Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
kha Nov 2018
na ikaw ang inuna kahit ako ang iyong huli.
sinta, maaari bang masimulan nating muli?
parang tangang ikaw ang pinili
hinayaang makulong sa iyong tali

lahat ng aking alinlangan ay isinantabi
pinagkatiwala ang buong sarili
akala ko'y hindi ako nagkamali
ngunit nagsabi ka ng "sandali,"

"sandali, hindi ako lilisan
ngunit sandali, ako pala'y nalilito minsan
sandali. makinig ka muna. sandali lang.
hindi yata kita napupusuan."

hindi mo naman kasalanan
na ang sakit ay hindi man lang maibsan
hindi mo naman kasalanan
na madali akong palitan

hindi mo naman kasalanan
na hindi ako ang nakatuluyan
hinding-hindi mo rin kasalanan
na hindi ako kawalan

hindi mo kasalanan, mahal
na ang boses ko'y garalgal
at kapag ako'y hinihingal
kapag sinisigaw ang aking pagmamahal

at paghihintayin pa kita ng matagal
pahihintulutan kang maging pagal
ang usad sa akin ay laging mabagal
kaya hinding-hindi ka susugal

hindi mo kasalanan
ang aking mga kasalanan.
kaya't ako'y iyo nang iwan
sa sarili **** tahanan.
bob May 2018
poets come.
Finish inside me.
Swim in me.
Taste me. From
7 to eleven
slurp me
in the convenience store
where some
wrestle to buy
this or that
I remain
gift wrapped

for your
good stuff.
I"m humbled by all the attention.  Thank you all.
Cné Mar 2017
skimming the feed of poetry
reading the works of poets
liking here and there
without ever a care
some of us rather copiously
we all have our favorites
but the poem is just the beginning
of the start with a spark

if you never look at the activity
you are missing the best part
it's the jam that turns me on
in comments short or long
continuing the song

so don't be offended
of the flame that's ignited
its all rather splendid
to fire the wordplay excited
it's not really a contest
but more of a sinuous ebb and flow
hoping for a laugh or looking to decompress
when you have a day that blows
all of you at hp inspire me
w y n n e Oct 2016
Hindi ako magaling kumabisado
Inaamin ko, hindi ako magaling kumabisado
Higit sa lahat, ayokong pinipilit akong tandaan ang mga bagay na ayoko
Pero gusto kong makabisado ang tunog ng pagakyat mo sa hagdan
Gusto ko makabisado kung ilang kutsara ng asukal at takal ng gatas ang tinitimpla mo sa kape
Gusto ko makabisado kung anong paborito **** palaman sa tinapay at kung kailangan mo ba ng alalay
Gusto ko makabisado kung inuuna mo bang kainin ang balat ng manok o hinuhuli mo
Gusto ko makabisado kung anong timpla ang gusto **** sawsawan sa iyong ulam...matamis, mapait, maasim o maanghang.
Matamis, mapait, maasim o maanghang...

Gusto kong makabisado,
Gusto ko makibasado kung paano minumulat ang mata matapos magising sa mahabang panaginip
Gusto ko makabisado ang galaw ng iyong mga kamay sa kung paano mo inaayos ang iyong kurbata
Gusto ko makabisado kung paano mo tinatali ang sintas ng sapatos mo sayong mga paa
Hindi ako magaling kumabisado...
Inuulit ko, hindi ako magaling kumabisado
Pero gusto ko makibasado lahat ng tungkol sayo,
Sa maliit man o malaking detalye,
madami man o kaunti
Sa kung paano ka bumangon sa umaga at sa pagahon ng araw,
Lahat ng iyong ginagawa sa umpisa at ang iyong hiling kapag tapos na
Importante man o walang kahulugan,
mahalagang ito'y aking malaman.

