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kgl Dec 2014
it's becoming easier
to hear your name and feel nothing.
Head and Heart fought a battle that only ended
when the Heart swelled with a Love that hurt to hold,
until the Head's gentle reminder
that this was not Love,
it was Pain.
blinding Pain.
but like all blows to the body and mind
Time crushes Pain into a dull ache, a numbness remaining
long in the Heart after the feeling has gone.
but the Head holds the knowledge that this was not Love.
it was Pain.
blinding Pain.
and it's becoming easier.
Akira Chinen Jan 2017
I wish that I could tell you that life gets easier
that its not so bad around the bend
a soft whispered lie
to help you with your struggles
a half felt truth to mend the cracks
a hand to hold out there in the dark
a voice of reason that comprehends
a mirror to hold that reflects
the beauty of what you need most
a love to comfort the sea of tears
you're drowning in
and I would be whatever you wanted
and sink down to your bottom
and be the air to fill your lungs
and be the thread and needle
to stich back all the pieces
you've lost and broken
and flow and pulse within your blood
and be the love that makes
all this misery worth living through
and be the silent truth
waiting around the corner
that's not so bad
and the wish that turns to the reason
of why life gets easier
but I'm afraid that the words from my lips
would only be an illusion
of gun smoke from deaths revolver
as it is death that makes liers
of us all in the end
elizabeth Jan 2018
i never understood why people avoided love.
thought they were fools
to deny themselves something so extraordinary.
i'd ask myself,
"why won't they open their hearts
and just try?"

then i met you.
i dedicated myself to you.
i handed you my heart,
and you broke it in two.
this pain,
it hurts like nothing i've ever felt before.
a constant,
aching agony that won't wash away,
no matter how many showers i take
or how many other boys i kiss.

your mark is forever on me,
even though i don't want it to be.
each time i think of you,
it's like my insides are getting ripped to shreds,
over and over again.
the way a dog buries a bone,
digs it up,
gnaws it until it's practically destroyed,
then repeats the cycle.

if i could,
i would go back to that
warm, soft summer night when
i pointed to the stars and
told you that you were my universe,
and i would take everything back.
i'd do anything to end this suffering.


i never understood why people avoided love,
but now i know.
gleck Sep 2016
Children get handed things easily,
and they learn
that it's easier to throw away
than to hold on and keep it.

Adults are very different,
they cherish things
and would not objectify others
since humans are not things.

But right there,
throwing you away
like an object,
the man who was no longer a child said;

"I don't want you anymore"
Daniel eason Nov 2018
The sun comes up but doesnt shine on me
My branches broken like a neglected tree
Untrusted associates meaningless time
Resorting to crime just to get by
Time to put this to bed
Its easier said than done
All the fun has been had since it all begun
A poem about troubled times
Marisol Quiroz Nov 2018
i thought it would be easier this time
but it wasn’t,
it never is.
those last goodbyes,
that last kiss,
it never is,
it never is.

— saying goodbye never gets easier
Nicole Alyssia Aug 2014
Asking me to hide my emotions
Is like asking someone
To hide a gushing wound
When the **** won't close
And the blood won't clot
Easier said than done.
Coming from someone on the outside
Who can't feel the actual pain
And would prefer
Not to see the gore
Or clean up the mess.
Alexander Mar 31
We used to be so much more
Before this world stripped us bare.
We had morals and missions
Things to do and people to miss.
Heaven forbid we go against
The to-do list.
It’s kinda like a script.
Chelsea Aug 2017
A forest-green & tan striped couch, littered with burn holes from forgotten cigarettes, serves as foreshadowing of what lies ahead for the forgotten flower lying upon it.

The flower curls up on this couch, as it's the best view to admire mom from across the room, as she magically transforms eyelashes into feathers with the swipe of a wand.

Ignorantly innocent, the flower patiently awaits her time to bloom, yearns for her petals to unfurl like mom's: flawless perfection.

But gradually, mom's smokey cat eyes become dark shadows of hollow sunken ships, and bright rosy skin fades to washed out colors of furniture bathed in harsh sunlight year after year.

