Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
"One lie weakens a thousand truths."

"Time heals, steals and reveals."

"Karma finishes what revenge neglects."

"The future is uncertain, but we play a part in its design."

"Help when you can, pray when you can't."

"If your life is out of focus, it's time to change the lens."

"Honesty is in the alcohol."

"The only thing better than a second chance is never needing one."

"Sometimes the most valuable company is yourself."

"Instincts over impulse, always."

"The greatest comeback is the one least expected."

"Fear is a light sleeper."

"You can't change the past, but it can change you."

"Some are born with a silver spoon, others with a pitchfork."

"Even the smallest of pebbles has its place in the sand."

"The humble voice resonates the loudest."

"Write your failures in pencil, your triumphs in ink."

"Scars speak every language."

"Two things you should always trust: your gut and your God."

"Every tear leaves something behind."

"Courage brings you to the fight, wisdom wins it."

"Relationships start and end, but the lucky ones get to begin again."

"The devil doubts. The angel accepts."

"Biggie makes you dance. Tupac makes you think."

"Justice is money green."

"The only thing better than good friends are lifelong ones."

"I'm in a fight with life and I'm losing on points."

"We are remembered for three things: the times we did good, the times we did bad and the times we did nothing."

"Every underdog wants to be top cat."

"Love never travels alone."

"Dreams reveal what thoughts conceal."

"The problem with the world is the wolves outnumber the sheep."

"You can't spell tragedy without rage."

"Focus on the valley and the hills will disappear."

"When you ignore pain, it ignores you."

"The past and future are distant cousins."

"Hope is always listening."

"Moonlight is for lovers and devils."

"Nothing will get you in better shape than a breakup."

"Time is a tattletale."

"Sometimes all that's left is a penny and a wish."

"There's a special place in heaven for those who suffer on earth."

"We are connected by smiles and tears."

"The mirror mimics what the mind imagines."

"If infidelity was a crime they would have to build more prisons."

"What the blind man sees, the sighted man seeks."

"The ego is a phony friend."

"Luck will take you as far as fate allows."

"Two things that never forget: elephants and broken hearts."

"My train of thought has no conductor."
Umi Apr 2018
The gentle tone of her teaching,
In wonderous melodies, orchestral knowledge from a sweet teacher,
Education set by the awareness of harmonizing, delicate instruments,
Wisdom and foresight, cast by no other judgement but of a conductor,
Whomst hand leads to the ups and downs of the intensity, recognised
Ensembling in the beauty of a sinfonietta, sounds flows uninterrupted
Let the singing pendulum to your mistress's pleasure fall to the bottom, attached to the chipped illusionists mask of anticipation!
To this dance the mascarade does not crack in the shadow of sound,
A wise scholar would not sacrifice one topic relevant to learn to the passing time, to her students unfortune that is, cast in pure grief,
A wise conductor does the same with musical notes, the story flows,
With the moon high in the sky, time stands in her way, questioning her to dance with the devil amongst a distorted, whicked dark,
But resillient to the end, tough and with no distraction taking her focus the director of this event finishes the creation of art, an orchestra
A craftwoman of tempo and elegance always stands out after all, bringing the musical score to life.

~ Umi
the art of poetry
    like any art
produces better work
when writers are not only
erudite but also smart

the lovers' painful state
upon loss or desertion
is voiced much more impressively
with less dramatic flourish
and more of the grate
that finishes the sword
at the old blacksmith's fire
where the hot flame of our desire
    thrown into water
with a defiant hiss
turns into deadly steel
ready to **** and ******
     friend or foe or lover
in our desperate search
     for exits from the mire

or take the unexpected loss
    of victory that seemed so close
    on a wild battlefield
when suddenly the hero's gallant steed
    falls victim to a hostile archers shot
and its proud rider is reduced to shout
"A kingdom for a horse!"
rather than holding a long monologue
    about the treachery of fate

in  short
less is oft' more
and lets the readers fill the empty spaces
with their own images and graces
Rollie Rathburn Jul 2018
In repose,
your short
night-time breathing
quarter-turned on the edge of the couch
until you faced my chest
and drifted peacefully.

