we had was good.
The sweet spot.
Too little or too much and all I see is the problems and why it ended in goodbye,
but here-
here I see “hey princess”-
all the “I love yous”
“I’d do anything for you”
“You’re worth it, no matter the cost”
and I know in an hour or two I’ll be thinking clearly again-
but **** right now-
I know why I stayed for so long.
I’m tipsy and we’re flirting again and I’m sorry.
Nicole Alyssia Aug 2016
wake me from the dead
my lover
for my heart yearns
to beat
and my hand yearns
to write
I am nothing without a muse.... A hollow shell, going through the motions, floating lifelessly
TuFF GHosT Jan 1
Treat me with a new sweet trick
And repeat until I get sick
Or
Start to believe I am in love

All the floating oranges
Reflect off the metal horses
So
Why do we bow, when he's above

The tapestry was well designed
And hands were chopped off in due time
Then woven over, redesigned
Now let the blind lead the blind

I'll face the moon and count by threes
With fingers crossed under the trees
The
Night shade feels extra warm to me

You jump through the parallels
And warn, this one goes straight to ****
Yet
You would rather stay than be free
Happy New Years, who else secretly hopes that finally those youtube videos, about the world ending, come true?
Ari Apr 2018
it feels like my mind is being stretched out
like taffy
it sticks to one's fingers
sickly sweet
swallowed whole, no chewing

it's also akin to a TV set
a dizzying tizzy of static
colorbars across the screen
only seen in black/white to me

my every thought is a grain of sand
once neatly nestled together caressed by calm waves
but
a hurricane came through
and now
their scattered
*they're scattered.
and *****!
oh, how they are *****.
but then again, sand is always ***** isn't it?

i don't know where i'm going with this
i lost the way to 'metaphor' or 'inspiration'
so i'm just going where the wind takes me
and hoping i'm not chaining myself to a tornado
Kevin J Taylor Oct 2015
Doctor of Psychiatry (That's Me. EMM. DEE.)
The accent's on the silent P
I read it in a book, you see,
the Holy DSM (now V).

But did I hear you say you're SANE?
Well, have you met your reptile brain?
Here... Plug this in…
Now bite down hard...
While I explain...

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!
AAAaaaaahhh!

Hmmm, what to do? My day's half done...
Let's educate! With Ritalin!
Oh Glory Me! Not vita-mines!!
We can't have that you filthy swine.
Can't you just work on drooling fine?
Now, back to work... No time to waste...
My kickbacks must be earned posthaste!

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!
AAAaaaaahhh!

Survivors? Schmeguyvors!
It’s time for lunch!  I'll have some brain!
Served with sides of *** and pain!
Again, again, again, AGAIN!!
You're drooling from your ears again...
I thought you said that you were sane.
Quick! Swallow this — I’ve kids to *****!
Did I say that? IT ISN'T TRUE!

(They must read minds — I’LL **** THEM TOO!)

OOooohhhh! (Psych) Drugs that ****!
OOooohhhh! Lies & hate!
Electroshock! Lobotomate!
AAAaaaaahhh!

I love to ****! O what a day!
In fact, I'm GOD, I'm proud to say.

I'm-hearing-what-you're-telling-me
Blah blah blah blah
Blah blah blah blah...
You say some words?
Listen! They don't even rhyme!
So just make sure you're dead on time.
Take these... What? Did I say DEAD?
(That Prozac's gone straight to your head.)
Of course I did! Cuz DEATH’s such fun!
THE ONLY CURE FOR EVERYONE!

