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Jackie G Jul 2018
My heart is full
So much resides there
Memories wish to stop it from beating
Scraps & unforgiveness have tried to choke it out
My heart once ached from betrayal
To stone i thought it would turn
But through all of that
I cant seem to get rid of LOVE
LOVE still lives there
Reassuring me in life I can go on!!!!
As for me & my heart we're gonna be just fine!
To all the broken hearted, I can relate but i also realized that everything will be ok. Things happen and then purpose follows behind! You got this
Cné Feb 2018
Much has been said
against me
however,
I will not be spiteful
or allow hatred,
the beast of darkness
that resides
in the black jungles
of arrogance
and ignorance,
to infect me;
for that is no reason
to give way to anger.
So I refuse to let anger
**** my heart;
for anger
is the scorpion’s poison
of peace
and love, it’s sunlight.
I choose light
contentment and happiness,
as poetry’s not a contest
of winners or losers;
it is the essence
of a poet’s soul.
Peace, love
and harmony
reigns over
anger, hate
and contention
Bryan Lunsford Aug 2018
When she left I wanted to die,
But inside I was already dead,
As I'd run and hide--
With every poem that I'd shred,
I'd get really high every night,
And smoke pack after pack of cigarettes--
As it's been with only her on my mind,
My heart no longer resides in my chest,
For since she has left,
All I've wanted to do is die,
But inside I was already dead
I see a clover in my heart,
  two trefoil shamrocks do adorn my breast,
          these spider's webs on my elbows, -covered,
                    with moving foot never do I rest.

Upon me soul and in my mind,
           resides a brotherhood to wit I'm joined,
                        from home of Prometheus a story born,
                                  seed of Gomer passes through my ****.

I have a clover in my heart,
   a turning foot makes this world mine.
      The Caucasus seem so far from me,
              with six-thousand years in brotherhood; time.
To see the history of the world read The Antiquities of Nations by Paul Pezron. Aryan from Aryas meaning, "most high, heavenly, stature, class." Celtae from Keltos meaning, "raised, elevated, above..." Aryan.
Josiah Israel Jul 2017
Deep in a magic forest, with big old magic trees
And all the magic creatures that live inside of these

There is a magic island, upon a magic lake
And on the island is a stool, the like no man could make

And on the stool from dawn to dusk, resides a little man
Who spends his days in deeper thought, than any mortal can…

How does he think so many thoughts, well you must realize,
That though the man is small, his head is twice the normal size.

And as for food, well first of all he quite likes eating bugs
Beetles spiders, grass hoppers, slimy snails and salty slugs!

Inside his beard he keeps a hive, so honey he can eat,
And sips the dew from roses, which he grows atop his feet…

And when the night time brings the cold, the old man doesn't care
He simply covers up, with all his long and tangled hair!

Regardless of his oddities, the man is still renowned,
For being quite the wisest man, who never can be found.
This poem was told to me by a young Fairy on the road to a Wishing Well near my house.
em Oct 2015
When my heart hung in the stars
I'm convinced
my better parts got lost
on the dark side of the moon.

the doctors say I'm dreaming
but I could swear to you
that the man on the moon is crying
asteroids and wilted flower petals.

we revolve around the same sun but
our revolutions although
intertwined, are chasing
different horizons longing for unfamiliar faces.

the stars are in my eyes
but it will take years of staring into
broken mirrors before I find the planet
that my smile resides on.
I don't really know about this one. I wanted to try something a little more abstract. Please please please leave feedback, I want to do everything I can to mature as a writer.
Austin Ryskamp Dec 2018
To explain art I have to start somewhere
A space to right what I was wrong about
A place to think the answers I want to know
To search out and find where my heart hides
Where my song resides
A hole existence
With a void
Or a whole life full of joy
I write to hear my pains, and see your smiles
to explain what I can't speak aloud during the miles
Traveled in this life
Boots worn down to broken souls
Souls worked into accomplished life goals
The tolls that made this face happy
Were paid in blood sweat and tears
A poem for artists.
Benjamin Apr 2018
I could hold it in a breath,
bury it inside my chest,
watch the cilia react,
a current sent with each contact;
alas, I cannot keep it in
considering the broken skin;
with crimson ink, this razorblade’s
a fountain pen, I scrawl away:

“Hear me now, in sight of God,
first all is still, then comes the flood.”
The little blackbird hushed her song—
she could sense something was wrong—
pitchforked lightning bent the trees
and fireworks consumed the leaves
where my better angels hanged—
this, the Province of the ******.

