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Amanda Francis Jun 2016
To me you’re a mystery that I must know everything about!
I want to watch as sleep becomes your shape and my world rests.
To lay in your presence and hear the words that fall from your lips like petals.
For the butterflies in my stomach can’t resist the nectar of your mind.

When our fingers are entwined, I can’t deny that we are made of stardust.
For you planets would align, Day and Night would take a back seat to watch you shine.
For you are a supernova to which no supernova can compare!
So I grapple with metaphors and similes’, though I know explaining your beauty is akin to breathing without air.

We kissed in all the beautiful places and you planted seeds in my mouth.
Between my teeth a garden of blood-stained white roses grew.
Nothing is safe in the vastness of time, in your eyes a flood to rip us asunder.
My body bares scars from your thunder and I know why storms are named after people like you!
Graff1980 Jan 2016
I am not the wreckage
Your life was built upon
Or the side street
Were rushed lovers meet
To greet each other
In a panic with frantic fingers

I am not the hole
You fill to ****
That internal ache

I am not the hero
Or the villain
Of this small
Human production

I am not like
The similes
That litter
Your eulogies
Or the metaphors
You adore

I am simply me
Still searching
To find out
Who that is
Leigh Apr 2015
The hourglass spills days while penning insides and outcries
leaking content soaking pages; infecting woven fibril.
Using sharp fragments of semi-coherent tangents I scrape away
the leftovers:

Scraps of unfit metaphors fed to mounds of misshapen sentiment
Rusted similes left strewn on margins like impotent flotsam
Sampled words that don't quite capture the yaw, pitch,
angle, vibe, or taste I'm gunning for.

All tossed - Useless on paper, but useful as a dense foundation
of nonsense to bolster my intent.
The scribbled-out waste; the deep black marks between the final
cut are the raw outpouring I can't let you see.

The mess is too mottled for exhibition
Too fragile and too honest to absorb the stones.
.



.
Travis Green Jul 2018
I turned the unopened pages of your book
to the fire blazing chapter filled with chaotic
diction, scrambled alliteration, sinking similes,
jumbled metaphors, piercing personifications,
raging landscapes tumbling into shrunken
shadows, clouds of tormenting destruction
surfacing in the darkness, thundering asteroids
blasting down upon fiery dimensions, creeping
demons ******* the blood deep within lifeless souls,
vicious animals gnawing on scattered strips of flesh
across the sunken graveyard, hovering bats circling
the horizon in search of their next fallen angel, as
my eyes drifted deeper into the inner core of your
magnificent work, how my eyelids faded into the sharp
edges of your reach, how my smooth suntanned skin
became a hard-splintering wood, its grainy texture
a paralleling frame of your flaming design, the way
I could feel every part of my presence losing the
blossoming beauty within my canvas, the way as
I continued reading your captivating creation,
my anger amplified a thousand times,
mind bottled thoughts became a wrecking
ball of burning flames.
Sofia Paderes May 2014
It starts
with a warmth, like
fingers spreading thick in my belly
slowly making its way up, up, up
tickling my throat and
warming every inch of this body until
there’s nothing I can do to stop
my lips from parting
my hands from raising
my feet from dancing

How beautiful You are.

Joy.
I feel it radiate, it seems to
vibrate from a well that’s deeper
than I’ve ever known
leaving me without words
and when I find them, they
dance.
The words
dance.
And I feel fire.
My heart swells,
and my bones breathe.
So this
is what it means
to be in love.
And I am so
in love.

How beautiful You are.

Here
I
am.
Walls torn down
pride crumbling
dry and broken
but I know
You’ll still draw me in, so here
I am
standing stunned at…
How do I begin to describe You?
You
whose lips burst forth light
and carved out mountains with precision
set the earth’s cornerstone in position
shut snowstorms in their storehouses
fastened galaxies in their places
You who
breathed out
morning stars.

How beautiful You are.

The sun sets, sinking
in colors of warm honey and
tangerine
I feel You smiling down
on me, and You whisper,
“Child, this one’s for you.”

How beautiful You are.

