Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
fearfulpoet Aug 2018
school starts soon
smoking joints on the weekday afternoon

in a sidelined shady
freight car, property of
Norfolk Southern

debating if this car will be
northbound or southbound
and master-bating our fantasy
where we want to be taken

knowing full well maybe one of us -
(and they all looking at me)

will get out of this car and live to
see foreign places without having to
return in a body bag

we argue lazy who should go get the beer,
collect the quarters and sweaty dollar bills
and **** if I am not reappointed
leader of the beer fetching

besides it’s my
tan lab panting needing water so it’s my
responsibility and the nasty liquor store owner don’t hate me that much as the others so he’ll sell me beer without too much **** talk (some for sure)

asking where I’m laying low on a **** hot day like this one

tell him i’m getting on a train getting out of this two bit town which makes him reminisce and ask which direction

could be northbound could be southbound
hell could be west
but for sure won’t be
going eastbound

cause I seen the Atlantic and didn’t like it

too **** big and too **** cold,
too **** mean
Leigh Jun 2015
The creature waits clenched.
It waits hunkered and steadfast
For the quintessential moment to
Dangle your pride and cut its
Throat where you can see it.

The creature waits fuming.
It waits - shadowed and drip-fed -
For the penny to drop from its height;
To pierce the soft body of calm
And let loose the mess.

The creature waits grinning.
It waits smug and hysterical
For the time and times before this
Where it beat down a smile by
Forcing the question:

What is wrong with me?
Cné Jan 2018
silence and darkness
an old friend I know too well
an unwelcomed guest
Vicki Kralapp Aug 2012
I’ve been inside my head for all my life, listening to the voice within, trying to make peace with silent demons lying in wait.

These intruders remain, unwanted and uninvited,
wishing and praying for someone to banish them from my dreams.

Fearful moments spent hiding in dreams, amusing no one,
wondering, waiting and watching for weakness.

Brief glimpses of hope, wishing away the moments, days, weeks and years until now waiting, watching for life to come and sweep me away.

Living to die and dieing to live, making my way through this life.
Treading through too many souls for me to see my way,

Could you be the hope sent to free me from past haunts, my love, my all?
All poems are copy written and sole property of Vicki Kralapp.
blackbox Jun 2014
A tale of many cities confined within
Deep dark secrets stacked in.
Lies, the world presume as sins,
That’s how the story of ‘The Black Box’ begins.

Cramped amid the four gloomy walls,
‘The Black Box’ is what he calls.
Looking to unscramble pieces at the bottom,
He rolled up his sleeves to the problem.

Not knowing, this can put him in a ditch,
And ‘The Black Box’ can act like a *****.
He went on in the search for a prize,
Unaware of this forthcoming surprise.

He knew, many have tried to look inside,
To find a package of perfection in the hide
Disappointed to see the shattered glasses,
They closed the box to put it in a stack of more boxes.

Still, he preferred to move ahead,
In spite of knowing he will lose his head.
The minute he thought he was nearer to precision,
A way distant he was from the actual incision.

The time will come, when he will have his threshold,
Sooner or later, he will have to fold.
After all, no one can alter the history,
No matter what! ‘The Black Box’ will remain a mystery.
GreenTrees May 2017
In the dry cracked walls
Behind the dry rot
Below the slithering bellies

Where the earth turns death into life.

Soothed by the warmth of decay.

Tendrils of sorrow reaching deeper

Into that place in side my soul that has died

Where I silently scream breathlessly.

Time has stopped and the hands of time cover her face
Timidly peering out,
To one day see the sun again
satin slats
plumped slick
sepal pearls
Elysium entreats
welcoming warm
Every now and then
I go deep inside my mind
Just to have a little rest
And see what I can find
I don't go in there often
It dark and I must say
That sometimes I'm afraid
That I may lose my way

There's a little corner café
Where Groucho sits alone
Stan Laurel sits there writing gags
And Greta Garbo sits and moans
Sinatra sings for all of them
John Lennon talks to God
Brian Jones gives swimming lessons
There's Liz Taylor and Mike Todd

Over in the distance
At a table in the corner
Hemmingway sells movie scripts
To mogul man Jack Warner
Elvis does a hip shake
Ruth and Gherig playing catch
Bud and Lou do Who's on First
Humphrey Bogart lights a  match

