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September Roses Jun 2018
You're nervous
A bit of a wreck
But you never fail to smile at yourself when you mess up
As you always do

You're damaged
That much is clear
But your smooth laugh puts the whole room at ease
No matter how scarcely it surfaces

You've been hurt by everyone
Yourself included
But you'd rather die
Than put someone down
Because you truly believe every achievement is worth all the stars in the sky

You're quiet
Sometimes it's a little annoying
But who can blame you
You mean no harm

You're self conscious
I mean arent we all
But you put everyone else back together so they cant resist to love themselves a little more
No matter how much
You
This stupid
Stupid
Boy

Hate yourself
Shofi Ahmed Dec 2017
Every star across the seven skies
wishes to kiss it is a gold dust.

Not to mention the Moon in the centre
waning and waxing in the open and in secret
keeps unleashing longing to rub
this non-sublunary piece on its forehead.

She knows only then the rough seas beneath
her will calm down in the soft raining moonlight
rubbing off such a lucky blossomed forehead.

Oh, if only scarcely they could ever see it
the galaxies since their inceptions longing for it.
The bliss of the eyes tucked away from the scene
Paradise lies beneath the mother’s feet!

The mother is fast is for all and is down to earth
She, the mother Fathima descended down
from up above the heaven that pivotal frontier
only all the prophets’ Prophet has seen.
Then was no Adam nor Eve or Jibreel!

Paradise finds its core with its resonant lore
in the shadow of the original feminine Fathima
the immortal hotspot the original matter explored.
Paradise lived and breathe beneath her
but she touched down at the heart of the earth
without stepping or touching on paradise
only to give away her stake to others!
No land she would take on her way back indeed
Not in her name, know where Fathima’s grave is?
When people visit Islamic holy city Medina they look for the grave of the holy lady Fathima. It has been the tradition since her death some fourteen hundred years ago. There are two graves where she is buried but which one is her is still unknown It's been said that she preferred her grave to remain unidentified.
ryn Feb 2015
Blue clouds gaze the wrapped sun
frozen kisses in my blood
travelling a thousand miles
to meet up with you.

There is none else walking
down this path where memories
wake up and dance
inside my armored heart.

I peeled off each kisses embrace
out of my parched lips.
I shook off the tree,
where your scent had blossomed.

Every step down this scarcely trodden path saw...
Each peel fall with helpless, damsel-like grace.
Brown leaves shone amber touched by fingers of the sun
Invasion of warmth through my greyed bony carapace.

Gentle tremors reverberate within with subtle anguish.
Sweet scented portal that took me back,
To the illusion of time where we once were...
In drunken stupor...laying under a star strewn canvas of black.

Senses that spoke of a great fantastical tale.
You are still here... In this cloying void with no one around...
Only that scent...your scent tugging on my core
Invisible tendrils berthing my feet back on ground.


Alone and wanting don't want to be anymore.
I want to feast my lungs on your skin once more.
I want to vibrate under your touch again,
In anguished anticipation and sweet pain.

I hurl your name to the echoing wind,
Blowing ferociously over the closed passage.
Only to find that I'm but elongating
the distance between our fading wishful stars.

Fading far only to find that I'm lost yet again,
Still harvesting a basket full of ripened hope.
Traversing planes with warped, slanted doorways,
Frantically seeking purchase on knobs with fevered gropes.

Heavy layered breaths inhaled too shallow...
Tracing missteps to decipher what it all meant.
When all is moot...weary, weathered and futile,
Forever I'll be bathing in the familiarity of your soothing, nectarous scent...



Dajena M
**ryn
My first collab with the incredible Dajena M. She had deleted her account and the collaborative pieces she had posted went away as well. But... I found them!!! Yay!

