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aziza Dec 2018
people say you die twice,
once when you stop breathing
twice when someone says your name,
for the last time.

when you fall in love with poets,
they will never stop
to carve the letters of your name
to pour the warmth of your smile
to lock the memory of your embrace
carefully and shamelessly
on paper, for others will remember.

you will be alive
for eternity.

to love,
thus keep you eternally, they'd say:
"You were, are, and will always be my everything."
False Poets Feb 2018
Human Observations (the woman pees)

if you walk the world with pen and paper
or eclectic electronic devices,
sure as the sunrise espied,
the pen will quick leak
when wearing white
and so will too the
righteous words
righteously,
thereafter

when you can't sleep and you must
slam your sweaty fist into pillow
know that the pillow is
silent thinking, dude,
you really ain't
got a hope, a
prayer

fallen asleep in the soaking tub
a thousand and one times,
ain't never drowned like
the warning ones say I
will do but only when
restless in my rustling
no-safety night sleep
in my lumpy bed,
where I’ve already
dream-drowned
a million
times

the woman pees, safe and secure,
comforted by the knowledge
that we have bathrooms
separate, her toilet,
man *** free, tho
we just finished
making sweaty,
fluid swapping
***


she does not, won't put on makeup
in her pj's to take out the garbage,
that is why she keeps loverman,
so handy, nearby, shamelessly
firm, unwavering, good god,
great for one "disposable"
use per night

when you tell your child that you love them,
and they do not reply at all, it isn't that they
don't love ya back, 'tis only that they haven't
learned to love themselves
something well that just
cannot be
taught.

the more trinkets I buy her,
more she screams stop,
but never not once
has she said, here,
take it
back

if you don't believe in Faeries and Elusives,
try, for then you have a middling chance
of getting the missing, disappearing
whole sock hiding
in her ******,
back, intact

If must look up the time where your
love is currently hiding/residing,
then the probability is more than
1.000, that you no longer love
her enough, or
she, you,
not at
all

you know it is time to shut down,
hang up the pen and close the
iPad cover, surrender,
give up the poetry gig
4 real when you start
to prefer an
autocorrect
suggestion

~
More to follow.
someday.
11/24/13
gleck Feb 5
The pleasant lingering smell of rose hips,
feels almost healing,
as we tread through the garden -
together barefoot and vulnerable.

I won’t shy away from the prickly green grass,
then in the same way,
let me tickle you with my stubble as we laugh -
together joyful and crude.

One has to be careful not to lose themselves completely
to rub your intricate fingerprint away into another's skin in patterns,
because although the body feels heavy when weak kneed -
the weight of another’s soul is too much to bear alongside your own.

I won’t hold your head underwater in the fresh lake
then in the same way,
let me breathe when we lay by its side -
together entangled and safe.

The passing time made you my involuntary complex,
feels nearly daunting
as I adore this so shamelessly -
us together - balanced and in love.
Left Foot Poet Oct 2017
the sighs in our chest that emanate from a different kind of
breast cancer*

wrote these words prior,
then, certainly uncertain of the exactitude of their meaning,
clearly unclear of their useable intention,
yet the too real wrathful sensations
that inspired their caesarian creation,
the sigh's very own exhalations,
floatations devices for the interned-no-longer emotions,
escapees via the crevasses of chest ribs splitting open,
return to glory thanking me for freedom given

let posterior eloquence suffice, let brevity guide
my self's interior diagramming,
lengthy explications and deep analytics, I leave to you,
the astonished medical examiner and the horrified mortician

chest ripped, my hand reinserted, the blighted scourges,
the abscessed cancers, the obsessive relentless cankers,
asking shamelessly why have I returned to the crime scene

the sighs are air-borne, ready for air plucking,
all cloud seeded, deeded for poets to seize and commence,
to plant and invent, a mountain top trickle to a mighty
river of poems to be recovered and discovered,
unrehearsed and unleashed

but you and I have unwished, unfinished business,
as of yet unwritten, one last poem to honor our
mutually assured destruction,
for this day will be
rewritten differently
this one, a simple script, a written pyramid,
built by an Israelite, who by command, perforce
mustn't but does write prophecies
that may or may not come to being,
poem pyramids,
surely none will not survive Darius's desert sandstorms
ravaging kisses of time's forgetting
10:02am


https://hellopoetry.com/poem/2141695/my-day-will-be-different-today/
D Awanis Jul 2018
Darling, who ever told you that home is made out of bricks?
Home is whenever your heart feel at ease and be at peace
Home is whenever you go to places and in love with the streets
Home is whenever you listen to the music and jam to its rhythm

This two-story building made out of bricks,
is a place that shouldn't be burden off your shoulders
is a place that should you reminisce in joy instead of grief
is a place that should be a sanctuary rather than asylum

Darling, who ever told you that home is made out of bricks?
Home is whose eyes were jet black with a heartbeat
Home is whose smirks feel like summer in winter days
Home is whose touch melts away even the toughest iceberg

"Well", you said, "this two-story building made out of bricks,
is a place where I hear more yelling than laughter
is a place where my dreams died and buried deep
is a place where I used to shamelessly call as home"
Freedom comes not for free
Fetching heavy the fee
As poverty brings comfort a warning
Totaled by tears,
And
Roots please shamelessly
Bringing forth belongings to thee.
I never cared much for car talk,
But when he speaks, I'm intrigued,
And I don't know why.

