Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
ryn Sep 2014
Poetry moves from within our souls,
It's emotions pouring out
Covering us in rhymes and flow,
Like rain from the clouds

Infinite letters, words and phrases
In various permutations we play
Collaboration between heart and mind
Breathed into these pieces that we lay

Touching lives with our written form
Healing with words, what's poetically true
Freedom of expression, thoughts and ideals
Crying out in ink, until our sadness is through

Similar in thoughts but meander through individual routes
We all sing the same but to different rhythm and tunes
Inscribe our innermost but to varying worthy causes
We all draw inspiration but from the same loyal moon

A different form of art, yet art none the same
It's in the eye of the beholder, so they say
Poetry is life drawn in pen, it's not an erasable game
It truly breathes life, looking forward to each new day

**We proudly fly our diverse flags
United under one banner
We revel in words of poetry
In the hopes they'd last forever
Deeply honoured by the fact that the amazing "The Girl Who Loved You" would even consider a collaboration with me! Such an experience! Thank you TGWLY for this opportunity! Awestruck!
I am someone who can dismantle you as easily as I promised you the world and managed to mean both with all of their heart.

Someone so prone to accidents.
Charming you with all of the little mistakes I make in preparation to surprise you when the big ones break you.

"I promise" he said -
"I promise to never leave you" -
The second it gets too serious - he will grow distant.

"I promise" I said -
"I promise to never leave you" -
Then, I will explode about something you said
three weeks ago over burnt toast.

You open your arms,
and just when you expect me to run to you -  I run the other way.
girl gonzo Jan 2018
I drink pink grapefruit flavored drinks
my face smells like the citrus
when I lose things and people
I change my hair
it helps me cope with the idea that I can never finish a stick of lip balm and most of the people I've known only yield disappointment
no one is at fault here
but the blame is usually pushed into my intestines
and I spend five days throwing up
I used to be afraid that I would never see the entire world
now I'm afraid I'll never spend enough time in a place I can call home
every morning the smell of grapefruit grows stronger
this is a poem about grapefruits
Tommy Randell Dec 2014
I could go out onto the flat roof
and find a star
in the afternoon sky
write and tell you about it
so that you may find it too

I could point out a seagull
immature and this year’s young
begging for food
describe the parent’s gagging kiss
and the brown paste passed from throat to throat

Telling you the sounds of a busy day here
I could remind you
of the silence left behind
when I draw the curtains on it all
and lay down on a weave of Welsh wool

I could be two pairs of eyes
in the one body
and my tongue swallowing for us both
I could cram my head with both our dreams
and still be one heart beating, longing

These are just ideas
Tommy Randell Jun 2017
The world has corners where Ideas meet to exchange gossip -
I speak quietly in my life about my thoughts, their meaning.
It is more than eloquent to believe mere Ideas have a life unspoken.

Like seeing the clouds moving as one and time passing as they go,
Seeing the wave of a breeze running across a wheat field, like some hand
Brushing the ripe grain and saying 'There, there – It will be time soon.'

The life imagined out of what the world presents to us, its substance,
This life becomes us as Thinkers, Poets, Artists and Human Beings -
The shapes we make of these thoughts are very much the best of us.

In my daily turns I speak quietly about such things to my friends,
Letting the zoo of my imaginarium mix freely and wander wide.
On the whole my words mean no harm and grow from the good of it.

I speak quietly of some things only as Poetry, however -
That I like the small persuasions. That the wind can move our thoughts.
That our fates are the paths we walk. That time is a present to be shared.

That our hopes are the slipperiest of dreams, sent to keep us awake.
That Joy in the world can heal it, though happiness always breaks.
That mountains are a silent scream, never to reach the stars.

That not speaking of some things at all is often the most arduous.
That sometimes ideas have a ferocity best to be kept unheard -
And in those Poems, that is when I want you to listen your very hardest.

