Jordan Rowan Jan 2016
I'm a lying, cheating loser
With a gun pointed at my head
I still remember everything you said
Maybe I'll be worth more to you when I'm dead

There's a summer sunset I haven't seen
And it's haunting my dreams
The daylight breathes and blows away
The scent of you and everything you'll say

I can still hear the words
But I'm still unsure
If you really meant them
And why I resent them

Daylight, dead of night, any time
The thoughts don't stop in my mind
I think and talk about it too much
Everyone around me has heard enough
Jordan Rowan Dec 2015
I'm not good at taking it slow
But I hope you know
Waiting isn't something I do well
But I'll wait for you, Annabelle

So many years since the day
I heard you say
"It's not time for us just yet"
And never did I once forget
That you were out there as well
As I waited for you, Annabelle

Time goes on and so it did
Just like you said
"It's not now or never"
But I said I'd wait forever
In all the time between heaven and hell
I'll wait for you, Annabelle

It's not easy for me to stand
As he takes your hand
But as long as he treats you well
I'll wait for you, Annabelle
Once we were on fire
Young    rebeliouse   free
We stormed the castles and took to the skies we flew we dreamed
We were ablaze our light setting raging screaming fire to the world around us
When our thoughts could not sit in silence any longer
When the kids were engulfed by a wave of fury of the injustice done by this world before we were even here
We screamed and demanded
OUR VOICES WOULD BE HEARD
But now it rains
Now the cold heavy water blankets the restless
The fire has been drenched in worry and stress
The brutal downpour has distracted all with false life or death
The blaze once 100 feet high now nothing but a charred soul

And all the ones put out by the rain
to tired to fight again,
pray on the generation next
That their fire is enough to best the storm
A horror movie scene as the heroine escapes.
Everything is still besides her convalescing breaths and the distant, chasing wind.
Not a noise is heard, except the fall leave's rattle and the birch wood's moaning bark in the moonlight.
Her body slouches into the protection of a shed and shrouds itself in the aroma of cut grass.
A tense brow relieves and tired eyes close, able to accept the momentary peace, and a place to call refuge.  

A possible misstep turns into crunched leaves outside, wild eyes scramble towards their opaque barricade.
Sly pieces of garden equipment leash her weathered jacket in place as she attempts to stand.
A cackle is heard, a shriek undone.
To spite the brittle wood, that formulaic jump-scare-skeleton-hand bursts through the shed's solicitous walls, set to declare the last of a weary soul as his own.
The wind catches up and spearheads all holes it can find.
It begins whistling around the dim room like a tornado elated to havoc behind a castle's walls.
The tree bark howls, the leaves, now delight.
We learn there is no reprieve for a begging champion.
The camera backs out of the splintered hole and pans over a sated forest to face the waning moon.
The hero succumbs with muted screams to a gore far below and out of frame.
The only closure, a black screen, with bright white letters, slowly scrolling up.


The end.
Just something I had fun writing, figured not posting it would be a waste despite it not being "poetry", just an experiment I guess. I feel like it would be good, in like, a high-school, short story competition. lmfao.
Traveler Feb 27
In poetic manipulation
In magic of our words
Beneath the breath
Above duress
Let your heavy
Hearts be heard
In power of rhyme
Upfront sublime
Equal syllable
Entwined
In each consecutive
Spellbinding high
Or
Emotionality low
Crafted on
The twist of tongue
Either way
Let poetry make us whole

We all have the power
Write it down
lock
And load!
.........
Traveler Tim
Alyssa Underwood Jul 2016
It is out of the heart’s cavernous longing and furious search
for love, significance, acceptance, approval, identity, security,
freedom, belonging, innocence, intimacy and transcendence—
out of its primordial memory of what was lost to us in the Garden—
that we begin to erect idols for ourselves.

Unconsciously we hope they might restore to us a taste of paradise,
taking away our fear and shame and isolation.
We yearn to go back but, alas, we cannot get in from there.
We ache to connect to beauty, to be desired by it as much as we desire it,
and Jesus is the only door by which we may enter.
He is the Beauty, and all the rest are simply there like pealing bells
to arouse our hearts to Him and tell us that He is coming for us.

Still, as if we haven’t quite yet heard and believed the message, we keep
aimlessly trying to forge a false righteousness through our false gods.
When they are lost or the dreams of them unrealized we are devastated,
for the shadows, echoes and reflections we had supposed would finally
make us feel good about ourselves have been exposed as frauds,
and once again we are left to feel naked but without fig leaves to cover us.

It is at these precise moments, when the bottom of our false hope falls out,
that we are best prepared to encounter Christ in His intimate
fullness and most apt to recognize at last that He alone is
everything we have been so desperately wanting.
It is our boiling point, where the unbearable weight
of failed expectation so crashes in on us that we are finally
begging God to lift our idols off of us and deliver us from them,
pleading with Him to come and capture us,
crying out to Him to possess us fully.
gracie Jul 2017
Perhaps we never truly met
until I heard your voice of flowers
spill hydrangeas across the carpet
of my bedroom at 3 am.

Those whispers of nothingness
that smell oh so sweetly in the night
begin to wither away as sunrise creeps in
through the window I forgot to close tight.
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
I wanted to reach out to the sky
not to touch any star
just to whisper to the Moon
'How beautiful are you'!

I was still, stunned on the ground  
wandering down the sunrise hill.
In the midst of the morning breeze  
I heard of a whispering
‘The eyes in the sky gaze on the ground’.
So close to me that drew
as if that whispered to me ‘tell me about you’!
English Jam Jul 18
My little friend is now gone
My tragic life must go on; despite that
His evil eyes and his cheeky smile still burn in my mind
He no longer exists but
For my memory of him
And I rejoiced
When I heard the news
Still I can recall how I sobbed
When he gave me his evil eye me for the first time
When he hurled glass and other projectiles at me when he was hungry
When he spent hours upon hours pondering the fabric of society
I hated him
I wished
For his death
I was depressed
It was like paint peeling off a wall
It was like finding a dead leprechaun at the end of a rainbow
I was expecting some sort of remorse when he left
Funny how heartbreak works

Now read this in reverse
Because sometimes all you need
Is a little change of perspective
To truly understand someone
Dedicated to the goldfish I had when I was little who accidentally died. This is for you sweet fish <3
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