Finding the right orientation
in coordinance to my prone form
took time, is all.
Fourth person in your family
to come around to the idea
of having an extra pair of legs
to walk y(our) dog
and tidy up
once you turn from my chest to face day.

Perhaps this is why,
my body locks itself away in the bathroom.
Subconsciously buying a little more time,
until your rotation finishes,
lands facing mine.

Because the trouble,
it seems,
is we (you and I)
have never said a thing,
we didn't mean.
Em MacKenzie Mar 13
My light eyes only see the dark
immune to clear blue skies,
indifferent to a bright spark,
and the bloodshot lines in the white
reveal my own confessing script,
the things I couldn’t say that I write,
I couldn’t walk away so I tripped.

You’ve broken me into small parts
reflections of which I no longer resemble,
I’ve looked for replacements in cars, boats and go carts,
but there’s no use to try and reassemble.
If you have my mind, my heart and soul,
tell me what does that leave over for me?
You know I showed you my scars but hid my mole,
but I still don’t know exactly what you see.
Because it starts where it will end
and finishes with infinity,
the primary colours were made to blend
but I’m lacking all creativity.

Your blank stare is elusive as the wind,
sometimes I question if it’s even there
but then I think I catch sight of a grin.
And while I’m drowning in your eyes,
trying to catch the ocean in a glass,
I’ve underestimated the size
and forgot the impact of the last.

I’ve been plagued with a sickness
one that’s lacking any small remedy,
poetic justice sees complete bliss
always inevitably evolve into tragedy.
My eyes are shrivelled, lacking tears
something had to overflow the canal,
still the boat floats and it steers
avoiding reasoning and all rationale.
Because it starts where it will end
and finishes with infinity,
and I’m too beat to pretend,
that I wouldn’t ’t rather be lost at sea.

Life, life has always been too long
but it seems forever with you is too short.
While I reflect on the choices I made that were  wrong,
I’m told it’s now too late to abort.
Life, life has always been too long
but I only started living when I found you.
Because it starts where it will end
and finishes with infinity,
you’re word was broken, it could never bend,
but it seems I’m the only one that’s still fighting.

Because it starts where it will end
and finishes with infinity,
there’s nothing in this world we can’t mend,
but I think it’s time that I stop investing.
ryn Jul 2014
Windows to the the world through which I see
Images of shortfalls and views of perpetual inadequacies.
Shut my lids ever hoping for a change in scenery...
But only pictures of emotional chaos, mistakes and uncertainties.

Visions I can't ignore and they can't be severed;
Like a splinter that's embedded but can't be retrieved.
Reluctant at first I wish to have them captured...
Capturing all the disorder, but have the beauty all sieved.

Beauty and light engulfed by this visual turmoil
From windows to canvas, I paint but with a sombre brush.
Vicious strokes represent the feelings that roil;
Devoid of pardon; sing of pressures that crush.

This brush that I use; I've taught it all too well.
It could paint even when running on the subconscious.
It never does relent, nor never will it ever quell,
It'll keep on painting the dark side of the senses.

My canvas just lays receiving the brunt of the strokes.
It lays there quiet; accepts it all without struggle.
Like fuel to a bonfire, it provides and also it stokes;
It lays there ready to accommodate the dust and rubble.

Again the brush finishes with its last deft touches.
Producing the same painting it's painted over and over...
They will never depict meadows with the farthest of reaches
But a portrait of me; staring mournfully into forever...
Vitruvius Oct 7
The second light of sunrise filters
through the blinds of a broken transom window, gliding the kitchen.
There’s an instant
in which bottomless jars, worn out dishes
and a headless Mickey magnet that has fallen off the fridge
Seem to levitate in a sea of dusty honey.

I haven’t witnessed the scene.