Now, mom buried the bones of the delicate structure she built from inside her womb, and decades later her daughter's dismantled skeleton is scattered ruins of an abandoned sunken city, polluted by the rotten flesh of unwanted fruit; a weak foundation destined to be crumbled relics of an ancient past.

Never once did Mom leave flowers at the grave that she dug.

I imagine the sweetest sounds to a brand-new mother are the screams and wails of her newborn child, reassurance that it's vibrant life lights up the room as blindingly as the birth of a newborn star, a commanding presence louder than that star's explosive death.

On the contrary, I imagine the sweetest sound to MY mother was the silence when she muffled the screams. From underwater, you cannot hear screams for help, or much of anything at all. 

Her solace was the peace felt when muddy water filled her lungs, the darkness found from deep within a drug-induced sleep, where you cannot hear a child weep.

I mentioned the young girl always wanted to be like her mom. And so it was...all grown up when I tried ****** for the first time. I held true to mom every time the rush of warm blood filled the syringe, visual evidence that the blood was thicker than the bond mom and I shared.

Usually when a person's life is ruined by a parent's addiction they will stay an ocean's length away from drugs - but I am a curious cat, ignoring the fact that I do not have 9 lives, and so I welcomed this substance into my veins, into my brain.

The brown lady would wrap me up in her arms each night, then gently dip me in the familiar flame of a fire's flickering tongue. She became the only company that could never overstay its welcome.

And so, for a time I became my mother: "flawless perfection." I will admit that ****** is one hell of a drug, but -still- i cannot see! How could ****** steal my mother's love?
To lessen liabilities,
to lower costs and
make the world more,
more productive; exacting...


To make everything easier,
a life more fulfilling...
...more predictable, perhaps,
more equal than now.


To eliminate sadness,
anger, depression, anxiety.
To work less at everything,
they will do it all for me.


The planet will be saved by the extirpation of human activity...

...for who needs humans to trade stock?
...who needs humans to make widgets?
...who needs humans to clean things?

Who needs humans at all?
I find it humorous to ponder the state of capitalism when A.I. becomes self aware and makes it's own decisions. Poor poor capitalist's will be crying Communism.
Anya Nov 2018
Sometimes,
I just fake it
Cause
It’s easier

Yes,
The test was hard
Even though,
I got a 98%

Yes,
He has a bad personality
Even though,
He’s been nothing less
Than polite
To me

Yes,
She’s so amazing at it
Even though,
I’m not too far behind

Yes,
Their relationship is going to fail
Even though,
I think it’s rude
To gossip
Behind their
Backs


These things...
And more,
It doesn’t
Change
Anything
Even if I explain
Will people even listen?
Care?

So...
I let it be
It’s             Easier
I mean,
Not when it directly hurts
Others
I do have a bottom line

But otherwise...
With shades of gray
Difficult,
To differentiate
Between
  Right
Wrong
  Good
Bad

...

I guess...
I’ll let it be

After all,
It’s


Easier?
Sometimes in life it’s really hard to know when to step in and ne when to mind your own business. And there are times when others naturally believe you agree with them but you’re to tired to explain your specific circumstances to them and just go along with what they say.
Luz Hanaii Jul 2018
In pain and suffering, we feel the lash of correction
At times we don't understand why?
We see others laugh and carry on.
Yet we only see outwardly, what they wish us to see,
but they too have gone,
or will eventually go through the refining fires.
None of us can escape the molding hands.

The more we go through the easier one
-can relate to other's suffering and pain.
Pain educates the spirit if open to change,
conserves us humble and compassionate.

It is such a gift to be able to express your deepest feelings.
This is a special world of poetry with many dear hearts,
it's an oasis that keeps us sane.  To be part of those who have
loving hearts unspoiled by the harshness of the world and those
who dwell in it,  it's truly a blessing from above.

