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I am not
the prettiest girl
or the sexiest

not the smartest
or most talented

but I am a unique
array assembled
of whozeewhatsits

(razor blade analogies
fluorescent petal lips
coloring book flips shifting
hues and lines in real time
intense passion pigments
softened by maniacal sillies
black glitter, tears, tongue, teeth
synaptic syntax screams
billowing belly cavern
sacred swallows swimming
serifs seeping thru sweat
into fluffiest warm cotton
pinksugar dewbloom)

that will render
equivalent yet opposing
inverted complementary
juxta pair of anglepants

exquisitely speechless
with sheer me-ness

hallow mirrors blinding
four egoic eyes igniting
incinerating the dim

and in that stillness
I will feel their them
and feel it feeling
my me

betwixt twisting
our empty brimming
with eternity

...

or maybe
that happened

already
Shofi Ahmed May 2017
When you stepped in my door,
I realised I was Paradise
in my heart and soul.
You were so surefooted
because you came up from the high.
So long I longed for it.
O Fathima, only to kiss your feet!

The time was so sweet,
beyond anyone’s dream
only in pure beauty
I was rendering,
screaming to new highs.
I did it my way!
Lovely bouncing on
my polished pitch,
the rivers forget to flow
back to the seas.
But no one knew
where my toe melts!
Until you did
and took me for a tread
closer to your spring,
my sweet dream:
O Fathima, only to kiss your feet!

Your so pleased man wished
to rain down with love,
but humble you hid your feet!
You blinded the moon, snowed it
away under seven seas.
No wonder it's
your winning footing.
Like the Prophet said:
I found me the heaven
beneath the mother’s feet.
O Fathima, only on your feet!
Stephen E Yocum Jun 2017
"Thirty plus years in a
loving happy marriage,
My husband taken
by long illness
and sad ending.

Five years companionless
loneliness endured,
Now a naked man
is in my shower,
I can hear him softly
singing."

Love and companionship
can come at any age.
Rendering you both
whole and renewed again.
One line spoken by a lady
friend that caught my attention,
truth in it's meaning undeniable
and empowering. Love can come
at any age. I know all this cause
I was the guy in the shower.
Thom Jamieson Jul 2018
"Over here"...
but nothing.
The scene continues
unabated by my presence.
Plastic smiles and lustful eyes
bountiful but not for me..never me.
In the mirror' s unforgiving gaze
I am unrecognizable
Replaced with a crude rendering
of my previous likeness
fashioned by children
with lumpy imperfect clay.
Silence replaces loving laughter
that used to follow my witty banter.
Silence and stares.  Sympathetic stares
tinged with smugness and fear.
"Over here...over here..."
still nothing.
I recently received a message from a composer named joe drzewiecki who was interested in putting this poem to music.  Here are the results.  I didnt know my words could sound so good. Thank you joe drzewiecki, I am flattered.

https://soundcloud.com/jomama-2/invisible
Diana Santiago Dec 2018
I hate your stupid face
Those squinty eyes, them closed lips
Your expression so emotionless
Flat and stagnant is what it drips

Those masculine eyebrows, your expansive hair
That skin void of blemishes and scars
Complexion of espresso dancing with milk
Leaving the beholder seeing stars

Empty of smiles and feelings
Your visage the definition of dry
I go seeking for some semblance of life
Through your dark mysterious eyes

So I hate your stupid face
For it is the one that leaves me breathless
Casting the root on my heart
Rendering me into a state of restless
Cindra Carr Nov 2011
The fatigue flows through me
As if it has invaded the marrow of my bones
Leaking out into the flesh
Rendering me paralyzed in an unfocused state
I sleep to live and wish only to end the dulled mind set
It’s crushing to find that shard of thought
Urging me to get up
Do not sleep, it whispers
There is too much to do, the insidious trails of ideas speak
The words taken down seek to undo the restlessness
The blurred vision of the time slipping past in red numbers
Sleep, my body cries
Wait a minute more, my mind calls back
Sleep deprived with burning eyes
A single tear breaks the tie
I cannot go on
Sleep calls me back
Pulling me down to the place I cannot ignore anymore
Sleep, my body whispers
Sleep, my mind sighs

cc111911
ryn Sep 2014
Like a grain trapped under the eyelid
Impairing the vision, in heart and mind
Flush it out with rivers, woeful and turbid
This grain still there; rendering us blind

Tiny and inconspicuous; No one sees the grains
Everyone's 'gifted' with their own to nurse
Doubling over we see each others' pains
Hidden and embedded within the poetry laden verse
My response to Joe Cole's - A Grain of Sand Challenge
Janelise Sep 2012
it surges through her.

the ability to bring you to your knees

with a single, longing look,

with a deep, lingering kiss,

and with an unbreakable, loving spirit.

rendering you helpless in her palms;

desperate to understand her qualms

and wishing

you were in her bed,

tossing and turning, but waking

next to someone that would cherish your everything.

your power.