I think about all the other ordinary prodigies
That must be happening somewhere.
A trembling chrysanthemum blossoms in the frosty gardens of Nagoya.
Six grey wolves fail to hunt down a white deerling.
A middle aged man whispers into a hollowed stonebrick, then covers his secret with mud.
Two  giraffes disappear in the middle of a starlit Colosseum, to the astonishment of a roman dilettante.
Twenty years of boredom; then an ex con feels the tact of dewy grass under his feet again.
In a balcony over the Seine, two lovers prepare a padlock.
Some skinny kid from La Matanza scores a last minute free kick to win the neighborhood derby.
A pretentious teenager watches The purple rose of Cairo for the first time, and  discovers his true calling.
Days before dying, an old man stops by a bakery and inhales the same caramel fragrance he would inhale in the afternoons of his childhood summers.
An older brother decides to throw a game of Mario Kart to his sibling.
On a deserted reed bed, a blackbird sings the most beautiful tune in the world. There is no one there to listen.
A single mother finishes cooking breakfast for his son, and decides to let him sleep for another five minutes.
A physics grad student solves the meaningless quantum noise model that’s been torturing him for weeks, and stops wondering why he didn't choose to be a lawyer
Two old friends share the same espresso in a hidden Manhattan coffeehouse, perhaps for the last time.  

None of this everyday miracles are
happening to me.
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
--- as a boy, I explored a hermit's lair
--- the hermit was not there, he'd left nothing but a tin box
--- of charcoal pills, a panacea for curiosity, I was told.

This old bearded fellow who lived at the foot o'thumb butte,
by the burro's water hole,
other side o'the hill from Doug McVicar's Jasper find

Tidal shorelines from my child hood
swirling through the softed rocks

Boulders on the bottom, roll on, crustal waves rise and fall

it all goes back to that 13,000 year mark
when Gobekli Tepi,
was in the building,
long long before
the Hopis were on the Pollen Way, leaving land marks on

Rocks risen above the desert floor

Some thing came from space, something very cold,
a snowball so big it tugged the ocean of magma
through the crust of the earth

nuclear glass, same time. nano diamonds

The younger dryas-

melt water pulse, fire from the sky, men could see that, with their own eyes.
and then they saw the clouds of witnesses

Rituals learned, the story heart seeps from mother to child,

at first touch some say.

Specialized touches were included in the 2.0s.
Holistic wuwu Randall Carlson laughs, why lie? Evidence, see.

What did you see when you passed through hell the first time?
Nothing, you kept your eyes shut.

Are you really
Experienced? That was the question. Ask the experts,
but some of them lie.
Never trust their clocks, that's wise. Time is too temporary to make
much difference
in the long run. Time, least of all powers in eternity. Chronos,
Chaos shattered him, and some story teller on a journey
saw the event
while his tongue was being tamed, a task no man can do.

Fire and Ice from heaven to earth,
whole peoples saw it,
with the eyes in their head

Hope is the key to the heart's lock on reality

The younger Dryad's oak burned,
Drought killed all the others, bugs killed the elms.

Ah spirit to spirit, compare. The heart of the world is weeping
for the ignorant eaters of poisoned poems and stagnant stories

speed kills when it comes to cosmic notes on rocks

patience, under stand the canopy of heaven can, filter
poison from those
stagnant stories's idle words, redemption draweth nigh,

count on it. Keep counting, patience finishes what she starts.

Sacred Geometry, scale invariance, I saw the Mississippi
Carve meandering ant canyons in the dirt
while watching the rain
Nothing's secret anymore, that's a reality that may be beyond

your thought. Textbook in stone. I know geometry Mr. P,

can I come in? She who builds, who destroys, who rebuilds, suggested
my bombs have a Nobel role,
in energizing

the ark
the earth is the ark, but you knew that already, right.

Acacia bush visions from a medium
of messaging the master builder,
who, you know, made this
happen, used to heal with ashes.

Healing war, study it no more, it is
possible man, alone, can imagine.

The Godhead? What's the big idea? You a heretic, Mr. P?

Come and see, leave the clock/phone.
---

This is big momma story, little clay doll with pointy feet
sticks in the dirt, stares at the fire,

the story mamma, shhh

Stands, and lifts her hands up high, pointing
all her fingers to the skies where ashes, glowing
rise,
like we can imagine the stars once scattered by God
and his sons's servants prepping

origins of human conflict taught
Tubalcain by fire light, while Jubal
Sang the very umph umph song from
Taj Mahal' 1970 with Jerry, Fillmore West,

A message to Garcia, from on high:
the imbecility of the average man—
the inability or unwillingness to concentrate on a thing and do it,
That, resist. It is evil.