And my mind just can’t wrap itself around You
and how You
command the clouds to roll like the sea
guiding lightning as it strikes soft earth
and how You
are so much bigger
than I could ever understand
but still are mindful
of man, how
great You are in
perfect faithfulness.

There is no end
to Your love, and if I
were to live and die
a thousand times, and if
the heavens fell
and the seas swallowed up the earth
and the sun stopped rising in the east
and the birds ceased their morning songs
still Your love would
endure
And Your grace
which goes beyond my shame,
I’ve run out of similes and metaphors
to describe how vast
and amazing is this grace
You have that never seems to
run dry no matter how far I run
no matter how hard I fall
no matter how stone-like my heart’s become
Your grace carries me
telling me I’m still Yours.
And I
am forever Yours.

How beautiful You are.

Savior,
Your heart bled at the sight of us
longing for a way to close the gap
millenniums of our pitiful good works
couldn’t close.
Merciful,
in promising to never again
wipe out the face of the earth despite our
stubborn souls sinning the same sins,
saying sorry while we slipped
blood money into our back pockets, we
don’t
deserve
anything.
Yet You
gave
Your
everything.

Overcomer,
Death itself couldn’t keep You prisoner
I still can’t imagine how
Someone like You would
willingly lay His life down
for someone
like me, and I fall to my knees
remembering how
on the cross You
crucified my sins
in the grave You
buried my past
at last
we are free
we are redeemed
we are Your children,
chosen and forgiven
waiting until You
come again.

And if I come to You
before You come to me
and I’ll be running
finally
straight into Your arms,
I don’t know if I’ll even have the
breath to say,

“How beautiful
You are.”
A spoken word poem written for Victory Fort's youth worship night.
Hiraya Manawari Sep 2020
“Good morning, love,” you whisper.

It has always been the sweetest sound I always hear before I formally open my eyes for the new morning. I could not imagine, waking up one day not to hear your voice beside me. It is like a melody of hope and love that even my imperfect days become brighter and sunnier. A chilly morning always lulls me with your mint breath that puffs like a cloud of smoke in my face every day.

How I could forget, the way you undress me with my favorite red Elmo shirt and teases me for my unsymmetrical body. I hate it when you laugh at me, comparing me to the human body systems you have studied in your Science class. I hate myself being half-naked and shivers in front of you but you always pull me in your chest and incubate me like a baby. That makes me feel safe and enough.

Your fingers then begin to wander around my body starting from my head down to the end like a thin map, locating the bones you have not known. You have memorized the number of ribs, the hiding-place of my moles, the width of my waist, the length of my thighs, and the weight of my brain when I lose myself in the fantasy you make. I know you will kiss me after that. A warm, obsessive kiss as if I belong to you. Like I am only made for you. You own every little thing about me as you sealed every edge of my body with your lips and hands.  

In this room, you always play your favorite Taylor Swift’s song on your phone and sing it to me foolishly, in out of tune while looking me in the eye. You would ask me to sing it with you the best line of the song: you are the best thing that’s ever been mine. This makes me laugh, blush, and even makes me cry in such unfathomable bliss I feel every time we do this. I forget the things that make me scared and worry. I want to hold you forever like what you did whenever I fall head over heels for you.

You are not actually my type. I never dreamt of loving the exact opposite of me. You hate the smells of books and will never pull me in a bookstore just to read George Orwell’s or Harper Lee’s. You have never been to art galleries or even museums to look for paintings and sculptures. Mostly, you never read my paper-scented poems and short stories peppered with similes and metaphors. Those things make you fall asleep. But, you always show up and try to understand my world.  

Our story is nothing but a cliché.

Sometimes, we both sail through the angriest storms that left us unguarded. There were days that our rooms were jam-packed with simple misunderstandings that ended up with spicy arguments. Those nights, when we sleep against our backs with wet pillows and separate blankets. We fixed things, though, before the sunlight peeks through our curtains. We entwined our hands again. New and fresh like there is no scar at all. In the next months it’s been always benn the same. We usually run in circles – a cycle that we never break.