Your sweet, moonlit eyes, bold hands, and a careful heart;

capturing any light

that she had shone on anyone else.
X A V I E R Nov 2014
Bring your body and give it
as if it's a weekly allowance,
a favor you owe or do you,
perhaps, yearn for a place
back inside his heart?

What does it take to stay
warm on a cold night?
The smell of burning wood
or something more - your
knitted wool blanket that's not
just a piece of cloth?
It's soft touch became the
liaison between two young bodies
and let you truly feel.

Feel his gentle touch and
the warmth of his eyes.
Legs tangle and long sighs
ignite the room rendering
your knitted wool blanket
useless. Compassionate
whispers of half truths clutter
the mind as his head clears:
"Please, be the love that I am sure of."
Mark Grover Mar 2013
he had knowing dreams of where he was going
all along upward he was growing
the always certain hand of fate was ever sowing
fields of poppies concealing secrets of the knowing

so soon he forgot to remember that which he once knew
he traded certainty for a comforting clue
now he is on his back staring at the blue
with eyes forever closed to that which is true

will his muddled gaze ever be wrested
from the flickering box on which it has nested
given comfort as he is artificially breastfed
hate people and love things is where he is led

so the cycle continues to turn
until we coach the match to burn
birthing a new world from the urn
ashes to ashes and so much to learn

drop a stitch and skip a beat
out of line, missing steps of society's feet
no more fear of leaving others plans' incomplete
finally rendering acceptance obsolete

he stands alone
washing over me
icy hot chills roll
crackling energy

the second I start to
really believe

you feel the things
like the ones
that possess me

the hum surrenders me
to rendering
dreams
The cricket's  rhythmic chivalry
slows to Autumn's droning crawl
like an unwound eight-day clock
unconsciously neglected by time

The Sounds of summer that fall silent
are never really noticed until gone
things we often take for granite,
a mistake rendering life benign

Dreams living only in our minds
beheld within, the love that keeps us alive
never caring, never needing to know,
"fifty ways to leave your lover" behind

So many miles spinning faster,
so much weight to weigh you down
it never really was a simpler time
just a window with a different view

Fleeting time may shine like shooting star
an irreverent kind of blinding light come to pass
a different hue of colours cast and sown
an  eerie silence may befall unprovoked

As if you found an urgent message
in a bottle drifting through your tides
you can spend the rest a lifetime trying
to catch lightening in that bottle thence

Don't look away from a moment
      too long ... in the blink of an eye
             it'll all be gone


someone you used to know ... September 16, 2017
Notes: "fifty ways to leave your lover"...Paul Simon
Nat Lipstadt Oct 2017
once upon a wrote


here and there, in fables and tales,
some in no guile and others
in chancier disguises,
some sine-known and some sign-unknown,
some dead in stillbirth,
some penned these words,
some a few decades old,
some of but a moment ago eyelash distant,
making me think that
someday I will scribe,
cobble some truths and
some falsehoods into one
leaping heaping melting scoop,
letting you decide,
which for better,
which for worse...


<•>

"No matter that plain words
are my ordinary tools,
With them I shall scribe the small,
Cherish the little, grab the middle,
Simplicity my golden rule,
Write they say,
about what you know best,
Surely in the diurnal motions,
The arc of daily commotion,
Do we not all excel?"

<•>

the reason we say so oft,
in whispers emboldened,

I love you

to our children
is not the utility of
its summarizing brevity

no, no.
it is because
the eloquence of simplicity
supersedes any other poem
any of us could ever write...