Angels, imaginable, you know, mere messages, nothin more,

so great a cloud of witnesses
there was a times when  all
imaginations men were imagining heartily
were evil, altogether.

Enki left and went to the moon, or that's the story grandma's
sisters told me
when I was a little boy lost and found from time to time

The serpent on the staff, where's that story from?
Who says their mammy saw that happen.

Time, Hosts of Heaven, time is one of those.

Fan tasty taste, see, the truth is good.

Freedom, responsible freedom, take as granted,
intend good and go.
Seed of the Dream,
I planted that. It contained this fact,

we reap what we sow.

Ambi-Dios, ambit-ion with no hope for something just beyond
the best that I have ever done,
that'll make a child mean as hell, on the average,
according to the data Google smuggled into China
through those super phones,
unavailable in the USA, protected by the wielders
of destruction who eat the world up,
and drink its very blood.

the bread of shame, is fed to slaves to keep them in the queue,

BTW que-eee was the word I used for ****, when I was a child.
I took that word to school.
Nobody knew what it meant. I considered that cool
and kept my secret until just now.

I feel so free.

A builder sees a building and the builder in a single glance.
None may enter here lacking geometry, that's no secret now.
The cultivated Pythagorean mind, simple as pi.

'Cain't get to Romans eight, which is here, now, I think,
with out going beyond Hebrew six.

The measure of a man that is the angel. No comma,
just a jot, then this means that,
to the mind
listening for mystery in beauty found lying around.,
glistening in the sun.
The charcoal pills I found fifty three years ago, these wandering thoughts I found dancing the trail earlier this morning.
JS CARIE Jan 16
With my face over her hair fallen neck
sending through my lips
what I’ve dreamed of compiled tastes

One arm wrapped her waist
The spinal curve of her back
Give-way my others embrace

In my palm falling slowly
with surrendered hold
Her reclining body takes plunge

A body wondrously dreamt by the Gods
but never to beholden
For that vessel has since long belonged
And in a quiet covet,
the Gods continue to sin

Over and across the bed
Released from my grip

Upwards into her hairline
a sweat spreading mist

Grabbing a fistful of mane
I’d lay down on the runway to attain
this flowing coat between my fingers

For the length of time
her hair has entwined me in cuffs

Pulling harder
I gladly yield in acceptance
this braid given stain
a permanent scar

Slow let go of her feathers tangled

In her neck I’m keeping
a burrow in repose

Seeing buttons undone in sync
to expose

The destination of my lips next imprint
like advanced shadowing hints

In a mechanical motion

Hair pulling emotion

Triggers upward
her chest and chin

Two spotlights on the ceiling what her ******* up send
Shaping her back an arc
like a half moons descent  

When she finishes her unbuttoning
Next for my belt she reaches
then the unzip I’ll never forget

She takes me in invest

I take her in continuous shooting

All the unfastened
unclothed

Now Firm
Quake
Earned
And Shake
The peak is reached from this encounter
defined by a collection of far to many lustfully seductive
mental hive of trapped aches
Then I kiss her lips in return she kisses me back, felt...
Jen Dec 2018
Essence emanates
On clear glass
Scraping hurricanes
Streaks racing
As if rivers
Forming to
See who
Finishes first.
Unable to fall asleep tonight.  Thought I could, until this poem formed in my mind. :)
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.
Not only giving a fictional character a modern life but having had her have to deal with all things modern and yes....cruel as it may seem autocorrected.

And yes I guess she at least knew who she was or where she stood as a fictional character but by being autocorrected by a whim into a real life world and all its attendant miseries she probably thought it had been better when she had been purely a creature of words. I hate autocorrect as I wish to be the one saying what I am going to be saying and not a machine second guessing me....I could never turn it off on my phone and had to endure it.
ALWAYS THE SAME DREAM

"PING!" goes the microwave.
"PING!" goes the yet-again-Internet.

The Lady of Shallot
deletes Lancelot

from her facebook
friends.

She pokes Tennyson but Tennyson
doesn't like to be poked.

The world and its shadows
stream through her BT provider.

A post informs her that
"Popty Ping!" is Welsh

for microwave.
She clicks Like.