If you were kept inside my chest,
you’d have slipped out with the rest,
while the vultures had their fill
picking piece by piece until
I’m left bone-bleached in the sun—
all the others turned to run;
but you were steadfast through it all,
from the spire to the fall.

The willow whispers from outside
where my history resides,
ghosts of angels hide beneath
the wilted branches of that tree—
I still catch glimpses of the scythe
from the corner of my eye,
but morning’s come, I cannot sleep here
in the shadow of the Reaper.
Rob Atkinson Dec 2012
It’s strange to think we fear the darkness
when we are younger,
A form of innocence that we harnessed
I’d much rather prefer.
Now that sounds crazy but hear me out
it’s something that you’ll see,
When innocence is gone you’ll come about
to find it hides in me.
That same darkness resides in you
I dread it’s greater than,
The darkness wrapped around your room
that you feared at age ten.
It’s something that grew inside your mind
and clung to your rib cage,
With every breath you come to find
the wars inside you wage.
It hides in every crevice and corner
bound to your bone marrow,
It tears apart your soul and worse
sometimes it even shows.
So I’d prefer those simpler days
with light came faith and trust,
The flick of a switch can’t keep at bay
the darkness inside all of us.
©RobbyAtkinson
Kara Jean May 2016
"I ****** less", she said grabbing her lacey dress.
Her contrary dignity intact as she takes a sip of whiskey.
Walking out the door becoming the prominent mother everyone adores.
*** addict, she ignores.
No one sees the double life she hides so well.
Between the sheets of Monogamy and lustry gratification.
Her heart beats wildly out of control making her want to feed.
Possibly disfunctional programming involved.
She feels no need to anguish in the games she plays.
Love is where her happiness is.
*** is where her gut resides.
ryn Jul 2014
Heavy and laboured the air permeates within
Coursing through the maze of tunnels.
Undeterred of where stone ends and rock would begin
Survival that drives to fill its channels.

Slow rumble that ignites the need to beat
Awaken functions both lacklustre and listless
The engine behind these dread ridden feet
Drag its load through mundane tasks emotionless.

At the core there resides the truest of stones
A jewel of sheer rarity that inspires wonder
Breathes life selflessly into dead broken bones
It throbs and ebbs with silent subtle power.

Claimed it and perched it deep on a pedestal
Protected it like it's the one and only source
It's what that keeps us sane and tolerable
It's what that pulls us through our course.

Whenever I think of if this gem would last
This monolith of a heart that I prop up *****
Stands steadfast hopeful of the light it'd cast
We have learnt so much of it to know that it is perfect.

*You are perfect...
Nat Lipstadt Jul 2018
and

you think you are done with it.
but the notion potion returns with your stolen free will
taunting and tearing, sealing and then dissolving
the seals

no retirement in this world from where human means pliable
and pliable means capable of being twisted; nay, retwisted...