The room succumbed into the silence that was once smeared with laughter and dreams. The heavy tension surrounding us, expanding more each day. From our bed to tables. The distance between our hearts stretched to a distance beyond our reach. I do not recognize you anymore as you have metamorphosed into another being. A different stranger.

As much as I want to save you from drowning, you were already trapped in whirlpools. I firmly hold the thin string of hope to battle it out against the current. I pulled myself together and swam harder, as fast as I can do. I can already feel fatigued. Without a word, you unlatched your hand and let yourself adrift farther away from me.  

I was lost. I traveled all alone in the cold sea, looking at the sky. That made me realized that I was already defeated in this battle before it had started.
____________

My head spins like hell. All things are blurry and indistinct. I am staring at my phone waiting for a text message to pop up. I notice the dried red rose on the vase. The books on my shelf are dismantled and seem like some are missing or misplaced. The printed shirts and my pants are scattered on the dusty carpet. I caress my much-loved red Elmo shirt as if I am searching for a lost memory. I drink the last glass of beer, staring blankly at my phone.

Funny how all these stuff occupy every space in my room yet it still feels so empty without you in it. I forced myself to stand on the floor and decided to open another bottle of beer.

“Good morning, my love,” I regretfully whisper to your absence.
Joshua Kirby Dec 2014
Nature metaphors
And descriptive similes
All fail to capture
How sweet and lovely and good
And desirable you are
Sierra Jun 2016
“We get it, you write.”
What a laugh
You get it that I write
But you don’t understand
That this is the only way
I can say how I feel,
Say what I think,
And I can say it masked
By metaphors or
Similes
That would leave the
Reader guessing what
I mean.

“We get it, you write.”
But you don’t understand
That the words flow through
My head every waking moment
And I’m constantly thinking
Of the next line to be typed,
The next word.
I can’t go a day without
Thinking in poetry,
Without wanting to express
Myself with these paragraphs,
Without needing to release these
Feelings.

“We get it, you write.”
You get that it’s frustrating
That I take a random sentence
You may say that intrigues me
And turn it into something
That you never noticed when
You were saying it.
You don’t see the world of
Possibilities
That are unleashed with
Each word you mutter
Under your breath
But I do

“We get it, you write.”*
And I get it that you will
Never understand that
It isn’t just writing to me
Because, after all,
I am the
Poetry
And the poetry
Is me.
Maybe it wasn't sporadic,
but I saw the outbreak coming nonetheless
and this complication isn't remedied painlessly

Until I finally fell and landed perilously where I'm not even wanted
but feel somehow that the pain belongs to me
and I belong to it

Its mine and I'll keep it; oceans could be deeper.
You can't float lifeboats on land

But when the wind becomes black ink,
and I can't lean against the running trees;
I block my face and chase after them

and while I know I think in metaphors and not similes,

I like to think I lie
and I'm only myself,
darkly and simply realistic
Shell of a Man Dec 2017
She believes in God.
I believe in the ocean
Under the son soaked in faith
An open vase with two matches, a home for two soul mates
She says she wants a love like that
But I can't tell the smoke from the ashes

She feels like forever and that scares me
Daring me to let her but, to be fair, I never thought I'd care so much
Torn and severed, I lay everything bare. The air is broken with unspoken words
Whenever I open my mouth to say something clever, my heart gets the better of me
For better or worse, will I ever see this vendetta set at ease? 
Perpetually vexed at this lack of confederacy. My tongue tells evidence of a mutiny
Truthfully I usually don't curse in these verses but they used to be so worthless
Without a purpose, only penned to purchase penance
How earnest my pen is when it mentions your existence
Will you witness this witless prince in his attempt to win this with his passion? 
Like a centuries old symphony soaked in similes, they'll sing of your love whenever they mention me
Though this moment will, one day, be a distant memory within the halls of history
I will not let expiration dates hinder me. Every soliloquy hereafter will be like hymn mimicries
An endless blend of love, life, and everything in between
Between you and me, I'm still wishing we sing those songs together 
What a perfect ending we'd be.