Most men speak in tones that imply
I don't know anything,
Can't understand simple machines,
Have never seen an engine block,
And just want to watch as they talk.
But he is genuinely fascinated
With systems and forces,
And wants to share.
His passion consumes me,
And I listen, hoping to learn.

On switchbacking forest roads,
Over potholed washboard,
By steep cliff dropoffs,
My head swims with emergency "what ifs"
But not with him.
He flies over loose gravel
And I squeal with euphoric trust and delight.
He drives twice the posted speed,
And I find myself shamelessly sunk
Into a wet seat.
He pumps the brakes
And I'm bowing to the king,
Brazenly hoping that someday
He'll flip a carnal handbrake turn,
Wondering if he cares enough to show off,
Seduced like so many before me
By oil, rubber, and gasoline.
7/25/18
Pax Jul 2018
What makes a poem
- a poem?
Does it express your
emotional life and
the selfish deeds
it contains
.... then you shamelessly
Share it...

Does it really matter
someone might
read it or not?
Someone might
understand you or
not, does that really
matter?

In the world
we live in
many hearts
have died
for they don't
know how our
pen works.
How it does
- what it does.

When a poem
does all the
technicalities,
it may seeks
the power of
fame and fortune
but does it really
matter?

I may not understand
fully what makes a poem
- a poem. But behind all
of it, I'm just here
trying to write a poem
whom my heart
spoke out loud
like he never could.
"How many have to die
so that you can feel loved.
by Florence + the Machine"

you know her music resonates my darkness.
her music really tugs some heartstrings I
tried to hide.
Phil Riles Feb 2016
My spirit wants to do right, but the flesh is unwilling to comply. That's why it must die. Daily. Crucified. All the affections and lusts, crushed with the weight of his Spirit hear to comfort mine own until this mind disownes every thought that exalts itself against the one on the Throne. Adonai, El Shaddai, Elohim, thou most High, Prince of peace, never cease, to amaze, the Blood connected to the earth and awoke men out of graves/I refuse to be sinfully enslaved, hiding in dens and cavs like the ones his goodness tried to save...I understand you Paul, you did what you didn't want to and didn't do what you should have did, yet the Master forgives. I wanna live burden free, no hurt in me, I don't want to subconsciously hold on to the flair of dramatics, rejecting a life lived peacefully while repetitious requests prayed vainfully asking God to take the pain away yet rejecting his orders so the pain can stay. In a twisted way, some people depend on there own misery, no matter how much they complain about it. Because its either what they know best or all they know, and familiarity can be a mental, emotional and spiritual ******* that most...can't let go...well Lord im willing. I'm willing to let go of the past that you already have a long time ago. I'm willing to see myself through your eyes. I'm willing to allow you to turn this anger into joy, this easy irritability into long suffering, this pride into honor, false humility into the one we clothe in..im willing to allow all the pain the sting of rejection gave me over the years, to place shamelessly in your healing hands, im willing to give you the violin, that I've used to play the songs for every pity party thrown within, Upon personal request, while partly oblivious, to the world around me is dying in sin. Lord, continue to help me locate the man I was always suppose to be. Reveal him to me. Describe him to me. Develop me into him. He's been waiting for my embrace for too long. And I'm ready..to put away Childish things..
Delta Swingline Feb 2018
My birthday comes in a little over 2 weeks and I think when people talk about birthdays, they are secretly talking about status in blocked hours.

Somewhere in that 24 hour block, a person was born, and that person was me. .....well Yay I guess.

I don't like my birthday. And the reasons for that, are more complicated than you think.

When I was 13, I was really into cupcake birthday cakes. I asked for one, every year, for a long time.

When I turned 15 and 16, my best friend baked me cupcakes and brought them to school for me, and I shared them with my peers. You see, I considered her my best friend, and I guess that's not enough to be the best friend.

It's like unrequited love if you put poisonous platonic friendship in my blood first.

When I turned 17, she did baked me my last set of cupcakes, but I no longer had a best friend. So I spent my birthday mentally by myself while my family sang otherwise.