<•>

is this craft that chose you,
not defined by machine millimeters,
precision absolute,
curvatures, so eye-pleasing,
they demonstrate no tolerance
for tolerance of the ordinary?

the skill of words, too, cut so fine,
find the  extraordinary within,
refine, refine, refine,
shave away the trite,
the reused,
discard the instant recognition,
unusable

<•>

There are natural toxins in us all,
if you wish to understand the
whys, the reasons,
of the nearness of taking/giving away
what soully belongs to you,
do your own sums,
admit your own truths,
query not the lives of others,
approach the mirror...

<•>

The Truth Burden
is the accursed need obligatory,
the sacred sanctity requisitioned,
when the whenever,
chooses to drop in and upflag the mailbox,
an uninvited invitation,
announcing with precise bluntness,
that precisely now,
is the tool crafted moment
and you fool,
the selected tool

you must render unto Ceaser,
by your own hand,
render your own rendering,
do your own undoing,
go forth and in haste,
will thyself into the cauldron of the
Great Mystery of Creation

you cannot lie in poetry

<•>

come, sit for awhile, in poet's nook,
soft pillows for our hard Adirondack chairs,
situe hard by the bay, if too hot, we'll slow
drift to the sun room of
lace curtains and suicide poems,
still we'll observe the water, the rabbits, the cacophony low,
listening to all the noisier, nosier
creatures asking themselves,
and the trees and leaves,
where did all those poets come from?

<•>

to the interior delve,
via brush or limb,
pen or music,
the exposition, the exploration,
the reconstruction of composing
one's self, creation and destruction
of your own myths

movement of arms and legs,
sparseness of simplicity,
subsidiaries of centricity,
tributaries of complexity

<•>

how cold are the carpenter's hands,
the weather, but an added obstacle,
this heat, makes dying different difficult,
the wood bearing cross requires additional nails
and flesh, for the extra load he's bearing,
when it snows blood in Jerusalem

the whole world can transition
when one man dies and another is risen,
where oh where lies then, the juxtaposition?

there is none, for man is man,
his divine spark, embedded,
to his maker's mark, welded and wedded,
neither snow or sun,
can ever extinguish


<•>

now I ken better distance 'tween
artist and art,
I, a workingman's
daily dallying in simplistic machine craft,
my works deservedly lost in
the water-falling
of the endless also rans

non-nebulous distances.between skies of
Oregon country blue and
the worldy worn asphalt grayed words of
a graying man aging,
then let clarity speak, in plainest harmony,
know my deference’s soars to the high above,
one of us at birth, god gifted,
was not I,
it ain't me babe, but
one of us, his tongue,
like Moses-stung
with a hot coal
of language's divinity


<•>
Vierra Mar 2017
The permafrost recedes and the animals peeking their heads out of the burroughs they were buried in and they begin their quest for a lover, to repopulate the species again and to feed after the long harsh winter, and to gain experience and memories of how to do so.

The frosty winds turn cool and the sun warms their faces and souls. The hope of meeting their potential partners are enough to defrost and soothe the ice on their coats, rendering them capable to breed. With their legs stretched and active, they search.

They hunt and breed for the whole spring within their respective community. The revirie of their population gaining on other predators give them a better chance for survival amongst all odds.

I have been buried in ice for thousands of years. I have been waiting for my turn to hunt and search for my lover, my community, and my wife. I have been straggling behind my species for a lifetime.

Is it my turn yet?
Is it my chance to do well amoungst the Mohikans?

I certainly hope so.

Happy Spring, poets.
For memories of the hunt.
janelflorendx Jan 2017
i saw you
i saw your fiery eyes
it was like looking into a cup 
unstoppably filling up to its brim
yours, abundantly filled with vehement grim

so uneasy it was conjecturing your mind
gave me a reason to unwind for a little while
tell my why
all the pretends and quiet sighs, enshrouding whats from behind
what it is there inside
why do you need to hide


thy precious heart with no choice
but to turn itself into an agitated smoldered iron

strengthened  heart, furnished like art
you are a burning metal amenably hammered by many foes
far more drowned with the empty souls

where are you, where is the real you
how did your soul turn so blue
let me condole
drilling poles amidst the cold
rendering you a hand and something to hold