Tommy Randell 06th June 2017
This poem isn't at all about Politics. In fact it is only about Poetry
Meredith Ann Feb 14
I wish I had the ability
To speak words that haunt you
In the way that yours
hang in the front of my mind.
Umi Apr 2018
The desert,
A sea of sand, drought and dry air under a scorching, blazing Sun,
The wind may feel alike a cut, which burns through your senses,
Relentless, the heat takes over by day, yet by night it is cold enough to freeze you if you come unprepared. Such would be a foolish idea,
A dessert of thoughts, driving into my brain, leaving ideas uncovered
Leaving productivity hidden, under the sand of hatred and self doubt
Such places, landscapes, covered by firy silicate or ice are truly lethal,
Such state of mind, covered by uncertainty is truly lethal, for ones wonderful creativity, for art of all kind, conveyed or material, if you might wander through such a land without any guide to help out,
Worry not, for after every drought comes rain, blissful rain to fertilise the soil of thoughts which will blossom in wonderous ways, to shine,
After all, motion without movement cannot be possible so try to move
A wise friend once tought me, that if you give it enough time, even a nigh impossibility becomes a certainty, even a desert could be a forest
But until then, be patient my dear, even the most deserted place, carries some beauty in it, no ?

~ Umi
girl gonzo Oct 2018
morning dew drops on your collar
impressing me with the zealous way the seasons drastically measure the moment it takes me
to reach forwards and brush it off
liquid winter falling onto a ***** cement
the initials 'F T' written jaggedly into the cold stone of asphalt
i wait for it to disappear, for the flicker of everything gone to fade from my vision
but it passes too quickly
i look back up and there's no one around
the street is empty and the capricious wind has ceased
a sucker for patterns i walk into a fabric store and feel my hand linger on the erratic linens
fingers paused on the peach organza sprawled like a pink bubblegum sea
and i am swept into the manic fantasies of wearing the sheer tissue-like textile into
the abdomen of your sweaty palm and sinking like a sticky sweet stripe
until you put your hand in your pocket and i spend a year inside melting
into the every thread and curve of your jean until it is nothing but disgusting sugar
everything i could be when i am hidden from sight in the dark caverns of denim pants
who knew the tongue in cheek joke would be nothing but my tongue in your mouth
touching all the way up your gums  
find me sweltering beneath the uvula wondering if i could go back
to the time i found that girl with the mountain logo sweatshirt who whistled between her teeth and hummed all the reasons i should skin my knee and kiss the salty wound because there's no greater pleasure than knowing you don't have to wait for that morning dew drop to fall from their ******* collar
Hussein Dekmak Jun 2018
Are you awake?
Have you given the sun a good morning kiss?
Have you heard the songs of the melody birds?
have you embraced the new dawn with your wishful thinking?

Are you awake?
Have you worn your beautiful smile?
Have you smelled 'Hussein's' fresh coffee?
Have you prepared your bright colored brush to paint your new day?

Are you awake?
Have you fed your thoughts with nourishing ideas?
Have you dressed your soul with the scent of flowers?
Have you awaken your heart to the call of love?

Hussein Dekmak

Jubail Aquino Oct 2018
I am a colour of thoughts.'

Flying in the shimmering
deep of imagination.

A creator of abstract doggerels,
a whirling feeling of amazement
into fragments of creativity.

For each fragment of me
am in each piece I craft,
I wildly pace to my tune,
and I passionately dance
to my own beat.

- Artist
Ira Nov 2018
What makes a compliment?
And why do we crave them so?
It’s loved on every continent,
And everyone praises those who give them so.

Yet there are no real rules,
Just many a fools,
Giving their idea of one.

We say what we think is nice,
We speak what we believe is true,
An idea of a compliment.
But some fall hilariously short,
And some say of which can be met with much blue.

So what makes a compliment?
Is it the person receiving the words?
It’s there job to interpret the voice?
Must they dissect what the other says,
And hope to god their interpretation is the correct choice?

So what makes a compliment?
Is it the person giving the words?
Must they be masters of literature,
With the ability to perfect,
The ability to make immaculate,
The ability to speak with all the power of a poet?

Or is it someone's job to do something deserving of one,
With the other person making the choice,
The choice of giving the person deserving words that have been oh so beautifully spun?

Not at all.
A compliment is a compliment because we say so.
There are no rules.
Just what each person knows of each other in this world of fools.

A compliment is a compliment because both people are happy with what is said.
It’s a personal idea for only those two people’s head.
Due to Snapchat's recent "Send X, if you care about me" spam, I decide to write about what a compliment is.
Sam Jul 2018
Too many thoughts,
and words that
I could use
to write
a poem
few came
out to be in used.
The rest? still in drafts.

Noises in Mind, Copyright © 2014
Sam N. de la Rosa
All rights reserved.
This is me, having a whole lot of ideas that most of them are in drafts because time by time, ideas keeps popping out on my mind and couldn't manage myself to write them all at the same time.
Next page