And right now, I hate cupcakes, and superhero films because they remind me of her. But saying that is the weakest thing to do, since everything, reminds me of her.

I will never admit I loved her, the same way she will shamelessly say she never loved me. I can't hate her, but I can't see her without hating myself.

You know age, goes up, the same way sadness, goes down. Pulling you into another 24 hour block just so you can say.

"Hey. I made it another day."

I will admit that every day without her is another day without cupcakes, and another day without sugar is another day without happiness. And people may have asked me "How can you flip-flop between preferences like you're not the biggest homosexual in the closet." So when I tell people I'm straight, they tell me I'm not allowed to change my mind.

I loved her, but she left me and took all of my friends with her. And I thought that real friends wouldn't abandon me, but there is always time to be wrong. By the time my birthday comes, I'll be crying, and she doesn't even remember what day my birthday is on.

By the time I read this out loud, I will have been through this birthday, like a person walks through fire. Turning 16 is less about age, then it is about school, and turning 18, is less about the number, and more about becoming an adult. And no amount of adult can neutralize pain.

I have accepted the fact that no man will ever really want to marry me. And no Christian, will ever truly want to love me.
And if I am wrong, I will have to repeat this lost love forever dragging it out in my life.

And if I have kids one day, do you really think...

That I'm going to tell everyone if it's a boy or a girl...

By making blue or pink...

...cupcakes?
Frosting.
factual or fake
terse or sensationalist
trying to be as objective as possible
shamelessly partisan and polemic

or simply hate speech
esoteric remedies for all problems
cat videos and personal snapshots
on asocial networks

whether we believe it or not
it is difficult to avoid it
in our great age
of real-time digital information

the abundance of unreliables
is almost legendary    
     like hearsay in the Middle Ages
     when wandering minstrels
     spread the tidings
        more or less

a challenge to all people with brains
not yet oversaturated with daily trivia

to decide what to believe

doublecheck

do follow-ups
annie rose Sep 5
sitting in my closet
is one of my last memories of you.
ratty, beaten jacket
and it smells like you.

of the better days.
of walking hand in hand
of laughing shamelessly
of exploring, eating, kissing.

of the worst days.
of throwing our hands up
of crying hopelessly
of hiding, screaming, cursing.

it smells of you,
my home.
it smells of you,
my lover.
it smells of you,
that jacket, my jacket
which wraps me up
in so much
love and
too much pain.

you. are. gone.
yet
trapped
in the seams of fabric.
I smell that **** jacket sometimes.
Gangothrii Jul 2018
The gaze that sought my eyes were fierce,
Dark and brooding, right through they pierce,
My toes curled in fear and lust,
The thought of both left me aghast.
Shamelessly reveling in the fire in his eyes,
Melt I did, as my breath quickened.
Yes and No blurred as I answered him,
His silence in response rang through my chest.
He stood so patient, impossible for a man his kind,
For an acknowledgement, a nod, or a smile.
I lowered my eyes from the scorching heat,
My mind reeling in the endless tales it spun.
A foot away lay my temptation,
That held all my attention,
To give in was all I wanted,
For the rest would be in his arms,
A 'no' still lingered, holding me steadfast.
raven arcane May 2017
When i was 5 years old
I thought humans were all good, high, and mighty.
Animals, forests, or a garden with a tree,
Inferior to this world.

Scared was I,
To nature, as it's new to my eye
All those roots that tangle,
Animals in the jungle;
Oh how i wished
It ceased to exist.

Years later,
As I observe with my naked eyes,
The earth is the one mighty and high,
Advantages of earth, we shamelessly used,
To live and sooner abused.

Wishing I realized it earlier:
We are the invaders
The inferiors,
The extras,
Destroyers.

And as I see the ice melting
Trees keep cutting
Water still polluting
Cigarettes still lighting;
I knew the earth is dying,
And we are contributing.

The world is not made for us,
And we must stop taking it for granted.


              —a.c
I was devastated by the news about Antarctica "going green," and the melting ice caps. Not only does it eliminate yet another habitat for animals but it proves that the earth is truly dying as global warming gets worse day by day.

It's alarming and yet the only thing I could is not contribute to the growing pollution and write a poem.
Rose Mar 26
ive been contemplating the nature of our relationship and ive concluded i want more. and by more i don’t mean extra attention added to your generic run of the mill daily snaps. by more i mean i want to allow myself to shamelessly feel and spill the syllables of adoration my heart threatens to slip wide open with, every time i see your name on my screen. im not sure if i can ever really tell you how my skin crawls when i gaze into your pale blue eyes filled with so much melancholy. the same twinkle that reminds me of the infinite indigo and cerulean blue sky against our rich green suburban plains. those wondrous strands of hair that caress your sculpted jawline and weave into your beautiful smile. how i wish i could save you so that you wouldn’t have to deal with the demons that chime in every so often. how i plead for the echo of my heart pounding against this cage to consume all the angst in your inner world. i just want you to see that these unspoken words reflect only a fragment of the garden that thrives within me, waiting to be watered by your “love”.
-v.la
TMReed Nov 18
Chew me, will you?
Chew me, won't you?
Wedge me 'tween two
wine-stained yahoos.
Soak my core through
scaly beast, You!