She believes in love
Maybe I'll believe in time
Drowning.
John F McCullagh Jan 2012
Dull sublunary lovers need
the help of 3D glasses
to ever seen things differently,
or grasp just what romance is.

We poets see things differently
because we take more chances.
The seen and unseen, we embrace
without cardboard enhancers.

Could Love even express itself
without our helpful similes?
Honor or Courage, without our help,
would be just pale  facsimiles .

We are the guardians of the words
that hollow men would empty.
Poetential is our flaming sword
against their verbal  entropy
A Neologism for a title and a borrowed phrase from the great John Donne to start me off.   Reading a poem by Ann Rouse inspired the new word a marriage of poet with potential.   It is common to use a new word in asentence- I thought i would use it in a poem.
Nicholas Rew Jun 2012
Fusing the concepts of diction with the;
roll of a puuuup: ill container
no brainer; the new name
for all,, club bangers
the flocking flamers,
claiming they flow rain sick,
fake **** time to face it
like similes to basic
subject matter could use a face lift
I straight rip, jill jacking me off,
cant touch these bars, leading to E.R.
cough, cough; Hot sauce her eye, then fry
that back side, spliff lit
A big hit; leaves dome split
                                                           ­                thoughts. . .              drift
To higher places; perceive the cloudy spaces
between the jaded hate spit
peaceful protest; GRAVITY.. replace it
Aliteration altered asinine assumptions
Rhetoric to run with;               supplying the dumb-*****
my cognition is "meta" there "fore";
fairest way is hitt'n
Needing a "fix"; I pop "pre"-scription
Sacred living's indifferent; no know's of his vision
Firing blindly; we're inquisitive middlemen
signing contracts binding
booking assurance of purpose
vexing questions perplex the messes
milk spilt are peoples guesses
nose tilt; angling obtuse,
obese, feeding upon, the bottom line
Most zealous of swine;
hideous and hateful, unable, ungrateful
better off as bacon plateful
The line is fine; The shade is grey
I'll ironically state,
suggestions to negate
your fate upon another's baseless psalms
or petty predictions of living on your palms
Celeste McNeil Apr 2016
You asked me my name in your first remark
We sat on opposite ends of a question mark
You were dashing - made me pause,
me, this independent clause
standing alone,
I made sense on my own
But I answered you anyway.

Ellipses.

Now you are the verb in my heart’s contraction
I am the subject and you are the action
An Interrogative with a Declarative reaction
An Exclamatory and then an Imperative attraction

Ellipses.

Your lips ease
Me, the direct object of your affection,
but never sentenced to an apostrophe’s possession
perhaps more true- a plural “s” suggestion
and the excitement behind an exclamation point’s inflection

The semi-colon understands
We can be on our own, but we want to stand
together
where our letters
aren’t fetters,
but the typesetter’s
better measure
of linguistic pleasure.

We communicate through metaphors and similes
Like the birds and the bees
We speak across homophone lines
to keep a census of our senses at all times
Because words said aloud have allowed
us to find meaning behind the utterance of sound-
mere words and phrases
jumping off of pages
into brain and heart and soul
when the parts become a whole

And with the syntax, punctuation, grammar, and usage
I’m a hopeless semantic always trying to ****** it
Language- yours I understand through the myriad.
Words can’t capture you. Period.
In measured verse I'll now rehearse
The charms of lovely Anna:
And, first, her mind is unconfined
Like any vast Savannah.
Ontario's lake may fitly speak
Her fancy's ample bound:
Its circuit may, on strict survey
Five hundred miles be found.

Her wit descends on foes and friends
Like famed Niagara's fall;
And travellers gaze in wild amaze,
And listen, one and all.

Her judgment sound, thick, black, profound,
Like transatlantic groves,
Dispenses aid, and friendly shade
To all that in it roves.

If thus her mind to be defined
America exhausts,
And all that's grand in that great land
In similes it costs —

Oh how can I her person try
To image and portray?
How paint the face, the form how trace,
In which those virtues lay?