Ang gusto ko lang makabisado
At sa huling beses, uulitin ko
Hindi ako magaling kumabisado
Pero kakabisaduhin ko ang hugis ng iyong mukha,
ang maiitim at mahahabang pilik mata,
ang ngiti sayong labi,
ang tunog ng hininga kapag ika'y katabi
Gusto ko lang makabisado
At kakabisaduhin ko
Kakabisaduhin ko kahit gaano katagal
Abutin man ng syam-syam,
Itaga mo man sa bato
Sumigaw ka man ng "darna"
Pero mahal, kakabisaduhin ko...

Kakabisaduhin ko,
Maubos man ang mga bituin na siyang nagbibigay direksyon sa kung saan patungo
Kakabisaduhin ko simula sa umpisa hanggang sa dulo
Simula sa unang letra ng pangalan mo, kasunod sa numero ng kaarawan mo hanggang sa hibla ng buhok mo
Panagako mahal, kakabisaduhin ko para sayo
Kakabisaduhin ko
At kakabisaduhin ko ang tibok ng puso mo,
Umaasang baka sakaling masabayan ko
Unang tulang tagalog na sinulat ko
Becky Littmann Nov 2014
I'm high as a ******* kite
I know this **** isn't right
Staying up all **** night
But I didn't put up a fight
Since the feeling is hella tight
..... Hella tight
.... Yeah hella tight

Another day
Feeling the same way
I know , I know what can I say
Come out, come out to play
This feeling isn't going away
.... Just go away
.... Go away

I feel like I can fly
Way up high
Through the clouds in the sky
It's a trip I can't deny
It's a feeling you need to try...
... You must try...
.... Just try

I'm slowing down quite a bit
Not long before the ground I hit
Stupidly there I just sit
I really need to just quit
But Id miss the feeling I get...
...**** the feeling I get...
....what a feeling I get

Lost in its distraction
Like a bug lights purple glowing hyponotic attraction
Causing a massive chain reaction
A sickening fascination
A feeling of amazing satisfaction..
..******* addicting satisfaction...
...craving the satisfaction..

A feeling quite rare
Do I dare
Or do I even really care
A feeling that tingles everywhere
..this feeling I should share
....should share...
...but can't share

What a crazy place
Limitless like outter space
Intense & in your face
A feeling you embrace
Like winning a race
A feeling you can never replace...
...never replace..
...unable to replace..

It's mighty slick
Addicted you quick
Playing a nasty trick
Laying on the feeling thick stuck fast like a glue stick...
...that's right a glue stick..
....a glue stick..

High as a kite
I told you it wasn't right
Up all night
...I gave into the fight
The feeling is just hella tight.. hella tight...
...yeah, hella tight...
Paul Hansford Feb 2016
My poems are my children, more or less.
I care about them, want them to go far,
would like the world to love them as they are.
Or would it help if I could maybe dress
them in fancy words, improve their accent? Yes,
though a judicious measure of sobriety
might give my work commendable variety.
Alas, they're disadvantaged from the start,
these single-parent children of my art,
and I can't blame their failings on Society.
The décima is a Spanish form of ten lines (hence the name).  See my Youth and Age for more details.
Jim Davis Apr 2017
Every one
Looks for two

©  2017 Jim Davis
laura Sep 2018
kooky, kooky llamas and duckies
frank ocean and kanye westy
in your car, rain pouring on our gucci
escape into your house, but feeling weird

like we're gonna do something
wrings the self and our hair of water
like our mangled garments
you play destiny 2 and i read poetry

not one hundred emoji on that chief
what we're supposed to be or do today
on our day off, write about nothing
and realize that's how it's supposed to be
Aj Jan 2018
you are words.

you are crashing syllables that drip off of wilting rose petals and each letter is a star. you make up constellations while foreign galaxies drip from your lips. nebulae dance across your angel-shedded skin and particles of the sun hide under the freckles resting on your shoulders.

you are life.

the wonders of the cosmos that swirl in the pit of your lean and golden tummy, finding solace in the way you breathe in and exhale the energy of the universe that you created in the beating passage of my worn-out soul.

you are the universe's child.