Look at me,
more theatre than figure—lying here,
sinking deeper still in oddments and drool.

How long now,
have I withered in the moments I've missed?
Paths n’ pavements, once denounced, now creeping
like mold each night over my timber skin.

Oh to think,  
A wonder. A classic. A household name.
Might I earn such praise from heeding masses?
Could my story sneak like an ice cube down
their backs, spin stranger twists into their spines?
Relish, I would, their tales of joy n’ thrill
etched lovingly into mine. Into mine.

‘Stead I lie,
A janitor. A waste. An afterthought.
sweating in my splintered coat, stabbing at
wet hunks of lamb that shamelessly remind
me how truly ordinary I am.

Such is life,
for a toothpick.
Empty promises grow even between your teeth.
Onoma Apr 7
never the mercy

of water--

on fire in full.

not once left half burnt.

feral child of the sun.

burning mouth--

why do you eat me so?

as the question begs

shamelessly.

over and again--the

ritualistic leavings of ash

for pale morning to fall upon.

to stand my burning ground--

desirous of what you've reduced to

nothing.

a fine brittle black sickly sear smear.

thus i mark my forehead...

till dispassion be learnt.
Nnaemeka Mokeme Oct 2018
My bathroom,
the bedroom,
my living room and
the kitchen are all
spying on me daily,
seen my nakedness,
more than enough
to describe every
bit of me,
records my every
moment and daily visits,
day and night.
I'm not ashamed to display
my nakedness even
**** without decorum.
My bathroom mirror is the
first to see the show of
my new dance steps,
and i allowed it to see and
record the secret of my life.
So shamelessly I displayed
my secret acts in my bedroom,
doing all sorts of stuff,
things my mouth cannot
freely talk about.
In there in the closet
of my beloved bedroom
I committed all sorts of
crimes that even you will
be ashamed to watch if
you know what I mean.
In the privacy of my bedroom
no holes barred.
What do I say about my kitchen.
I became an alchemist
and a herbalist taught,
groomed and approve
by my mother.
On the cauldron as
a herbalist I mixed up
all kinds of herbs and spices
and come up with my alchemical concoction to help entertain
my family and friends and also
to feed and condition my body.
My living room now turned
into a theatre where I became
an actor to everyone who cared
to watch me display my prowess.
All these I do in quietness of
my small enclave where
my bathroom and Kitchen,
the bedroom and living room
witnessed and spy on my follies.
Did I tell you about Palomar the parrot and Kelly the German Shepard.
They can tell you my story if you
asked them.
©2018,Emeka Mokeme. All Rights Reserved.
TMReed Oct 30
Chew me, will you?
Chew me, won't you?
Wedge me 'tween two
wine-stained yahoos.
Soak my core through
scaly beast, You!

Look at me.

I've become so theatrical, lying here, drowning in oddments and drool. How long now have I rotted in the eves I've missed, ****** away paths and pavements creeping like mold over my timber skin.

To think, I could have been a Great American Novel, a Wonder, a Classic. My torso might have melted the hearts of millions, the fingers of my web might have crawled carefully down their backs, spinning - oh so suddenly - a twist into their spines, while they themselves press loving, thrilling craters into mine.

I might have swept up her posthumous time machine and his mad spiral from the clouds in the booming wood and brass of one tender-fingered soldier's Trojan triumph over death and his countrymen.

But here I am, a Janitor, an Afterthought. Sweating in my splintered coat, stabbing at wet hunks of lamb that shamelessly remind me of how Wasteful I am.
Aspirations grow even between your teeth.
Sacrelicious Jun 26
Sometimes you just gotta burn that mother ******* bridge
down.

Take what's yours and **** every body else over.
In whatever position
you want, baby.

The wicked side
Of your generational afflictions.
Runs ramped, galavanting about.

Just having a grand old time.

While I'm here, sitting pretty.
Sulking,
on the edge of nothing.



For I put my hands up and begged for mercy.
Only to be kicked again.
For dramatic affect.

But that's okay.
You can keep your HBO subscription
To the commercial, bubble gum prescreened.
True life of the bipolar.

I've been living shamelessly since before I realized I'm shameless by nature.
And y'all have misrepresented tge original gangster of depression memes.
The mentally I'll.
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