How did you get in here
How did you work your way into my life
The one I keep people out of

How did it start to get to me
How did I start to care
How did you start to matter
When nothing else does

How did I not see you coming
How did you dodge my defence
How did you get past the walls
      
      Those are lies
                     I let you in
Nylee Aug 2016
I wonder sometimes ,What is the point of living?
  When the only certainty in this life is that I will die .
  People , things ,time , place will change with time
  But in the end , we will all lie in coffin
  
  I wonder sometimes , What is the point on waking  ?
  When I live more freely in the land of my dreams
  I am bounded by rules and all restrictions to live my life.
  Is it not better , to keep on sleeping ?
  
  I wonder sometimes,What is the point running behind time?
  All this time, I have been running behind to catch up for all moments lost,
  But it does not wait for me , when I try to get up from falling.
  And I know, I will never have it in my hand ,at least not for this lifetime .
  
  I wonder sometimes, What is the point of smiling?
  Life will always find a way to snatch it from you.
  So , why should I pretend that I am happy when I am sad .
  Why keep the pretense ,it all hurts to keep on feeling.
  
  I wonder sometimes , What is the point of working ?
  There is no one who appreciates and notices the hard work ,
  Everyone looks for mistakes , just to criticize ,
  And for money , which keeps all just for the big game playing .
  
  There is no point in anything that exists ,
  If you see the way I look the world .
  But that does not stop me from living just the same ,
  And being the cynical and pessimist .
LexiSully Oct 2017
Dusk broke through the nighttime sky, filling it with fire and bright light as the distant sun peaked over the horizon.

It was a quiet warning, I knew. Although my mind did not want to admit it.

But I took the hint, and slowly the fire of the sky dripped into cold drops and came cascading to the ground over my shattered heart.

Even the sky could not pretend to stand strong as the heart inside my chest continued to crack with every given moment.

The rain ended, and I knew it was over.

Billowing clouds encircled and surrounded me, attempting to form a safety net from the rest of the world.

The clouds parted and the sky cleared into a majestic array of vibrant colors. The broken pieces of my heart, now scattered across the ground, were lifted up and slowly pieced together, although the cracks within remained visible to the eye.

It would be a process, I knew, and maybe I did not want the cracks to completely heal, but I did want to feel whole.

And I will, with Him, and with time.
We give expensive gifts to our children on
Birthdays,
Achievements,
Marriages,
Adulthood (21 years),
and on and on.
Have we ever given them?
The Quran-Islam
The Bible-Christians
The Bhagavad Gita-Hinduism
The Tohra-Judaism
Guru Granth Sahib-Sikhism
Kojik-Shinto,
Avesta-Zeroastranism.
In today's world of chaos our children need them.
If learning is important why not between the pages of the holy books.
Let's make our holy books as important as our mobiles.
I grow this garden
With tender care
Hydrangea, Water Lily, Rose
All fail to meet your presence
For the queen dances in
An oasis of beauty
The humming of an angels choir
Spun around the buds
Sought the smell of petrichor.

Aster, Azalea, Angraecum
Entwining vines of amative domain
Secreting morning dew
Reflecting the suns shine
Imitating the beauty of the moon
Presenting an Orange Blossom
May eternity rest in the entwined vines.
city of flips Jul 17
wants to be my friend, for I am poet-woman nineteen.

she is sweet but sad. super sad.

a good poet who wants to guide me.

but there/theirs is the odor, not faint, of wants wanting,
the pus of corruption behind the curtains,
the Wizard-ess of Oz's
special blackout curtains.

seen how easy, how her illusions,
my medium rare rejections,
morph into her delusions,

and her delusions devolve into
her conspiracy theories.

"SHE will be my mentor, poetess lover, teacher for no charge!"

my parents thinks it's great, she wants (to be) skin in my game.

my parents will find this poem accidentally, exactly,

how I do not want
to be skinned alive.

for I am poet-woman nineteen and still! now, long past
the point of being fooled, the point of no return.

and see no point,
have no intention,
of returning to either valley

no more conning my mind into letting my body be-fused.^  

that ain't me babe.
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.
CK Baker Feb 11
lines cut heavy
on a button stretched brow
thick rubber shoes
and dragon canes
fill out the closet floor
gospel sounds
and narratives (drowned)
apparitions set sullenly
with voices of the past

finger pins
and crosswords
find the favor list
point men and preachers
tip up their tuscany caps
twitching and sign gazing
with spectacles held firm
recurring evening news
and beadledom views

clappers and caregivers
raise a crooked foot
grips and rockers
settle in on the front porch
gertrude grimaces
at an untimely turn
as the gooseberry pie
(with a smidgen of cloves)
chills by the nighlite watch
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