Another world must be unfurled,
Another language known,
Ere tongue or sound can publish round
Her charms of flesh and bone.
Rob Rutledge Jun 2022
The words were never ours,
Sentiments and sentences
Sediment from fallen stars.
Spoken once upon the start
Before concepts were a concept
When all was nothing,
All was dark.
Before dark was a thing,
Or no thing,
Before meaning had meaning,
Or a universe to dream.

Suddenly.

Like an almighty sneeze,
Came space and time and similes,
Metaphors, mistakes, and mystery
Supernovas, hangovers, hyperbole
All within the blink of an eye.
(Yet to be created)
The words were solid, stoic, patient
Content to spend eternity waiting
Forever fated to play the patron
Of a thousand dying worlds.
Until such time you called its name,
Until the first time it was heard.
Arlinda Feb 2012
I like poetry. 
Soliloquies and sonnets 
I like Shakespeare's metaphors that spill into your thoughts 
His characters and love story's 
I like Hemingway and T.S. Eliot, Edgar Allen Poe 
The sarcasm, softness, and terror-beautifully personified in tone, text and time.
I like the drinkers and socially awkward, lives shattered, mind: pitch black
Because that road is paved with vulnerability , you see truth between the cracks 
I like poetry 
The haikus and similes the simplicity and complexity 
I like this language 
It makes sense to me
Mitchell Mar 2011
Oh you no 7 x 7 isn't 49
And there ain't no way in the world
That your soul could possibly be dead
Cause you seeing those crashing waves
Yes you hear them and their loud
But somewhere deep inside that head
There is something else to be said
Last night I dissapeared from sister
And yes I lie when I say I don't miss her
I wrote her a note while sailin' away on a boat
Oh how I lie when I say I don't miss her
Whisper to the night and expect not an answer
Alone in a world spinning with disaster
Words that twirl eventually are wet with drool
Mary sister yes once used to be my master
A fortnight was alright until the birds started chirping
So early that I just couldn't stand it
I buried the hatchet in this heart long ago
And no the action was not at all outlandish
Passing through years that felt like seconds
As the sound of my sister still beckons
Lightning cracks as I bend my back
For a dollar in inevitable squalor
An open road for the hipster toads
Lures the weak ones with spirit like dreams
But these monsters that linger inside our heads
Our myth with apparition standing stiff
Link the chord and be bored with the music you heard before
Cause' the times that were a changing are now no more
Look forward to the quick and easy fix
A painting that costs one thousand and ten licks
Hang it for coffee, hang it for drink, hang it for the boyfriend who you believe can think
For that is what we are all really looking for
A masterpiece of sincerity a tip toein' with authenticity
Convinced I've felt the real thing
A shadow tells me that I am not here
No never, not at all
The back of a bedroom says that this room is full
My girl is at the end of the hall
Standing alone, no bone but mine
The reader grins afraid and victorious
All at the same time
Tell me what I did, what I said, who the gutter girl ****** in bed
Aftermath of publications punkish in their poors
Metal metaphors of anarchy wishing that they were similes in "the feel"
Goodnight to your grand opening selling that thing with the feathers
Why bother with something that I can't shoot in the eye, bake with a pie
Eat while the year is passing and the cars won't stop to bother
Hello, yes?, I'm here, are you? Yeah, why?, cause you wanted me to get here man!!!!!!
OH YEAH OH YEAH OH YEAH I PLUM FORGOT
Silly at night sinking softly in the morning but the nightlife ain't a morning cause a the stink of her breath
****** tosses a hat in the air, dies, another comes and takes his place
Continue
Black and blue with a ink blot test gone array
The starry night sky with a million cities burning
Minions of monsters move so fast madly that your own thoughts forget themselves and remember the hair of your first love that seemed like an ancient angelic mare
Not a possibility of the sea where there are no currents that can move the memories of transitory commerce that made another guy rich and another guy poor
Oh so poor
Oh so dead
Oh so filled with **** previews that make young men and women rich on clips of fat like a steak thrown away
Concrete pours on the heads of the righteous filled to the brim with ideals of theological fantastics that in the hemisphere spelling never did exists all the while the black lines, yet with yet, tell themselves secrets jingling bells with sapphire eyes all the while caught off guard with a thousand endless secrets still wishing they had millions
A mystery novel produced, never read, but remembered
Hallow in the heart, she said to me, hallow and crazy
Ok then toward the end the street said right or left and I chose up
A girl, mexican, wished one day she could believe that she was clean
A wet spot on the rug told me not to tug at his anxiety and his belief
Ok then, where do we go from here?
No, I don't tink' I know the answer
"Do you?" No. "Do you?" Nope. "Are you answering for me or are you answering for yourself?" I'm answering for the chalkboard cause' I like the sound of chalk on the thick green skin
Forget about it until the time comes for the girl behind you with the *******
Read a note from a girl and she said she loved me
Said I hated her and she still said she loved me
Were married now
Not a thing special when the dance makes up your soul
Forgetting that time ticks for the sure and the scared
OHHH what happiness comes from check good and cashed
Which preferment plan for the milk and the maid
The honk and the duck's blade?
Farming in the depths of dirt that reminds me of my young girth
A plentiful place where images flicker on the edge of sinister
Seán Mac Falls Dec 2014
The first ones they killed were the poets.
They crowned themselves, the sterile
And sexless acorns who fell from the felled
And split the air, writing with bark,
Would have us not desire experience
But describing trees.  To the naked kings
The word is a wonder, a tool to be used
Like any other.  With a forge, they called
An altar, they pitted heaven and made miners
Of the Gods.  In high places they read
Their grounded works, sogged with rain
Water from a red wheelbarrow, they list
And bludgeon us with their hammered similes,
Scribe their poems, they are the painters of one
Colour and high priests of alchemy, turning
Salon into echelon.  When the falcon stoops
They name him hawk.  Standing ****, flat-footed,
In bumpy skin, their honks go unanswered,
For they are no kin to the swan that glides
And sometimes they remember that,