and the stars that accumulate under your skin will explode. i'll inhale the stardust and debris, letting the particles of life that you emit pollute my bloodstream.
constellations dedicated to a lover who lost his way.
sophia Aug 2018
and to you do i deem another one of these elongated rambles of words bowed down to us by gorgeous sundancers. dear true love, is it painful— that you fell from heaven carrying a satin piece of you coating me in your tempting warmth? i wish it weren’t; your response to pain is not what lavishes you to a perfect sunbeam but rather an all-knowing traveller. countless of letters have been shipped down from the bounty to your lost paradise; missing you, as if the clouds have taken you in the fastest they possibly could. now i would never understand how it feels to be held in close proximity again; with tenderness adjacent to a fairy’s whisper. but this open letter allows you to realise of the poetry living within your bones. that no matter how sturdy it takes for the fragility to break through, there will always be love residing. from me, in you. i’ll be waiting in mornings, holding the moon on my hand, standing on the wild grand on the universe that we’ll never compare to. but trust me, that’s what you are to me. you’re on top of everything else that comes to live and breathe.
onlylovepoetry Feb 2018
you can’t right the same poem twice

****, yes I can
in pointy fact,
only got one,
which gets re-righted
morning noon and evening-tide

substitute a variant spelling
wright vs write vs right
and the meaning changes thrice

the only thing i can’t not duplicate is those **** love poems
each unique and writ for the woman specific,
each love one, custom jiggered,
each poem, crafted, to her pulse
each drafted, to her scent
none alike, and that’s why I believe
in the god who commanded "create him"
to make love poems in his way,
gave me millions of veins
of inspiration to pray to...
my heart altered, modified, daily

**** poems
**** love poems
**** love
2/2/2018   10:14pm
king Oct 2018
They don't rhyme
They don't have metaphors
They don't have personification
They don't have similes
They don't have idioms

                                                                       But sometimes these poems:
                                                          ­             They hit hard          
                                                                ­       They make you emotional
                                                                ­        They are the beautiful ones
rica Jan 2017
it hurt her;
every single bits
and pieces of
flowers she vomits;
they tasted like
they hurt like
the feeling of
being stabbed in
the back by the
person you love
the most (both
physically and
but what hurt her the
most is that
he wasn't really
worth dying for—
but she was afraid
of losing him;
of forgetting the
feeling of loving him.
posted this on my ig first hehe
Mark Upright Aug 2018
|“lead into gold, good into dear, mortal into immortal”
(where poems come from)”

you charged me
with crimes three times three,
sorcery and witchcraft and doing god’s work

plead guilty three times three
not that I was successful,
but a complex, candied marvelous failure

not in my possession, the sorcerers spell,
my dross and wordy dregs all sit sidelined,
perchance perhaps,
if you search with a leaden patience inhuman,
you might just find a minuscule golden vein there’d unmined

turning good into dear, an “anyone can do it” miracle,
when you whisper with just one kiss those forever words,
don’t be afraid, say it low and slow, I love you,
“I only want to be with you”
and dare it to be become dear

mortal into immortal, an order tall, for one knows his
hiding places for all too human pockmarked weak,
but having been charged and found in guilt,
no one proffered evidence but they wanted a unambiguous
unanimous verdict and proof is such an old fashioned truth notion

happy accept your accusations and since confession is
the best soul medicine, with glee, here and now reveal
how immortality is achievable

breathe poems  constantly instantly throughout
the orifices in the skin cells and
pore’d orifices you were god given;
it is how we immortals communicate
with what cannot be seen,
yet drunken heard when spoke aloud

taste the poems in and on tongues you can’t comprehend,
the sounds fly skyward after infiltrating your eyes,
then you can see your own immortality anointed rising

all nonsense you plead,
only immortals truly cherish and envy the
human ability to create
nonsense, the place
where poems come from

Tommy Randell Jul 2017
The typeface of our lives,
The letter shapes and spaces,
They reveal by turn the motives
Of our pauses, and our graces  -

We become our Alphabets,
Poetry is how we are known,
For each of us our analects,
How we flesh ourselves on the bones -

Each of us is a Mother Tongue,
A font, a calligraphy of memes,
Yet every page of verse is an extinction
In a natural selection of themes -

We Poets, knowing our pens are slickest,
Our Poems and all we create
We hope each one is the fittest
But, we abandon each one to its fate -

We Poets, our Poems,
This notorious continuance in action,
This carnal and passionate urge
To imprison Life and its Truth in redaction.