Charles Dickens playing darts
A red balloon comes floating by
Andy Warhol sits with Nico
Where German pop songs go to die
Marilyn and James Dean
Sit quietly talking on the stairs
John Kennedy and his brother Bob
Just pretend that they are both not there

Chico  plays piano and
Harpo  with his  harp
Bad jokes float around the room
being told by silent stars
Phil Everly and Phil Ramone
They're new here so they're woozy
Sit talking of the songs they'll miss
Rick Nelson sings of Susie

You see it is a mad mad place
in my head when I may wander
I don't go in too deep
And I've  met Henry Fonda
There's images, and icons
Family, and  friends
on a little street inside my head
That's a circle with no ends
Sushant Mar 2017
Her heart's deep coloured and mine's all grey. We'll end up in dark but I can't push her away.
Pagan Paul Jun 14
.
… and the look of fear
co-existing with pain
     on a contorted face
that knows
it is in mortal difficulty,
as ragged fingers

     clutch,

          clutch,

at a fire they cannot reach,
ripping agonies react,
     to an enforced cardiac episode,
as blackness closes in
gravity heaves its hardest,
but the fall is fake,
a red herring in the event,
     and the weight of the world

presses down, searching,
retracts
waiting,
presses down, searching,
retracts
waiting,

as breath is given freedom
in exhalation to the light,
     that slowly rolls back
the pitch hue of the void,
returning back images,
feeling,
a new belief,

          and the fire inside quietens,

                    and the fire inside quietens,

to the intense glow
     of a burnt aching heart.




© Pagan Paul (2018)
.
This poem was actually written during a panic attack I had last year.
I have suffered from them for most of my life.
.
Paul Hansford Aug 2016
The flag, a white crescent and single star
on a field of crimson — kırmızı, not just 'red' —
tells of Islam. The men drinking beer and rakı
at pavement tables, even in Ramadan,
and the short-skirted, bare-armed girls,
parading with bare-faced confidence,
tell of other influences;
but at the appointed hour we hear the call to prayer
from the marble minaret, a slim finger
pointing to the sky beside shining domes
reflecting the vault of heaven.
At five a.m. we hear it faintly through hotel double-glazing,
or at sunset, as a peaceful accompaniment to the spectacle,
and we remember where we are.
But especially at the midday hour,
when the voice of the muezzin echoes
over noisy street or market,
and from another minaret and another
the duet becomes a trio, a quartet
of different melodies, out of tune
with each other but never discordant
(in these tones the word has no meaning),
the faithful are reminded, however busy they may be,
that their God requires something of them.
Then, entering the cool calm of the mosque,
entering the quiet forest of pillars,
feeling through the soles of our bare feet
marble polished by the tread
of generations of worshippers,
fine-grained wood,
the rich softness of crimson carpet,
we luxuriate in the textures as they combine
with the formal floral patterns of the tiles,
the ornate calligraphy of the inscriptions,
the rich colours of the glass,
and we realise that the builders of these mosques
knew what they were doing, so many years ago,
how peace can enter the soul
through the senses.
The letter that looks like a lower-case "i" without the dot and appears here in "kırmızı" and "rakı" is pronounced, in the delightfully phonetic Turkish language, as a kind of "uh", as in "I am writing A [uh] poem" or "I have read THE [thuh] book".
Jack Chicago Apr 2015
there's bars on the sky
razor wire around the moon
each star under lock and key

every eruption of laughter
seems forced
running from something
toward nothing

i can see my shadow
on the other side
of the fence
dancing in freedom
he waves hello
as i wave goodbye

"RUN"
i tell him
"YOU CAN MAKE IT"!
still he follows me across the yard
and back inside...
I wrote this at the beginning of a jail sentence. My shadow was free. If only...
Shofi Ahmed Jul 2018
Mortal earth is a shadow
nothing lasts here evermore.
The inside is a complete hollow.
Everyone takes a turn sway not
360-degree it’s a flute!
Shofi Ahmed Feb 23
Far from the light,
you, me, we live inside.
In one's own space
it's a far cry from the sun.

To show up though everyone
needs a slice of the sun.
But except one,
her beauty shines in the dark!
I'd say I 'miss you'
But can that possibly
convey the true
sentiment
of how I feel
each day?