(insane laughter)
.
Vanessa Viniegra Sep 2018
I feel hurt... I feel betrayed... I feel dismayed... I feel disillusioned... I feel like I need to be in an institution... I feel scorned... I feel abandoned... I feel like I'm branded... I feel sad... I feel mad... I feel lost and double crossed... I feel used... I feel abused... I feel destroyed... I feel haunted and taunted and deranged... I feel faithless and hopeless and scared... The tears won't stop rolling and the pain won't stop flowing... And I feel like it will never end... I'm in **** again... I have no fight left and the battle is lost... I give myself to the shadows as my warrior heart is crushed... I feel broken and battered and like Iv nothing left... I feel over thrown... I feel bereft... I feel like my light has gone out and like the darkness now has me... And like this time there is no way out... The darkness has me and im its *****... No help will come and no one will save me... I reach out but no one can see me... I call out but no one can hear me... I think about praying but then I remember it is God who has betrayed me...
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
You know what?
**** your mortgage
And your four wheel drive
With its blah blah mileage
And blah blah blah long hard cylinders
And your newly painted lounge
Passionate Purple and Mellow Magenta
Blah blah blah
And your giant flower pots
And your five hundred channels
And your grand piano
That nobody plays
And your recliner sofas
And your perfectly square
Family photos
And your walk in wardrobe
And your cufflinks
And your **** toys
And your big *******
Lawnmower
And
God ****** I hate consumerism
Beer
Beer
*******
BEER
SOMEBODY GET ME A BEER
The Sphinx Sphanther, an ailuralien
from Slazenger 7, Ulthar System,
surveyed the vapid dullpink lunascape
of Smars. As he scanned yonder scanyons &
clabby tableland of Smartian terrain,
his 8ft henchbot, Ernie, numberwanged
'23467 097
11.' The Sphinx Sphanther's binary-brained
blabacus of a hotchbot robutler
doubled as personal security,
equipped w/ chainsawwindmillstars for hands.
But scant call for slicing 'n'dicing crowd
control here: Smars was desolate as smug
snow, too xeric to dessicater to
desertcraturf - in that, arid aphex
of its counterpart thru the quantumgate,
unsparticulate Mars. Sphinx had been there
too, long after the novalia cleared
by the Elon Muscovites for dometown
of New Creationham instead became
obumbrated by proxy war, a mauve
Somme for drones. The Zeta-Reticulan
barhover he'd met centuries later,
at Sagittarius Bolognaise, had
divulged he'd been staking out the Terrans
for millennia, concluding that quite
clearly they weren't Kardashev calibre:
' The Terran jackal apes could never build
fair Isratin on Mars's blank red slate,
but desecratered Earth 2.0
w/ telefactored lex talionis.
Palasraeli peace-world a daffy god's
dream.' But no roseplated, plaintive past
of lost races & their last, lost chances
would weigh on Sphinx Sphanther over 0-
g 'n' ts - least of all, kamikozmic
Terrans, ghosts of toddlers before his time.
Besides, he purrferred the splanetary
systems in his home universe, S-side
of the supersymmetrical stargate.
Even planet Smearth, whose gnomes salivate
for colloidal silver & often ate
salvers. But multiversally treasure-
hunting catman was not on Smars for smurrks,
nor to holoholo like a stalko
thru the pink pother, a fishbowlhead space-
*** w/ the best seat i.e. the worst seat
in a stadial sandstorm of foxglove
fog. In whirbles pulsive, Ernie's clicking
clock breath axlegroused, '23824
71719', as the Sphinx
Sphanther fremescently urged the servo-
droid to 'move your chrome cuirasse!' Which encased
Ernie's one lung of mesh & blexcroid heart,
repurposed by a gizmomancer from
silicone garage off Milkomeda
magic roundabout. Or was it spaceport
at the Smilkomeda?  Whichever,  the
Sphanther had long ago evolved beyond
flying saucers of cream. Caterpillar-
tracked calculator w/ a sporknose &
whisking shuriken fingers, Ernie creaked
futuristically behind its feline
master, as they descended in oblique
Indian file down scarp of Mountbattern
grink, for now the Sphinx Sphanther had bird's-eyed
some bearings. Manshaped moggy & lotto-
machine-A.I.'d adjutant had for days
yomped the candydross regolith of Smars,
a desert every bit as brass monkies
& indistinguishable in aspect
(save to areographers) as ******
tundra of its supersymmetrical
sister sphere, yet pink as amassed honkies
(tho' ofays blushing ashen w/ gammon
guilt). A holo-map Ernie projected
from its cyflaptic eyezor had led them
this far, but now the Sphinx Sphanther relied
on the sort of stillicide scholarship
a cat gleens from spacerats (w/ translation
bracelet bangling his back, a caudal wire),
because Ernie's pirate-ninja meter
was in emergency credit. The pair
hinterlunged on thru tayammum douches
of inextinguishable pink, spinning
powders, smaze of Smartian haboob, until
Sphinx Sphanther sphied, sphorry, spied his wrecked grail.
'Initiating sleep sequence passout-
code: rats apollo defile robot tide,'
catman commanded his lollygagging
tincan manservant to take hard-earnied
standby. Then, before Ernie's spangbolts could
cease squeaking, before its hi-tec bits quit
bleeping &  the combined constadrone of   
mechanical chakras was susurrust
(engulfed by speckled banshee breaker of
nominal boughs, wolf sough of Smars booting
alien sandcastles), the Sphinx Sphanther
in his eagerness nearly lapsed into
quadrupedal ignominy, as he
raced towards the ruins, object of his
enantionautic planethopping
over 8 & 1/2 lifetimes. Not much
remained of whatever edifice had
once graced Smars, a primordial witness
wrought in masonry as lurid as some
Lovecraftchild of Liberace, its pink
pillars & pink hunky punks bubblegum
rubble now, vividness conspicuous
against the grink sands.These Smartian ruins
were only slightly less ancient than God
& his blue hypernovae toybox, or
Tohu wa-Bohu's pantherine absence
before that. The Temple of the Dark Lord,
Yod-Coalescence, indisputably
a stripling of deep architecture next
to the Sphinx Sphanther's incomparable find.
By the same token, the fabled Terran
city of Dubai would be an ****
baby of steel & glass next to this site
of cosmic heritage, this exploded
damask rose of a UFOpolis,
stone petals shed by flower of dust. Engraved
on block immemorial, poking out
of a sandbank & imbued w/ forlorn
fascination for upright ****, such as
xoanon of Eve might hold for Conan
the Slybrarian, was maxim in long
dead tongue, the long dead sense of which rendered
it accidental koan, dumb poem
by anon culture that might as well be
entitled 'Sirenen Istigkeit'. Food
for thought anorexic Time, bulimic
Space inedibly graffitied on Smars:
'Nulla Dies Sine Linear B'.
Under cured Klyntar yurt later that night,
whilst Ernie hummed w/ Atari sheep sprites,
the Sphinx Sphanther dreamt of mighty works thru
the wringer of longslid signifiers:  