I'm so glad we had the chance to collaborate on such an amazing piece together.
Zeeb Jul 2018
Tool of desperate confrontation
Object of pride for a grateful nation
In Baton Rouge on the mighty river
Kidd rests proudly
376' length overall,  Fletcher Class destroyer
Like every ship, of oil she does smell
When I boarded her, she had something to tell

I was with a scoutmaster, my son and the boys
Concerned with their fun, and the making of noise
But late in the night, as quiet set in
Kidd started whispering, to my within

She spoke of the men who gave up their lives
Their children, their girls, the tears of their wives
Thirty-eight men, in fiery fuel
Hell's agony touched, a death so cruel
Fifty-five more, burned badly that day
Defending our country, our homage we pay
Visiting sailors will stand at attention
… and for a young Kamikaze, scarcely a mention

The big war was over, Kidd passed her test
Now to San Diego, for a permanent rest
But as men will prescribe, it didn’t last long
Kidd went back into action, near Korea’s Kaesong

When in Baton Rouge, you can visit the Kidd
If you’re bold, listen carefully, just as I did
You'll get half of the story, the rest we don't know
The men who have fallen, to Kidd's mighty blow

Let's set now a new tone and have us some fun
The Kidd's crew were pirates but they didn't run ***

Those flat-tops were fancy, their flyers elite
In the galley was ice-cream, their reward and their treat
When a pilot was downed, Kidd quickly steamed
Then radioed the skipper, "your man for  ice-cream"
Dan Hess Feb 2014
Happenstance to the melancholic gives leave the sin of pride.
Inbound reconnaissance tells not the bearer of influence.
Squeamish at first: a foreshadowing of calamitous bonding.

A space between the mark of corporeal and the ethereal; a stringent hiatus
That which rattles the concrete foundation of morality is scarcely a malleable recourse.
Regret stains the unfounded soul: an enigma of ephemeral perforations.

A separation of the unmitigated humanities; misandry topples the writhing snake.
Impact; a cleansing of the maker's flaws integrated solemnly.
Complacency arrests the administration of the abhorred; unbridled is the autonomy of a guru.  

Ambivalent giftedness burdens the reliant and haughty.
A flick of the tongue brings forth the cinema mortem.
Castaway: alone to wade in the sea of obscenities.

A temporal causality allows no mourning to abscond.
Negligence is not the enemy, but indulgent wrath.
Hesitant: a stroke of qualia begets the end of a maiden.
alexis Oct 2018
i was born of rough cloth.
it cradled me from youth
it kept me scarcely warm,
and amply humble.

but i grew a longing for silk and silver—
a softer touch,
a glimmer around my neck.

my head rests against your chest—
your cashmere skin greets my weary cheek
i hear that gem beating in your jewelry box
a scarlet ruby,
plated in the pure gold of your love.

i run my fingers through your amber satin ribbons.
you laugh a music box tune and i long to dance.

your smile shines in pure ivory,
and your eyes twinkle with a clarity
the finest of diamonds envy.

i look at you,
rich with love
and i remember
my wealth.
Mystic904 Oct 2017
Learning never ends
No matter how deep we dive
No one comprehends
A mystical path, everything's alive

No ordinary tends
Before has not abjured the hive
Exists a grave in each bend
Meat from the fat one may rive

Scarcely a trend
At the end, shall he then thrive
Time, no one spends
In the state, one in a million may arrive
Paul Hansford Aug 2018
By any normally accepted standard
three words are scarcely sufficient
to be considered a poem.
The Japanese, who have a gift for conciseness,
might be sympathetic.
(Haiku, after all,
    at seventeen syllables,
       are pretty compact.)
But three words! It's not so much concise as,
to put it bluntly, short.
If I say that, when I try to write a poem for you,
"I love you" is all I can think of,
that is no excuse.
And the fact that my meaning is new and unique
(for me and for you)
makes no difference either.
If only there were some way out of my difficulty.
I love you, I love you, I love you.
There, that's nine words.
Will that do?
Written in 1984 and only just re-discovered in the booklet of the competition it was written for.
SC Kelley Sep 2018
I write in the midnight corner of now and what is to come. Sifting through the ashes of the forgotten. I seek what I fail to find in a light I can scarcely see. The rain washes the sins from my skin so that the ones inside can bleed back out. My words catch the air with gentle, intense passion. I caress the broken cheek hoping to fix it and finding only myself more broken. I know not of what is to come but I can prepare myself with the ammunition of my past. The brittle autumn wind calms me with the vibrant colors of a dying world. My mind wanders into the absent recesses of my twisted imagination. The words I write copy the voices in my torn heartstrings. I lust for the cold rain fingers that embezzle my mind. My soul is painted with the bright blackness of a blackhole's laughter. There is a butterfly caged in my stomach and I'm too afraid to let it free.
- - -
When will I know, I've found rapture?