The first ones they killed were the poets,
When the sky is etherized, prose made
Verse and their subjects yawn the great
Slaving maw.  Steeped in stale erudition,
They man-scaped the garden, pulled out
The weeds and by their words, they decreed
That only grass should grow, in strident
Chorus they are ringing in the sheaves.
But their poems are only like poems.
The naked kings are clothed in word only.

In the thirsty kingdom, water spills
Stagnant from the stein and the droplets
Echo, "there's no there  .  .  . there."
Incestuously they christened
Each other, one hundred years of virgins
Making love with a dead word
They know not of— Poet!  Asters
Among the daisies, yet on the fields
Of praise, they shall deflower
Themselves and though they strut
And prance as stallions and mares,
You will know them by their brays.
Harry J Baxter Oct 2013
I could sit my *** down
and write a hundred ******* poems
and not even touch on the subject of *******
or I could write an ode to the obscene
and here it praised as beauty
call me cocky
but you haven't seen it yet
humility tastes like vegetables
and I've never had time for 'em
give me a felt tip
and I'll make you smile, laugh, cry, and come
within four minutes
and I'll write those cutsie ******* poems
that make your older sisters say
awwwwww
like a text from a girl
saying hey
with about a million y's and ten emoticons
you like me
I don't know why
maybe it's maybeline
or maybe it's the keystrokes
stroking your ego
while I throw mine in the laundry
I wasn't raised to be bragger
but I wasn't raised not to be
wasn't raised to stop and see
the people smelling roses
or striking different poses
my smile is like similes
my method is a metaphor
my ***** soon is spilling on the bathroom floor
take this braggadocio
and put it in your back pocket
I don't need it anymore
and I don't want it
On
The counters of poetry
I dock and lock myself
Then
I scope on the bottles of liquors seductively
And spellblind by their syllables
I took the shakers and hybrid
The Similes
The Onomatopeia's
The Nemesis'
The Near-Rhymes
And The Triadic-Lines
Then I gulp fourteen shots of Sonnets
From my paper-glass
And glug a paradox
Or a foil-sigh
Trice,
The knots
Bundling my eloquence
Will exonerated itself
And torpidity will cuff my consciousness
And the droplets remains in my paper- glass
Will impel me
To quest for myriad of them