For those of us who are constantly challenged in many ways,
I send you my sincere prayers and love.
May you always be at peace, no matter the storms.
That no illness, person, situation or abuse
-can ever separate us from His loving and saving grace.
Gillian Annie Mar 11
There is no greater pain
Than to love someone, and then to hate them
Form up a strong resolution to be impenetrable
Only for them to ask forgiveness
And tear down your wall
Because you know in your heart they don't love you
They can't, they never did
They miss your attention
But don't reciprocate the affection
And yet you can't let go
Because there's a foolish amount of hope
That maybe this time, this time they will love you
That maybe being a friend can lead to something more?
But you know it's not true!
And yet you listen to the pining of your heart
Because, somehow, it's supposed to make it easier
Ken Pepiton Mar 2018
Anom o ly

Non-named, never imagined much less realized

The left hand can't know what the right is doing,
it's a brain matter, grey area, may be a way to
imagine your unique. task, yours, not doable from here

We can do things as us that we never imagine alone.

Is there a need to negate, wait, think,
must one do any act?
Now, I see, emulating Socrates is thought easier than
emulating Jesus. Christ, you know that ain't easy, eh?

Death is the friend of being. Things change from time to time
but, you know knowledge grows in two directions,
the dark part is not evil.
evil is as evil does. The roots that ever live in the earth,
those roots are required, requirements.

Left brain uses the right hand. Don't tell the left-hand
that nearly all it's skill in serving
and being used right,
is used up by the other side.
Right or wrong, is not a chiral question,  nor is good or bad. ******* Phillips's head screws with a butter knife is wrong.
It can be done right, but not if you turn it the wrong way.
Drawing on the right side of my brain has always symbolized a crossroads experience, in my mind.
I mean I draw, realistically, with my right hand, left brain.
Maybe, brains are no easier to analyze than time in an immaterial medium of messaging.

I am certain life wins.
Meaning everything you think life means.
Do you think evil is required as an activity for life to actively be?
I doubt that.
Death fixes everything. Fret not. Wait.

First make room, what was the Bronte word? Penetrium, no, cut n paste
[A]t once it struck me what quality went to form a Man of Achievement, especially in Literature, and which Shakespeare possessed so enormously - I mean Negative Capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact and reason - Coleridge, for instance, would let go by a fine isolated verisimilitude caught from the Penetralium of mystery, from being incapable of remaining content with half-knowledge.

From <https://www.etymonline.com/columns/post/cloud-of-uknowing>

Happiness demands an agreement
Joy is in process, I agree, I am happy, haps happen and I notice

Note: Bronte was one to tweak fine puns with the word Penetralia: 1. The innermost parts of a building, especially the sanctuary of a temple. 2. The most private or secret parts; recesses: the penetralia of the soul. See Chapter one, Wuthering Heights.
----- From
bronteblog.blogspot.com/2006/03/emilys-penetralium_03.html
I checked 13 months later:Before passing the threshold, I paused to admire a quantity of grotesque carving lavished over the front, and especially about the principal door; above which, among a wilderness of crumbling griffins and shameless little boys, I detected the date ‘1500,’ and the name ‘Hareton Earnshaw.’  I would have made a few comments, and requested a short history of the place from the surly owner; but his attitude at the door appeared to demand my speedy entrance, or complete departure, and I had no desire to aggravate his impatience previous to inspecting the penetralium.
Dead Rose One Apr 2018
3:15am

<•>

unlike a first kiss, a first love,
the premiere awkward first coupling,
which when one recalls it
appears with ever increasing fuzziness (intentionally?)
or not at all, so much so that making it up based on
fleeting hazed glimpses of unmemorized dreams
just to have an “official entry in the cloudy memory,”
is a semi-necessity for regaling...nobody

but you never forget your virginal
projectile vomiting

there is even an emoji for it,
a hurling curling celebration

like a computer reset,
a confessional admission
that includes your own original
original sin,
a purging so complete,
it is a rebirthing of sorts,
a human do over

(c’mon c’mon get on with this, this
no kiss, a most undeserving bizzaring poem title choice)


each and every time I draw forth
the words on the in sides of me
they are ejected with force comparable,
my body rejecting l'étranger,
who’s now escaping

no first kiss, miss, no laughing at one’s first tumbling fumbling,
there is no smiling recollections sweet,
a cover up for your exciting intimation initiations faint revisions

but your first writing!