~S.C. Kelley
For the broken and lost like me
Lily Nov 5
You left me at dusk,
Gaunt and sad and gray,
And when the morning glow arose,
I could find you not.

The night before was faded
Like a withered rose, and
I could scarcely recall your smile,
Your sunflower smile.

Why were you taken from beside me?
I hope there is a reason, as the time
I’ve spent since you left has been
Measured and is of little worth.
Inspired by Robert Frost's "Flower-Gathering"
If only we could begin again and slow down the pernicious pace
We ruin our oceans, the land, our air even outer space.
If only we avoided such precarious paths that may lead to disparity
If only we knew what action is needed now, to deal with the reality.
Ecologists warned, yet still observe with ever-growing anxiety
the growth of harmful long-term effects on Earth's biodiversity.
If only the air wasn't gravely polluted, so the atmosphere begins to fail,
so wreathed by carbon dioxide layers, extremes to climate may prevail.
If only Earth's lungs cease being shrunk by profits heedless exploitation,
existing relationships are considered scarcely in these aberrations.
If only a solution for discarded synthetics which float in ugly hordes
on oceans global drifts, disaster occurs wherever it reaches landfall.
If only we can do something, a belated but resounding universal call,
If only we can safeguard the future before there are no options at all.
If only we could begin again and slow the ruinous pace... if only

If Only

M C Crowder
@scorsby
19th November 2018
I first wrote song lyrics in 1978, song lyrics not so long, but it's message hasn't changed
Kenji Aug 2015
In a locked up abandoned room, stands dead people,
all worn and torn, all helpless and scarcely unknown.
They weep trickles of tears from their eyes, soaking down to their cheeks,
innocent faces and scarred bodies,
invisible to the world and their minds dreadfully drilled, with thoughts of insanity, as they rot inhumanely.

Open wounds and jars of acid, the key lays in one of them, torturous and hardly discredited
It's deadly, and extremely rapid.

Trapped and held back, suppressed and feelings of soul lack,
where the crows die at 3:00am, it's satanic, dark, dull and dim.

Hands burn and screams cry, the jar is black, so they hadn't know in which the key lie.

The secrets within, dark, deadly and too hard to ****** swim.

Weak and demolished, some people collapse in pain and satanic craze, the haze, the daze, thoust peculiar trickles of red rain drops from the ceiling above, rose wine red, depth is dark and foul like jin

It's ****** up...

Our ghosts keep all kinds of secrets, with their hands behind their back and face hidden and covered in black, suppression creates a place of torturous days and weeping eyes of display...
Isolation makes it worse, it creates a lonesome curse...

Treat your ghost well, then the dark won't take over, and make it dreaded and unwell...
Tell...
*All your secrets within
Morning Rainbow

Myriad prismatic crystals,
     refract the morning sun-streams -
painting layers of spectral arches
     across the misted horizon.

Eyes turned to the western skies,
     we suspend our meteorological selves  
acquiescing to miracles unveiled before us -
     un-beckoned and scarcely earned,
proffering thanks for the radiant epistle
     of healing, hope and promise,
artfully encoded in transfigured light.