I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stock on a comedy chair

Then
When the
Limbs of time tread
Will I rush to the counter
Like the athletes at Olympia
And hybrid
The Blank-verses
The Alliterations
The Limericks
The Litotes
The Aporia's
And The Dysphemism's
And
Gulp countless
Yet measured shoots
Of Ballad,with my paper-glass
And unravel the oratories
Of sacred secrets,eclectic enchantment and regrettable reflexes
Aside,or injects the world
With my rugged pins of eruditions
Bestowed in me by the liquors of poetry

I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I'm not drunk!
I
Will slur
With half an eye open
As if the other is broken
Stocked on a comedy-chair

Again
I will rush
To the counter,and hybrid
The Exaggerations
The Personifications
The Imageries
And The Caesura's
And
Gulp uncounted shoots
Of Epic's from my paper-glass
And
Eulogise my steam and wit
Yet,I'm drunk
And deeply drunk wholly
By a might that mortify me so much
That I've become a slave
In the awe of my servitude

Now and then
Will I weep and wail terribly
Each morning,each noon,and each night
For the great demise of myself
And for an emancipation
From the perpetual counter-cells poetry
I'm drunk,and deeply drunk by poetry.

Deeply Drunk
©Historian E.Lexano
The liquors of poetry has stain my tissues
I'm pacing the corridor,
that desperate zone
between insomnia and insanity,
sanctuary of  eccentrics
and junkies
chasing a word, a fix,
a revelation,
an allegorical mix
of purple haze, logic and similes...

It's a race of attrition,
of addicts incurring
meteoric costs of opportunity
irretrievable,
surreal,
euphoric,
and misunderstood...

like mania

this corridor precedes time
and space

it is the beginning
of faith and exploration

and revelation....

dead poets live here...

~ P (Pablo)
(7/31/2013)
Ember Evanescent Nov 2014
Wow. You ****.
Free of any metaphors or similes, hardly a poetic phrase but made out of extreme hurt and hatred because that is really all I have left to say to you.
If you can apply this to anyone or anything in your life, then repost.
Some people do things to you that are so awful that they frankly just ****. A lot.
Nishu Mathur Mar 7
In every flower
There is a poem
In a garland
There's poetry

Pastel similes
Bright metaphors
Sweet allusions
Quaint allegories

In every flower
There is a poem
For every season
And every day

A song of Spring
A verse of winter -
And all that life
Brings your way.
So Jo Feb 2014
ironies usurp courage
adventure scowls unsated
Times New Roman ****
pixels unconsummated
similes sin-taxed for hits
stale nefarious negging
all heros on the page
reality waits begging




- - - - - -
"oh for a life of sensations rather than of thoughts" - Keats

time to escape the screens....
Alyanne Cooper Jun 2014
I write for no one.
My cadence and rhyme,
My similes and metaphors,
My free verse and sonnets,
My poetry is not for you.

I write for no one.
My word painted masterpieces
Of lyrical brilliance
With balanced tone depth
And rich hues of experience
Are not on display for you.

I write for no one.
My sidewalk art is not for sale.
My music scores are private.
My dance moves are copyrighted.
And no one can make me share.

I write for no one.
But I reserve the right to be...
Contradictory.

I write for that little ******* the slide
Who is wearing denim overall shorts
Because it's 1991 and that's what people do.

I write because she had a dream
Once of being loud and obnoxious,
And I'd like to support her dream.

I write for that teenager
Riding her skateboard at midnight in A-town,
Because it's 2001 and she's got nothing better to do.

I write because she made a plea
Twice with me,
And I'd like to save her if I can.

I write for that college graduate
Who sits in the crowd, proud,
Because it's 2010 and people got some living to do.

I write because she lost a bet
And needed a way out of being muzzled,
So I agreed to be her voice.