Doesn't remember when she
last interfaced with the real

world
the big bad world

that huffs and puffs
outside the frosted glass.

She posts a new status:
"Agoraphobics are people too!"

What was Tennyson thinking of?
She didn't ask to be created!

A woman made from "words
words...words. . .words!"

"The curse has come upon me!"
She has run out of Lil-Lets.

"Chop shallots & simmer
lightly in butter, then. . ."

the Youtube video
instructs her.

She finishes yet another
bottle of cheap plonk.

It's so hard to be
a fictional character

in a modern world
that's gone digital.

She thinks of Googling herself
but then thinks twice of it.

She falls asleep on the couch.

The cat perches on top of her head.

In her dream she is
forever floating...floating

"On either side the river lie
Long fields of barley and of rye,
That clothe the wold and meet the sky"

It's always the same dream.
T Duke Jr Nov 12
She spreads her legs and lets him taste
He’s licking and licking her legs begin to shake
She tries to run but he’s gripping her waist
She’s losing control she can’t believe he’s taking her soul
She spreads her legs she let him in
She loves his scent the smoothness of his skin
Slower and deeper she loves every stroke
He makes her feel a way she can’t explain
Faster and harder it feels good she doesn’t mind pain
She gets on top up and down as he ***** her breast
She loves his touch on her flesh
He finishes and she *******
He gets up and gets dressed
She watches him and realizes she spread her legs she let him in
She’ll never hear from him again
Misty Meadows Oct 2018
Keeping my composure with a
Composition pad.
I'm committed to compassion
And I'm passionately sad.
I'm competing with competitors
That show no competition.
My work ethic is persistent,
All my wisdom blocks the ignorance.
But I can't stay that optimistic and
Surrounded by indifference.
The injustice is indignant.
See, my mind can tell the difference.
With all the hate I be deflecting,
And my love they stay rejecting,
I'm simply drifting in the mist of
This.
The mystery of wishfulness;
It glistens and it whistles so blissfully,
But licorice
Is sweeter than the outcome of
Me laughing while I slit my wrists.
But not as bitter as a Hell on earth. I
Step on dirt and cigarettes--
Disgust me much, but marijuana
Seems to bring deliverance.
See, Mary wanna be a ******.
Joseph is so sick of this.
I'm praying to my God regardless,
Let Him add his finishes.
Can't stay here long, I got to go,
I swear, I'm getting rid of this.
These ain't tears that's on my cheeks
Love, see, these the roads of distances.
Let's not settle out our differences.
Should've settled all my dividends.
I should be held and given kisses
*****,
Not accused of having mistresses.
My love is warm, my soul is kind,
And yet my heart receives these
Hits so brisk.
Maybe if I bleed out by the end,
They'll finally miss the kid.
Noah Smith Nov 15
A small child toddles across the sands of an infinite, nocturnal beach.
            His eyes glisten like the moon as he admires the wonders of his world.
Everything so simple—good—pure.
                        His mind, the inner being, reflects his outlook; all is in reach.
            The child’s heart is young, filled to its brim with Gold untarnishable.
For the sickness, innocence is the cure.

He was content, and life was complete for him.
But as he walked on the sand, and spied those who were ahead,
He wanted…
And his heart of gold began to drip.

                        A youth, only just a man, ambles across the beach’s grainy powders.
            His demeanor is confident, his face fresh, yet his eye sparkle lacks.
He keeps on, and the world, his friend, offers him promise limitless.
                        His mind is vibrant, seemingly invincible, he never shirks nor cowers.
            His heart still pumps Gold through his veins.
For the sickness, youth is the resistance.

As he continues his walk, step by step,
His ambition grows.
He feels utterly untouchable by any evils around him.
Becoming the God of his own world.
He yet still wanted.
Shaken, the young man begins to cough up the Gold.
And his heart began to bleed.
For the sickness, youth is the fuel.

Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
His inner man watches as the polished yellow liquid seeps
Into the barren wasteland that is his mind’s.
Deep into the dirt it creeps.
The sickness, once harmless, now binds.

With each compromise, the man’s moral skeleton cracks.
Step by step, his integrity weakens until,
With the nauseating snap of bone,
It breaks. Like a soundless scream,
Reverberating undetected in the recesses of his mind.