Synthetic Refractions

A luminary ballet takes center stage
    when synthetic refractors come to play:
crystal pendants bathe our foyers
      with dazzling swaths of color.
Hazy coronas encircle streetlamps
      discovered by headlights through the fog.
A science class prism slices light rays
     into pre-ordered spectral strata.

If the sky denies us a rainbow,
     we can always fashion one of our own
and we do!



Spectral Sound

Before there was music,
     bird songs brushed our souls
and the murmur of woodland streams
     held us captive by their banks.

Soon we learned to sing and tint the air
    With prisms of wood and wire and metal
and to color soundscapes in our spirits
     With songs of wonder, joy and longing.

Before there was music,
     bird songs brushed our souls.

Robert Charles Howard, 2019
This is a rewrite and expansion of a prior poem called Morning Rainbow. The poems are design to go with an original piece for solo flute also called Prisms.
Royalty and
princely.
Rivalry and love.
Humility and
humbleness.
Fruitfulness and
productivity.
Beautiful beginnings
and achievements.
Countless glory,
rise and fall.
Fear and
bravery.
Apprehension
and failure.
That's the story
of my greatness.
All manifest itself
in my life.
Today i stand
in that place
where yesterday
when i contemplate
the dark periods,
my eyes could
scarcely see.
Humbled by
long suffering,
with my back bent.
I summoned
the inner strength
to conquer the
insurmountable
harrowing and
painful experiences
which my mouth
could never express,
or even explain,
that infested my life.
It was not
all that rosy.
But today,
I'm still here,
I'm still right
here standing.
©2019,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
Paul Hansford Jul 2016
The gardener
This is my garden; my apple tree
has over-reached itself.  The branches,
weighed down with fruit, threaten to break.
If I had read the signs, thinned out when it was time,
the crop would be less heavy, the fruit less small.
And what there is, is damaged.  If it’s not birds
it’s caterpillar, wasp, or earwig.
It will all be rotten soon.  I don’t know why I bother.


The blackbird
This is my garden; this tree I sat in
and proclaimed my own when it was full of blossom
with war-cry love-call song.
Then mating, nesting, bringing up the brood.
The days were scarcely long enough, but that
was long ago.  My children gone,
there’s time now for myself, time for a treat.
My yellow chisel bill breaks in the flesh
of these fine apples. Delicious. This is the life.


The wasps
This is our garden – insects do not have time
for individuality.  We built the colony, us lads,
chewed wood to make our paper nest, and now
we work to feed the grubs.
“Lads”, that is, using the word loosely – for us
gender is not important; that’s for the queen,
and, as it may be, the ones who service her,
none of our business.
But we need food too,
and if sustenance gives pleasure,
so much the better.  When we find a fruit
where blackbird’s chisel bill has broken in,
we eat our way inside, till only skin and core
encase our private eating/drinking den.
So what if it’s fermenting?  If we get tiddly,
and roll about, and buzz a drunken hum,
then who’s to care?  And if they do, we’ll sting ’em
.
Inspired by finding a completely hollow apple skin (with the core in place) under a tree in my garden, thoroughly cleaned out by wasps.
.

Blank.

A mind runs free.
Gleefully prancing through the pastures of crippled thought.
Thought to have been here all along,
Along the thoughtstrings of my restless mentality,
Written within the pages of a book held dear.

Blank.

A heart flies,
Dreaming of the dreams in which my soul runs free.
Jealously imprisoned,
Surrounded by it's falsities.

The grasses on which I feed,
Are made of my naivities.
Nutritious only in thought,
Scarcely getting me by.

Scraping away at every crumb.
The mind runs free.

Blank.

Shackled,
Blissfully unaware of its imprisonment.
Dreaming of peace,
Unaware of its fleeting nature.
Wickedly addicted to the sensation.
The brevity,
Of being free.
Despite having never been at all.

Blank.

The mind runs free.
To write these lines.
My endless ramblings.

.
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