last we left you weeping on the concrete sidewalk of
Third Avenue, the police, giving you a move on command,
as Jean Valjean earworms one into the incapacity of movement  because of the audacity to request to bring him home

such is the sorrow of the lost child; it comes with irregularity
yet, never failing to return, the child lost, the residual, resides
within like a violin adagio reaching the punishing silence
after a crescendo that  pretense promised momentary relief

we struggle to keep any and all keepsakes,
polished and fed; rust and time, no polish in the five & time dime
that does a good enough job,
but you buy it anyway

well aware that fate will inevitably rob you, it’s so purposed

twist you, retest you and re-will you, to never forget until
you have no need for forgetting but the peace of
constant remembering when all on that day
molecules and nucleotides
collide in the atmosphere,
dog licking, cat weeping purrs, meaning hallelujah home

the endless sadness of the lost lad-ness, dimly grow the recollections of the first word, the first delight, the confidence complete
that your babe is non pareil; the violin sweeps you along and the genteel tide still too string strong to resist

the woman comes into the room;
the reddened eyes no hide
the weeping outside and in the centerpiece of a soul;
why she asks, not surprised for she’s seen it
too many **** poem-times:
my Adam, I answer;
suffices and wisely
leaves me to
compose and decompose simultaneously
weeping weeping forever weeping even when not

furious eddies rock smashing,
curious they splash me with taunts
"you want for naught!"

but naught is the only possess
that owing it makes one impoverished

perhaps he will email me, ewail me,
does he know I am at the
Wailing Wall, Jerusalem,
insert parchment prayers for his safety

oh my Absalom, oh my Adam, my favorite first born,
come sit next to me on the sidewalk so close to where you live,
comfort me as in the days of your youth,
now that we are both
so very much older

sleep well all you lads and children,
never mind these unstoppable tearings,
never mind the heaviness,
for it has passed
as the tears shed
enlighten my embodiment

7/16/18 prone and alone
for my kinship
You said
My soul resides within me
With open eyes
I have delved deep to find it
And without losing myself
Even penetrated my inner darkness
I have not seen the light
You said I would.

Can I ask
Does my soul reside outside
And binds me
I cannot live with this doubt
It will disable my mind.

You said
My soul has made me what I am
How did it do so
Without touching me
What did it make me into
Without my knowledge or request.

You said
I cannot see or touch my soul
But only feel it
My senses have not encountered
Anything strange
My soul cannot be an apparition
Did you perchance
Refer to my sense of I-ness
That will always remain with me
Till the day I die.

No sap oozes from a dead tree
And there cannot be a fire
That does not exude heat
That sap or that heat is not their souls
If a soul or any god has caused my birth
That soul or god cannot be
Other than me
It cannot be undying
Do not unravel me
I am a delusion.
"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.

  #PoetBoywrittenbyme@VenjencieArnoldon04042018. # https://www.yourquote.in/jenciearnold
https://www.yourquote.in/jenciearnold
SøułSurvivør Sep 2014
Where in this life can one find
A golden heart, a heart that's pure?
A conscience that, with Peace aligned,
Can make our faith in Love assured?

Can it be found in modern man?
His search for meaning in Degrees?
In knowledge he relies upon
To cure the sickness... soul's disease?

Is it found within the mind?
The place where one's sad past resides?
Whatever will the doctors find?
Suss out the place where conscience lies?

Is it found in shifting stars?
In charts where moons and planets turn?
Can one map out this heart of ours?
Is our fate there? Assured and firm?

Is religion e'r the answer here?
Or, once more, a source of pain?
A source of strength or source of fear?
Should we search on once again?

For 'tis not the things we think,
Our pondering philosophy
Nor is it in our darkest link
With a past of misery.

It is not in ancient scrolls
Writings of the stars aligned
Nor is it works in laws of old,
A path of "goodness" wending. Blind.

It is within the heart itself
Where the Spirit has its place.
Where the Word of God Himself
Has given us amazing grace.

His heart, more pure than gold unearthed,
He walked with man, yet was alone,
Who has an estimate of worth
Of our High Priest and Cornerstone?

Abiding in a heart of grace
That's where purity doth live!
You are looking in His face,
Behold, in persons who FORGIVE.


SoulSurvivor
Catherine Jarvis
(C) September 20, 2014
This poem is dedicated to Mandi T Teske. Rarely have I found a person with a heart as pure as hers. She is a wondrous jewel, and appreciated by many. Bless you my friend! I'm honored to know you. ♡
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