He no longer wants as he did before.
Regret slowly takes its place.
Shame, like an old friend, wraps the inner man in an embrace.
He offers a solution.
Vice, he promises, will fix all in time.
The man, desperate and lost, took it,
Failing to notice the chain Shame silently placed around his neck.

                        An old man, wrinkled and bent, stumbles across the beach sand.
            He is cautious, almost fearful—his eyes are dim, and his brow is heavy.
The waves rise, his body to take, he staggers and falls, unable to go further.
                        His inner man also cries ceaselessly, too weak to stand.
            His heart, now empty, aches.
To the sickness, he gives in without a murmur.

His inner man falls silent, the tears, like ghosts of his emotions,
Float silently down his face.
Frantically he sinks to his knees and begins to dig at the dirt,
Searching for a single remaining drop of Gold.
But none is to be found.

Shame stands smiling grimly as
The sickness overpowers,
And the inner man falls into the dust,
Lucid eyes staring searchingly at the empty hole,
His tears form streams as they flow into it.

He stares,
As from the hole,
A seedling flairs,
With leaves of Gold.

A hand, too warm, too soft to be Shame’s,
Falls on his arm.
The tears vanish from his face,
And a majestic warmth fills his body.
Regret gives way to content once again.

                        The old man on the beach rises slowly to his feet.
            He stands straight, as the wrinkles retreat into his skin, and his eyes fill with light.
His countenance becomes regal as youth returns to his step.
                        His mind renewed, he sees with a wonder that he will keep.
            He runs, seeing the end of the beach in his sight.
His heart refills, as the seedling matures, and he remembers, with a solemn thankfulness, of the man he left.

As he finishes the race.
© Dysphoria, 2018
CHOCOLATE EXPLANATIONS

“Right. . .!”

I try to explain it
with chocolates

that she( girlishly )
keeps trying to eat.

I pick a luscious
dark chocolate seahorse

And I say “Now this is. . .”

( and she finishes my sentence for me )

“. . .your hippocampus!”

She squeals. . . delighted with herself.

“That’s correct!”
I praise her
“. . .it’s shaped like this seahorse!”

“And it controls
your memories of you
your “who you are”

your “how your self assembles
its sense of self

. . .with all its past and future mysteries!”

“Yes. . .yes. . .that’s it!

She claps her hands
thrilled to bits

by the familiar telling
the reassurance of sounds.

And this twisted twirl of almond
with a real almond in the centre of it

“. . . is your amygdala!”

She blurts out before me.

“You got it”
I smile.

“Everyone’s got one!
a seahorse & an almond
one on each side of our brain.”

“Now the almond tells you how
to respond to the things
that you’ve assembled
into a sense of self

. . .with the proper emotion

. . .the right feeling.

. . .whether you just like

or love it”

“Oh, I love it. . .I love it!”

She almost sings.

“Now, explain it to me again!”

I give her the finished explanations
and she eats them

with much exaggerated
mmmmming & ohhhhhing.

“I love your explanations
about what’s wrong with my thingy”

She knocks upon her head
like it was a door
to a self that she had
locked herself outside of.

Most times
she doesn’t even know

her name

or who

or what

she is.