The barhover hovered above
membranous whatevers of mise-en-dream,
before the scene settled like anarchic snow.
Smickey Smouse was on a mauve rove
one smauve Tuesday. As Smickey
scanned yonder young scones,
young dust granted him edgehug.
Ernie said : Numb blah, numb blah, numb blah!
They certainly weren't in Snorwich, Snorfolk, anymore.
They hinterlunged on thru candybrass
of dross monkies, pinning spowders,
until Smickey Smouse smied, smorry, sphied
the Temple of the Dark Lord,
Pantherine Absence.
Smickey Smouse said: Wait there,
I'm just going for a quick Slazenger-7.
Ernie said: Skoda codas.
Elon Musk divulged he'd been
staking out the Terrans
for millennia & concluded they were in
emergency credit.
So they descended a serdab
poking into a sandbank,
its venom curd of darkness
further diagonally desecraterd
by Ernie's sadotronic **** attachment w/ knobs on,
thagomiser **** or Oumuamua
of steel & glass.
Its mace ***** drilled down
until Smickey, Ernie & Elon
were 3 spelunking sphinxes,
spelunking deeper into the recesses
of the alien sandcastle,
by the light of Ernie's eyeflaptic cyzors.
But you can't holoholo in a fishbowlobowlo,
lavalampadomancy of a daffy god's dream.
They longslod into the long dead clock breath
of Ozymandias' unconscious.
Should a cave-in cave in,
a hi-drama-gen bomb bomb,
quidzinc Ernie said: Inadjuvant Elon
Rifles should have hired
ghosts of toddlers  
for our pirate-ninja security.
Above them,
the embitteringly bitty yonder
stretched lone & level,
a ventriloquantum of solace on a grink brick
remained undiscovered & unsquandered,
waiting for a greater translator .
Ernie said: edit to bore life dollop a star.
Ernie said: Numb blah, numb blah, numb blah!
Pete King Jan 20
I'm not quite sure how I got here,
Or why your stare makes fear feel safe.
It's like you can read the aura of me,
But maybe you just read my face.