I will find yours
along with all the lost
long hoarfrost
waiting to be accost
along with the alley of souls
growling down the holes
in line, next to mine
unleash a shine, your spirit so divine

let your caliginosity be replaced
all be thy grace shall be embraced
this time, fearlessly
without minds controlling slavery
cutting the negativity and
ignoring life's declivity

see yourself walking through the flame
no more lames
without the shame and doubt getting burnt
stepping on with something learnt

now you are changed, well-transformed,
someone born to aspire,  died meant to inspire,
honey you are retrofire, firing in the night sky
but not as heaping as an empty pyre
but as fierce as an enraging forest fire
Bradyn McCall Jul 10
support was the only thing separating him from keeping afloat and going down crashing under the waves ******* him into the abysmal chasm rendering anything caught in its clutches effectively useless

given hope he finds the strength to push on, step after step building himself back up, finding out who he truly is, dedication to success and glory all that fills his mind

but since that initial spark of support, what once was a wildfire burning so fierce nothing could penetrate it, was now barely more than embers in a torrential downpour, threatening to suffocate and extinguish that flame keeping him going

when that drop connected that flame died, and with that flame he did as well, thrown down the chamber of hell he was confident he could avoid, recklessly thrown around inside his own head as if he were nothing more than a chew toy used by a puppy starting to teeth trying with all its might to rip it into the tiniest pieces turning it into nothing but a sad co existence that can never be fully recovered

even when a new group pours gasoline on that flame, attempting to burn away all which thought to cool the embers of the once unparalleled fire, the heat does nothing more than graze the droplets, before extinguishing once again, torn at the seams, dulling to nothing more than a spark, and like nighttime in an overgrown forest, the flame dies, leaving nothing but darkness.
WA West Aug 2018
Barely do my Wednesdays fill with longing,

Lost observers rendering August whims to the scrapheap of infinity,

Galvanized entities downing tools schematically,

A posse of awareness pronating towards incandescent light,

Mostly everything a prolonging of jest and belly laughs,

Dawn brings the sick belly of listlessness,

Hordes of happenchance and imaginers of silence dancing,

The chitter chatter cadence does dim for a minute stretching yonde
#listless #wednesday #shortpoem #silly
Jeremy Betts Feb 2018
If I've fallen asleep, if indeed this is a dream, I beg you not to wake me
Leave me, don't hastily take from me this flurry of happy energy
Finally in a state I honestly never thought I'd get back to fully, at least not naturally
I've found the pieces to complete me and managed to pull it all together neatly
I thank God weakly, genuinely grateful to be able to say that and mean it deeply
Listen man, it wasn't easy for me
I was afraid the iron mask I wore would have left me a scared form
A deformed, grotesque ground up mess like I've been starring directly into an acid rain storm
The type you don't typically walk away from or come out same person
And I did indeed emerge through the swarm of locus a transformed man but barely human
It changed me but not for the worse like I had thought it would at first
But see, I thought I was cursed cause everything I touched became immersed
In a darkness that could not be reversed, through the shadows of the valley of death I've traversed
Coerced into wandering for years in the desert, dying of thirst
Accepted that a torchered existence was my life, a complete absence of any positive essence
No instant answers to the many questions, just a silence that tests my patience
But in this instance I've been awarded for my persistence, praised for my due diligence
Regardless the distance I've had to crawl, the depth I've had to fall, tears and all, no elegance
But I've finally made it y'all, it's 2:05, I've made it past last call
The rolling snow ball that gained speed and size and chased me like Indi has crumbled at the base of the wall
The one I built and armed to the hilt, no small feat but worth it all
And now, come night fall when I lay my head down to sleep I'm no longer greeted by the frightful
The eclipse is over, a new light emerges along with a wind to take with it the ashes
Those of my former self because I'm past this, left my baggage at baggage claim when I got off the plane at my new domain and ignore it like I'm ignorant to it as it passes.
Instead of the past consuming my minds eye I now get flashes
Of the future, it must be a new feature that came with the new glasses
I'm not one of those hyped up bad ***** but with a life like survival classes
And having endured a million lessons plus physical therapy sessions to rid me of the cast and crutches
I'm almost ready to move mountains or part seas like Moses, self worth raising like taxes
Watching intently as the person in the mirror changes right in front me to a new surface, a fresh canvas
Inside it's the same rerun, battling the fact that I'm not comfortable with change for any reason, not in the slightest
Anxious about the possiblity that it crashes around me rendering me a carcass
Then it's back to square one, stripped of my a dignity like a tree barkless
But unlike a tree, I am not heartless, an emotional mess? Yes, but regardless
I've been blessed with a little boy so I need to employee better aim and better targets
Can't spar with the darkness, the gloves are off, time to end this circus
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