Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
Piyush Gahlot Oct 2018
I write to express,
Thoughts I can't suppress,
When something makes me depress,
When things happen in excess
Feels good to pen down, I Guess.

When I am alone,
I get in my own zone,
When my heart groan,
When I miss her skin and bone,
I write words expect them to make perfect tone.

When I am in a long Uber ride,
For sleeping I stride,
For you when my heart cried,
Writing something I tried.
Rhyming I applied.
This is how I write.
Trying to explain why I write.
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2015
be ever gentle to thy words
treat them, your tools, well,
cleansing and protecting,
wrapping them in cloths of chamois and moleskin
that they may be well conditioned and
pour forth with a temperament clear and viscous,
reflecting their high honors and a noble lineage,
they are well-intentioned to exist far longer
than your meager temporal life,
upon this ever hasty, ever perpetual, orbit

give them all respect, their fair due,
they are treasure immeasurable,
for which you have been granted guardianship,
custody received from others to be gifted onwards,
yours, but for the duration

so oft we trifle words,
expel them from the country of our body,
without passport and earnestness,
as if they were the cheapest of footnote filler,
day tourists, to be treated as leavings,
refuse for daily discardation,
barely noting their fast comings and faster disappearance,
but leaving not, a mark of distinction

more truffle than trifle,
find them in the dark forest of your life,
use them sparingly, just for soaring,
take them from the roots of your trees,
shave them with a paring knife,
counts them in bites and measure them in grams,
even in grains,
for words are the seasoning of our lives,
agent provacateurs that can modify the moment,
bringing out to the fore
the flavor of the underlying

speak them slow and distinct,
for they arrive slow to you,
a trickling of refugees for your sheltering,
harbor them as full companions,
protected by natural law,
provision them well,
prepared and ever ready for a quick departure,
moor them at the embarcadero,
for the next restless leg of endlessness,
which they themselves will inform you
will last longer than eternity,
long after there are no humans to speak them
Oct. 6, 2015
4:30am
Manhattan Island
King Panda Mar 2016
God
what have I created?
such fire
and sin
spewing from my
pen
drawing blood
from all of these
prisoners
the devil
spilling out like
vapor
from the cracks
in my
door
such poison
am I
such a delicate
observer
of death
w m Feb 2017
50
you keep looking for light in others,
when maybe inside you lies a bright glare
that could sparkle a dark night
Moji K Dec 2015
typeset soul
page to fill
graphite smear
wings on walls
spinning verse
ink black sky
etched ardour
*wordless voice
Desmond the poet Aug 2018
In the beginning there was a reader, poet, pen and paper.
Like an artist towards a stage, a
Poet approached the paper for freedom of expression.
The poet had secrets he couldn’t trust anyone to keep.
The feelings and secrets were so ocean deep.

The poet saw bias and hypocritical verdicts through reader’s eyes.
The poet trusted the paper and pen instead of readers.
Readers know not the poet’s pain, misery, and happiness.
Only God knows the poet's expression via a pen on paper.

Readers see the pen’s ink on paper.
They don’t see tear’s marked on the poet’s face.
Neither do they see the smile on the poet’s face.
The pen and paper is just the poet’s podium for freedom of expression.
Neither pen nor paper however knows the depth of a poet’s feelings.
This is just to say there's a lot more to poet than what the readers see.
Shofi Ahmed Sep 2018
What made Rumi
is not the poetry.
That's media not
the end of the discovery.

The reality, ***!
Can a bard stich
a word on it
where none nothing
can stand still?
Treading on the way
poet Rumi sings.
In response to a BBC article 'Why is Rumi the best selling poet in the US?
Northern Poet Oct 2017
Why am I so obsessed
With checking my notifications
If no one texts me
It feels like suffocation
That little red dot
Next to my application
It ***** me off
When it won’t work down at the station
I've got a mate who's into spontaneous flirtation
He met a bird on this app
I think she's Croatian
They went on two dates
And then went on vacation
Meanwhile I'm sat at home
Watching babe station
I fell in love once
Then realised it was infatuation  
She said I had no drive
But she had no imagination
When we go out
Theres no conversation
Even Siri
Gives me ******* quotations
My new phone
Is the new sensation
Checking Facebook
My only temptation
I check my phone
Just to know my location
**** it
I’ve had it...
With this nation
Lone Luna Dec 2015
You are but a reserve man of emotions
The one who answers only to yes or no
The one who stands in the corner of the room of every party
The one who chooses to be alone just so

But when you write, the world stops
To listen to the words you've woven
with beauty and intertwine with sorrow
To listen to the rhythmless music
where all the butterflies in my stomach dance to
To listen to the raging wave of sentiments for humanity
To listen and to feel the love and ache that the world chooses to neglect

You, you may crack the lamest jokes
But when you write, *the world stops to listen
Luna
Give me a smoke to ease this pain
&
Burn down my lungs to distract this brain.
"Poet Boy"
I met this kid... that kept his writings hid. Since a small boy, he kept his artwork hid. No one ever knew all the writings he did.
That night we met, That night I'll never forget. I was under the moonlight feeling sad... He must of sensed that I was feeling insanely mad. Him a kid; me an adult, Before I could
question as to why
a boy his age was out that late, without a word he raised his shirt revealing the artwork he always kept hid,
His blue eyes matched mine tear after tear,
He must of knew the secret I did bear,
So without hesitation,
I raised my sleeve's
to reveal my scarred skin of poetry.
I know this may sound strange but that night both of our live's suddenly began to change,
We haven't crossed paths since,
But we share something of a 6th sense,
He's happy now
and
shares his artwork
in museums of famous names,
As for me, I'm old at the age of ninety-three
and
my poetry resides in books of famous names.