But she loves this story of

HIPPOCAMPUS AND ITS FAITHFUL AMYGDALA

She loves

each sound

each word

each letter

each pause

of the chocolate

explanations.
Godawan May 26
A rural lady
With her ten year old baby
Comes in the market
Wearing old chappal in feet
and ghaghra- lugdi on body
While daughter in salwar-suit
Both are walking on the road
Without any fear of heat strokes
of forty five high temperatures
Looking at a confectionery shop on the way
Child's heart is tempting
Mother understands the matter of her mind
Without worrying about her poverty
She bought her a "kachori" for ten
Baby takes "kachori" in her hand
and walks with pride n all smiles
Soon baby starts eating
the "kachri " during moving on their way
It is the beauty of childhood
Which do not see the place
Just finishes the purse of mind anywhere it finds a space
This is the thing that shows the height of the relationship
That makes parents god for children
So maybe God is also pleased
Because in the summer we
avoid eating oil made items
On the other hand mother feeding goodwill probably do not harm health
Rupees Money Jewelry Clothing Is not anything
Only mother is everything
Winter heat rain can't break
the mother's protection
Because mother's love is pure
supreme of the super
Which is formidable
to every weather and obstacle
Brianne Rose Jun 17
"Stay with me, please. You don't need to go!"
"You know I can't - "
" - Can't? or won't?"
"..."
"...fine,then leave. It's what you're best at after all."
"..."
A car door slams, an engine sputters to life, tires crunch over gravel, and red tail lights light up a lone man standing on his porch.
~
" - Please just - "
"I said no! You know I can't stay! Why?! Why do you always have to ask?!"
"Look at you! scars, fresh bruises, you flinch every time I raise my hand."
"..."
"Please, just - "
"Just. Stop. I can't"
"Can't? or..."
"..."
Again a car door slams, again an engine starts, and again tires crunch over gravel, and once more red tail lights shine upon a man standing on a porch.
~
"Please, please, stay with me! please! nonononono, don't close your eyes! STAY WITH ME"
"..."
"...please"
"...i'm..."
"please"
"...s-sorry..."
"no, please! please don't go...."
"..."
"please"
A pulse stops, a last breath has been breathed, lungs no longer struggling to keep functioning. A hand falls limp, gray eyes staring at a man on his porch, as red and blue lights bathe him and the still body laying there in his lap. He hears the sound of the sirens, ambulance and police vehicles alike as they pull up the drive.
It's too late
~
A car door shuts, tires crunch over gravel, and red tail lights shine upon a man dressed in all black standing at the gates of a graveyard.
He enters.
He pays his respects but before he leaves he swears he hears her voice,
"Please....stay - "
" - with me", he finishes softly, he turns to a headstone - marble per the request - and looks at the name carved on it.
"I can't, you know I can't", he then turns and walks away leaving the stone behind.
A figure appears in front of it and watches him leave,
"Can't...or...wont?"
There is no response.
~
Lilly Lunaeras
DOB: 1/1/96
DOD: 1/1/2018
"This star may have fallen, but it forever remains up in the heavens above.shining with all the other fallen stars"
random write i did a while back, figured i should get to posting my works again.
Sundiegoguy Nov 2018
Lately, I keep wishing to go back to when
Before the old me went missing
I’m afraid to live because falling is not pretty,
Now, I am wasting borrowed time not living.
And I don’t know when I will feel cleansed again
To say the least, I’ve been feeling broken for a long time

Living as I do is not living.
I want to come out and do it all
But I am scared,
Scared I wasn't strong before,
Scared I won't be strong today.

As I said bye to my dying self,
I promised to never feel this way again.
To never betray myself again.
To never cry tears for this again.
Because I deserve so much more than what I got back

I don't know how to let go of my past
For I lived 18 happy years by myself.
And I don't know who the new me will be,
But will living with pain be part my new life?
Or will my pain come to an end too?  

It's a long way to fall
An even longer one to climb back up.
And when our fault finishes us,
We will be given life again
To carry on,
In this journey without destination.

Can't wait till my bones move again
Can't wait till my eyes see again
Can't wait till my heart pumps blood again
Can't wait till my soul feels happiness again
2015. Part 2 of my Suicide Hike Collection. The story picks up where Suicide Hike left off. Enjoy. Comments, Likes, Opinions welcomed.
you've worn my pages down so that i'll always open up to the same place unbidden
and that my book of 140 pages ends on page 39
everyone thinks that's how my story finishes
but in reality it's because you've ripped out the last chapters
Ellison Aug 2018
I see him every day
Stumbling by the streets that are as old as him.
His wispy air tumbles past his shoulders
As his eyes glaze down and out.

Sometimes I see him walk
And hover without a mouth
It only appears for a cancer stick
That he drains the tobacco clean.

Each time I pass the shield of smoke
He puts up where he sits
I wonder when the day will come
He finishes his final one.

Because I know once he was young too
And I've yet to come by and sit with him
And ask his story after I say these words,
"Hello, old man."
This is a real person I usually see during my week, I really don't know how old he is and how close he is to dying from his chain-smoking routine, but I found him quite poetic.
Next page