Tommy Randell 27th July 2017
Bus Poet Stop Jul 2017
months since last eye writ, your eyes most likely have never crossed mine.  still inhabit the buststops, now called bus shelters though they are not a "shelter in place" place, but a crossroads where the poor and rich, the youthful and the nearer-to-god-than-thee sit bearer nearer to each other when they reside in the equality of the moments that are globally know as
    "waiting for the bus"
or as
     "waiting for Godot".

eyes have seen buses in Rio and Delhi that carried livestock and more humans on the exterior than the interior.  

but mine eyes are in a slow fade away mode, dimming in a final
sun setting  so u are needed.  
give me your bus stories yearning to he free and I will give you
my imagined ones
for are not all bustop poems are imaginary?
J Feb 2018
Kaibigan ko, halika at makinig,
Sa storyang dapat **** marinig,
Sana ako’y paniwalaan,
Dahil hindi ito kathang-isip lamang.

Habang ako’y nag-iisa,
Habang hindi mo ako kasama,
Dumidilim ang mundo,
Sa pagdilim nito kasama pati buhay ko.

Sa tuwing nakatingin sa mga tala,
May mga boses na laging nang-aabala,
Gusto ko ng tumahimik,
Maalis ang mga aninong umaaligid.

Tama na.... tama na... ayoko na,
Patahimikin mo na sila.
Tama na.... Nakikiusap ako,
Tulungan, tulungan mo ako.

Mapa gabi man o umaga,
Lungkot na di mawari ang nadarama,
Sa araw na ako ay nawala, (sa aking pagkawala)
Kasabay nito ang pag tahimik nila.

Sa pagtatapos ng aking kwento,
Sana maunawaan mo,
Na hindi ito kasabay ng panahon na lilipas din,
Ito ay importante at dapat intindihin.

Sa pag kupas ng mga larawan,
Sa bawat kumpas ng alon sa dalampasigan,
Kaibigan, ako’y lumisan sa mundo hindi dahil ginusto ko,
Pero para sa ikatatahimik ko.

Stop the stigma of Mental Illness. Mental disorders are not adjectives.
Kevin J Taylor Jul 2017
The first poem takes place during the lifetime of Lord Buddha.

The second poem follows in the years soon after Lord Buddha left his body.

The third poem is the mind of the boy (the spirit of the boy in the first poem) in restless meditation. He has yet to attain full enlightenment. There are multiple voices suggested by parentheses and which are whispered words. If you prefer linear thought or literal interpretation this poem may not communicate to you. Just as a painting may be abstract, this poem is wide open to your own connections, thoughts and emotions. If you like, you can skip to the fourth poem.

The fourth poem, in three lines, lies within this portion of eternity that is forever present time.

Boy runner (the first poem)
Approaching Gautama where He sat a
boy examined Him politely. (This-that?)
Gautama spoke and there the unnamed boy
who sitting a while with Him that day thought
and over the days ahead returned and
leaving only for food, drink and service
that Gautama would not be distracted
from His goal until upon returning
he saw Him glowing in the morning light
and so began to dance with Him beneath
the tree. A leaf was shed, was gathered then
and the boy, who while tucking it away,
Gautama asked if he would run for Him
to village, crossroads, field, grove, wherever
Gautama wished to speak. And so he ran
and soon arriving announcing thus His
coming, holding high the leaf he carried
and which had never died— living, living
and green until Lord Buddha left His body.

Depths of Green (the second poem)
Depths of green—from canopy to forest floor
In streams of raucous livingness
And there, and where about, a sanctuary
Falls in heaps, in stone walls run aground.