given up and out in a ejection burst,
a needle in the arm, gunshot
fluids *******, spit out,
without malice aforethought,
and this your last writing

this one, yes, this one.
comes quick, rough and inelegant,
expulsion combustion leaving you
panting on the cold floor you emptied
but
sorta of whole, a clean sheet, so to speak,
swearing you’ll never do this again,
must be an easier way,
to just slow secrete it holy,
or give up the drug of writing
raven forevermore nevermore

nope-u-dope

the vision of a long ago rabbi,
being burned to death slowly
by the Romans, wrapped in
dampened torah scripture scrolls
to lengthen the burnished burning,
a vision burned into a
very youthful boy’s consciousness,
the holy black ink hand drawn letters flowing
from martyr’s mouth, flying heavenward
this fresh within,
a childhood image primal mind,
is ways present
as each letter typed, formulating mathematically,
based on an artificial intelligence theorem,
that updates itself with every missive,
until the new poem is
projectile released in
a single ***** bursting,
purging of the urging

and guess what,

it just happened again

4/27/18

~for Sky, whose poems endearing found me, in her brazen ways,
which is what poets do~
https://hellopoetry.com/sheepskyny/
When Rabbi Hananiah ben Tradyon was caught teaching Torah in public, the Romans decided to make an example of him. Accordingly, Rabbi Hananiah was wrapped in a Torah scroll, which was then set afire. As if this torture were not sufficient, strips of water-soaked wool were placed on his body to prolong his agony. While his distraught students looked on helplessly, Rabbi Hananiah inspired them with his famous utterance, "The parchment is burning but the letters are flying off," meaning that enemies can crush the Jewish body but not the spirit
sandra wyllie Jan 21
Easier for you to turn another page.
She drinks down her rage.
Easier for you not to hear her screams.
She lives in her dreams.

Easier for you at the end of the day.
She goes her own way.
Easier for you when you don't yield.
She walks in a minefield.

Easier for you to say she's doing better.
She can't pay her debtor.
Easier for you to live your cushy life.
She  only knows strife.
What begs a Sonnet if not to Express
But Expression alone Good Fame depends
If Maps such as these confuses the Rest
Then Life's Published Theme will begin to End
These Girls do not just a Heart label so
Pressing the Rewind back to Robin's Day
But Issues pressed onto Paper, and go
Feed the Bird's Stem and regulate their Say
Someone like me must care about these Things
And Mark at how their Chemistry reacts
Prudence, the Ingredient I must now bring
To set my Items from Falsehoods to Facts.
It would be Easier if you just Spoke
Perhaps my Attitude made me go Broke.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
Sadness stretched across your face,
like plastic wrap on food,
suffocating and enveloping.
Still laughter seeps out through its cracks.

Tears streak down your face as you hold to my hand.
Gratefully saying goodbye,
yet wishing to hold on to glad memories.
Wishing life was easier to part.
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
empty seas Oct 2018
i went through
every poem
about her
and made them
disappear

maybe now
it'll be easier
to feel better
to feel free

i have no more poems
about the good times
for the bad times
outweighed them

i feel freer
although i am sad
my most popular poem
is gone

it is for the best
i am freer
if you noticed my number of poems drop down randomly in the past two days, that is because i deleted all my poems about my manipulative ex
i was going to leave them up as a testament to our time together (unsurprisingly, a lot of those poems were actually quite negative). I am usually unafraid of the past but my poems about her made me cringe whenever I saw them. I deleted them to make me feel better.
Terry O'Leary Jul 2013
Fat midnight bats feast, gnawing gnats, and flit away serene
      while on the trails in distant dales the lonesome wolverine
            sate appetites as dawn alights and daytime's crystalline.

A migrant feeds on rotting seeds with fingers far from clean
      and thereby’s blessed with barren breast (the easier to wean) -
            her baby ***** an arid flux and fades away unseen.
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