You cling on tightly to my hand,
And search for secrets in it's embrace.
But, you'll find no truth in reading my palm,
It's all written upon my face.

I'm not courageous, and nor am I bold.
But hey, at least I've got your hand to hold.
Seanathon Sep 2018
When all around you is falling down
When the grass and trees and cricket sounds
Are no more there alive than dead
When your world is crashing inside out
To sky be bound
Look up instead

When the rolling clouds are sounding out
And the river ink is pouring down
And the flood is in your basement found
Stand proudly upon on your here and now
Don't sink your brow
Look up instead

When the voices jeer you all about
And the rumors populate the town
When commotive chaos finds your head
Don't let the horizon slip you now
Though falsehood fed
Look up instead

And when the never becomes the now
And the time like nightfall pulls you down
When the sunshine strays its fading stead
May the storms internal you allay
In peace be found
Look up instead
In short. When the turmoil grips you and the storm berates. When your hope is in shambles and your life is at end. Look up and see his goodness again. Because even the storm displays his power. Even the end portrays his goodness. You just have to look at it properly.

Easier said, right?
Ms Noma Aug 2018
Same ****, different year
Feel the pain go up a gear

You think I'd learn
Or cease to yearn

But here I am
Singing wham

Last Christmas blah blah blah
My ****** heart strayed too far

Every time my head says stay
The price is just too much to pay

But will I ever really listen?
No, my fresh tears simply glisten

Salty, bitter, endless drops
Cleaning up would need 10 mops

I wish that I could flood the street
I wish I could make him incomplete

I hate his soul, I hate his face
I hate how he would hold my waist

Delete his kisses, delete his hugs
He's just a pile of bugs and slugs

Don't waste your time on such a ***
You should have listened to your mum
on and on and on and on
about nowt
blah blah blah blah blah
about nowt
my constituents
NHS this
poverty that
we care
we really do care
on and on and on and on and on and on and on and on
Politicians. Full of ****. Nobody is listening anymore.
Adrian Alberts May 2016
Poetry is just scratches on paper
forming dramatic words
by an overemotional character

Poetry is certainly
not a pen that digs trenches
for the blue blood to follow
draining a soul to a sterile existence

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?

Poetry is all
roses are red
violets are blue
blah, blah, blah
I'm so in love with you

Nobody cares about books
Notice how the poetry section
in the bookstores continue
to diminish with every look?

Poetry is certainly not as profound
as the inert words
lay gutted by the rapper
which boasts his materialistic empire
that his target audience consumes
yet cannot honestly digest

And you'll find the album
in an abundant display
set in the center of the bookstore

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?

Poetry is just something studied
from history books to obtain credit
A time before the internet
and a true social status
Before days rapt in vanity

Poetry is certainly not a self sacrifice
to explore the wilderness of the heart
and the shutters to the mind
An outlet to tread another day

Who Needs Poetry Anyway?
Shayn Powell May 2018
At first, I was
blown away,
**** I thought, this
girl is cool,
come my way.

A dime in the
eyes of Shayn.
This isn't a game,
you came onto me
now your ex has
messaged so you
up and leave?

**** a Gremlin,
You're a beast.

A savage at
the very least.
You have no
respect for anybody
but yourself.
I'm not the one little
girl i'll make you
life a living ****.

College this,
college that,
blah blah,
It's clear you spoke
our of your ***.
I wont lose sleep
over it though, you're
just a glimmer in my past.
Next page