And with, nearby, afar, by ins and outs
Through every place (perceived)
Wherever listened for—vibration.

A single voice in Pali—a single voice
Leaping, leading, dancing, sweeping.

Hello. You greet me.

And if I split myself and stand (the third poem)
And if I split myself and stand
At every corner of said universe
On any selfsame summer day
With any selfsame afternoon rain
Will this, though thought, slip
Where densities of interest fail
(Or by failures to perceive)

This leaf-boy-runner
Eight portions of beingness
The full, and fill of prime creation

(Perhaps where life has paused
Or slowed enough to perceive
At any speed
The speed of perception
The true speed of light
The wavelengths of laughter
And of any thing)

While density shifts
Where inertia has failed

(The density of my interest
The shift of my affinity)

There is no doubt
It has velocity
It gives back light
It bends the universe
It has location
From which expands
All space
Not already filled
With the logic of otherness
And even there it bends to will

As (my breadth of vision)
A torrent
An avalanche
A fissure in nothingness
A co-creation of All
This theatre
Our audience
Of stelae
Beacons of lostness
To wander by
In search of wavelengths
Of affinity
Where you might
Where I have
The curves beneath our frequencies
The pitch and roll of their design
Their width

(We have
Each other)

In all that vastness
An ordinary leaf
From this
For that
(I am)
The breathless

Cool in the shade (the fourth poem)
Cool in the shade
(still) dancing
with Lord Buddha
Not all poems survive. I've lost a few and let others go. My current collection of poems is available on Kindle. It is called "3201 e's" (that is approximately how many e's are in the manuscript which is a very unpoetic title but a reflection on the creation of poetry with common things.)
False Poets May 8
when you understand my poems perfectly then,

their utility is inutile,
the usefulness is in the
reinterpretation, a million and still counting,
as long as you must guess at its labyrinth wired inner construct,
be pleasured by the roiled and rolled curves upon your tongue,
a two lives-paired wine tasting, together believing
in the greatness of joyous frustration

some say, as I do, the world is better for the
utility of thine own struggled understanding,
the truest combination of two way communication,
surpassed only by our armed embrace at last...
CloudedVisions Jul 2018
There was a Panda in his room
Ready to fall asleep
He wrapped himself up
Hugged his bed
As he counted all his sheep

The sheep jumped by one by one
As he watched the setting sun
The moon would rise
Stars shine bright
As the nighttime had begun

He rests his head on his pillow
He lays there all alone
In the warmth of night he falls asleep
As he pays his daytime loan

His mind goes dim, as his dreams awake
And he's in a pitch black room
When in front of him a bubble forms
One the size of his head
Past him it begins to zoom

The Panda half walks half crawls to where the bubble lay
Afloat in the air
Suspended above
He raises his voice to speak for it to come
But when his mouth opens, he doesn't know what to say

The bubble sits there laying in wait
Waiting for him to reach
So the Panda puts up his outstreched arm
Reaching for what he thinks would give him great joy
But what he finds is alarm

As he reaches and touches the bubble
The bubble begins to shake
It waivers and pops and rains down debris
And yet he doesn't wake

The Panda looks down
With tear stained eye
He sees the puddle below
And to the bubble he waves good bye

In this puddle left by the bubble
He sees his reflection glow
He sees his face, his tear stained eye
He wants to be set free
But for this little Panda, waking up is slow
this poem is a reflection of me and how I feel.
Napolis Nov 2018
Still water
at the
of a
Pacific ocean

of you
in my
in the

I can imagine
I hear you
carried in
to me
on a
a salt-kissed

and I
sit for
a moment
and smile.

I always

it is
a giving
thing that
you do.

your gentle
of truth
and innocence.

I can always
feel it
there in
you eyes...

you are

good  poets
go to
Either you end up
In my poems
Of heartbreaks,
Sadness and misfortune
Or you end up beside me
Filling the gaps between
My fingers.
Next page