I say 'no way'
A torment
is laid
A sacrifice
that must be made
This road before
I've paved
but this time
with new waves

No longer the waves
of goodbye
Yes, it's true
before we tried
Tears were cried
A mountain climbed
But alas,
it was not time
The bells hath not chimed

What is due
is due in due time
And good times
are what await
While I sit here and wait
Though my wait is over
For no more
will I second guess
I know who's best
Forget the rest
It is you I will hold
against my chest

A treasure chest
but not filled
with cliche jewels
and like items
No, instead
filled with what is
truly priceless
What money can't buy us
What each of us
is searching for
Longing for
Like a knock upon the door
or a child wanting more
Not prepared
for what's in store
Like one who's out
begging and poor

For so long
on the 'other' side
But not this time
for that time
has ended
and in the end
all wrong is now right
because I have you
right by my side

No longer that fear
that I kept inside
Wanting to run
Go away and just hide
But no matter
how much I try
(which I admit isn't much)
I can not hide
what I have inside
for you
Yes, it's true
A love that is true
Complete in its virtue
An everlasting truth
So cozy and cute
Like an old couple
smushed together
in our favorite coffee booth

But no toll
at this booth
More like
a 'kissing' booth
A carnival fair
Cotton candy
in the air
Along with the
ever-present
and ever-lasting aroma
of love
that together
we share
Hand-in-hand
Sit or stand
and into each other's
eyes we stare

To others
may not seem fair
But we're too love struck
to care
Our hearts
with each other share
A caring so deep
That a trench
in the sea
still couldn't possibly
in any way effectively
convey what we see
What we feel
What's inside you
and inside me
How we
just 'BELIEVE'
I feel it
Don't you?
I know you do
You feel it too
We've known for so long
What we now know is true

So, here at the end
our story begins
An epic journey
of sadness, heartache and loss
But the price must be paid
And in full payment we made
Day after day
But the cycle we break
Having cost us the cost

All that sh*t we just tossed
No more carrying of weight
Mark your calendars
This date
Because the waiting
is gone
I can finally see straight
Warm inside
Feeling great
And with one foot
First step I take
As we take the plunge
I would dive off of the Sun
or forever I'd run
Do all that must be done
You are now
and always have been
my number one
Never a contest
to be won
It was yours from day one
And will be forever
till time is done

I love you.
Written: November 23, 2018

All rights reserved.
Britney Lyn Feb 2017
My grandmother always said I look more beautiful when I smile but never thought to ask why I wasn’t smiling. My heart could only bring myself to smile back at her in return. I would spend every summer day I could at her house, swimming in the lake, basking in the sun, drowning my sorrows and letting them sink till I couldn’t see them anymore. I thought maybe they would stay at the bottom with whatever else was lost in that lakes depths. But I was only a child, and we think such foolish thoughts. I guess you could say my sorrows came back like ghosts with a vengeance because nothing was scarier than ghosts and nothing haunted me like my sorrows. I was thirteen years old and scared of the dark because it looked like silence felt and I was so overcome by it I hardly got any sleep. Then I asked myself what is sleep? Are we all just stuck in a nightmare or a dream, stuck in an infinite loop, a broken record, repeat. I wanted to scream as loud as I could but I didn’t dare wake the beasts in the next room in fear that I’d get beat. Emotionally, physically it was all the same to me because what’s the difference between visible scars and a broken heart, they both hurt. Sixteen years old and I’m staring at a rope tied in a knot, representing the hold my sorrows have over me. I tried for hours to untie that knot in hopes it would magically cure my problems. I cried in frustration and finally took a knife to it, determined to be free but only for a moment because the knot was me. I made a masterpiece out of the flesh I had come hate, trying to find some beauty in it but all I felt was sickness, pain. So I tightened that rope around my neck a hundred times, saying goodbye and I’m sorry a thousand more, ready to end my life when all I really wanted was someone to notice. And if that makes me selfish than at least I’m something more than a disappointment. But don’t worry I’ll still see you in the morning because I never could bring myself to commit. Eighteen years old, a legal adult and my only friend said he couldn’t love me if I couldn’t get better on my own. Said it was too hard to be with someone so far away even though I could reach my hand out and close that distance. He broke my heart and walked out of my life and the next day he didn’t have one. That day I came to terms with my life. No one could destroy me because I destroy me. And my worst fear is no longer ghosts, the dark, or the silence. My worst fear is one day, being as oblivious to my child’s suffering as my parents were to mine.
More of a story about my life than a poem but I still think it's poetic :)
Next page