  #[email protected]042018. # https://www.yourquote.in/jenciearnold
https://www.yourquote.in/jenciearnold
She writes a poetry for him,
Because her mind is full of him.
© Authentic Rose
© 2019
w m Feb 2017
45
i will try to deprive myself of you, to distant myself from you

i will try not to look at you too much nor initiate a conversation  with you

i will try not to mind how you look nor to mind how you speak

i will try to resist breaking your wall; to resist trying to approach whenever i see you online or alone

i will try to look at what's bad about you - your inability to be true to yourself of what you really feel, to your coldness, your indifference, your offenses

i will try to ignore you each day in hopes that i will not hope for you

i will try to calm my heart whenever i see your messages on my phone or whenever you're near

i will try not to admire your music taste, your smarts

i will try not to think of you nor dream about you at night

i will try not to sneak a peek

i will try to protect my heart from you

i will try to hate you really hard

but please

don't go looking at me, too

with those gentle eyes of yours

it makes all of these futile if i catch you checking on me too

you're a tease boy, don't make this so ******* me
sophia Feb 2018
i am the words frail from the depths of his wishes. the ink blots to the edge of my skin; and whispers the tune of the lyric that swells  and unlocks his heart. it is with him that i am whole, it is with his insanely gorgeous mind that i am adjoined to a poem that births a star.
my poet, my sweet, he is an artist of every kind; i am just a word and i will only fade to stardust but the love he sees is what he writes, it is what i live to be. i adore him and the magic of his undying passion that will never make his art fall.
w m Aug 2017
78
perhaps the reason you've been attracting conditional lovers, is because you haven't been uncoditionally loving yourself
Shadowhollow Aug 3
I must leave now
I must See the wild
I must fall in love
And lose it all
I must do what great poets do
I must live
Pagan Paul Dec 2018
.
Rider On The Storm of trances,
LA Woman led through ritual dances.
A Poet just Waiting for the Sun,
when The End was where it all begun.
The Spy trying to Break on Through,
a native sharing his Shamans Blues.
A Ship of Fools tinged with mirth,
destined Not To Touch The Earth.
Mr Mojo Risin', the acid dream rover,
taking rest When The Music's Over.




© Pagan Paul (04/12/16)


James 'Jim' Douglas Morrison
(Poet and Rock Star)
8 December 1943 – 3 July 1971.
.
Hanna Alayne Oct 2018
I want to dive into your thoughts
and never come up
for air
sinking deeper
and deeper
until I drown in all the lines
you've wanted to write
but never have
can we get coffee sometime?
Seanathon Mar 2017
I feel so tired
I can barely breathe
My chest is concave
Like the narrow dell
Soaking up the rain
And pulling in the leaves

And though I’m not hollow
I am not whole
And though I’m weary
It is not my soul
Which cries aloud
Unto the the trees

Except for your sound
The sound that is
Of when you sing
And walk beneath
This canvas of leaves
Free as your feet

But the soles of my shoes
And the lids of my eyes
Are now heavy
As my head it lulls
And wants to roll
Back to the ground

So my pillow now
Is underneath
The hooded wood
And as the world
Slowly closes round
It’s you I see

Within the leaves
Beneath the trees
Looking up. Looking down. At you. At me.
Bus Poet Stop Apr 2015
eye sometimes go to bed wearing an old hoody. It has a metal zipper  to close the front and the zipper is always cold, unpleasantly so, on my bare skin.  After awhile though, my body temperature warms the metal just enough, that it is no longer a cause of discomfort though the metal still remains inherently cool to the touch

While science can easily explain this I guess, I felt this to be a major miracle.  That flesh pliable and heart-heated to 98 degrees could conquer the molecules of metal that were made in China struck me as extra ordinary (always two words, please!) and nothing short of a personal intervention by a personal deity

When I put the hoodie on at first I would think
******* (that's cold)
When I awoke, cosy and warm, I would think
******* (that's so cool)

having studied philosophy in Cleveland,
I knew that the logic of the situation,
what I had experienced was not an
interregnum, but the invisible intervening handiwork of god, who, also knocked my glasses from the nightable to the floor,
just cause she/ he was in a bad mood, on account of having to come such a long way, just,
to reheat me
one more time.
In terre gnum - freedom from the terror of chewing gum discard actions and a phobia of gnus
Such a noble little poet,
who thinks the future is in your hands
when it's in your head; poetry is dead.
But age does bring wisdom (after the fall)
so what good is it screaming at the wall,
with still some good numbers to call?
Who's there? Who are you speaking to?
You're so cute. Nobody can hear you.
What good is it screaming at the wall
when our doors are never locked?
Come to me instead, you've never even knocked.
Next page