I write for no one.
I write for me.
harlon rivers Oct 2018
.
The Womb of Time
by harlon rivers

hours drip slowly
onto a taunting empty page
the soul’s depictions brushed simply

a palette of whispered words
dry as if it were thoughts painted
onto a tightly stretched canvas

it's been said so many times before
similes,...
     form clots at the tip of the quill
gathered words,...
finally surrendering to gravity’s flow
as the ink scribes the paltry ruminations;
flooding the same stifled notions
another way into another moment

metaphorical sleights of hand
incarnate onto the absolving
sheet of parchment;
traces of past now’s ensconced
in considered words

miles of silent reverie,
spun,...
like a spider reprocessing,
carefully savoring
each fine silk thread of web,

spinning a womb of time...
The first read came the day it was published and the second 8 days later  Thank you to those who have read my humble musings over these past years... and to those who have shared so much of themselves for all our reading interests.

I'll always wonder, how one day out of nowhere,  I stumbled upon HP and joined.  I mean "why that  one moment 5 & 1/2 years ago ?"...I confess, fate is not often understood in its nebulous irony, yet everything is not meant to be understood.  Live, let go and don’t worry about the uncertain crossroads as seasons change, there comes a time when we aren't looking for anything and we find a passing moment ...

© 2013, May 15th ... Harlon Rivers

one thing for certain in life is change ...
Lowercase Dec 2015
I never write poems about my anger,
maybe because I can’t find anything beautiful in it;
there’s something about sadness
that makes the poet dream in similes
probably since it’s such a crystal-clear reflection
of what you care about.
There’s no hesitance to write about love, of course.
It’s a victory, because the sheer numbers
set the game against you; what were the odds
in millions and billions of people,
you’d find happiness in that second soul
and how could you keep that out of your poetry?
But there is nothing romantic about anger
and I cannot find a reason to detail
a soul in havoc; his or mine.
mks Jul 2014
i turn you into poems and maybe it's because i want to see you as something special or maybe i want whatever we are to have some sort of deeper meaning that can only be explained in the most twisted similes and metaphors that make wonder about things i never should wonder about.

i turn you into poems and i ask myself; are you the tree that falls silently in the forest or are you the person that isn't around to hear it? are you the fire or the fuel that i continue to add to it? are you the cause of a chain reaction or just another part of one? is what we had the elephant in your room or was it the entire room itself?

i turn you into poems when it's late at night and i turn myself into a blank page and i cover myself with you but you are only ink and this is only a metaphor.

i turn you into poems when you look at me and i think i can hear the morning song birds telling me tomorrow will bring me happiness but i think you hear the crows and the ravens and you look ominous and i think it is because only i hear the birds and this is only a metaphor.

i turn you into poems when i turn 16 and you haven't so much as smiled at me and i turn to you when i need help and you turn away and i continue to turn you into ******* poems.

you are a book of poems resting by my bed and i am just the author.
thunder cackles in the morning
a witch is a woman
with any amount of wisdom
your words are as bland as coffee
and the dandelions are talking
for i am permanently amused
by vicissitudes and antelopes
and aggregates of moods
feelings and isotopes
hanging by psychotropic ropes
firmly financed by our fingertips
lifetimes triangulated in transitions
farm the fallow fields
and try to heal the poppies
dropping numbers
and putting aside our copies
a simulacrum of similes and shortages
as field mice and farmhands
dance on saturn’s rings
despite all of jupiter’s complexities
your complexion is never shallow
and i swallow seawater
to embrace the sweet finality of life
janelle Apr 2017
I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my vocabulary strength,      
nor my ability to string words into a clean knot of similes and oxymorons at a perfect length
where I appease the regulations of grammar,
and please the cynical brains of strangers,
I am talking about the sound trapped beneath the fat folds of my brain,
the trains of thinking, never-blinking, that keep my outcasted thoughts sane,
I am talking about the voice of a teen filled with angst and unfulfillment
hellfire livid, mistaken as tepid, burning inside the sanctuary's core that is my heart lacking of discernment

I'm never really good with words
No, I'm not talking about my skills at spelling,
nor my knowledge of historical people invested in writing
although I could say I, myself, would become history
just because I write in my own disposition and misery,
but what good would that be?
That my pen speaks louder than my voice,
and that a stick of ink triumphs over the blistering fire raging in my ventricles
Are you not entertained?
Seeing me crumble like lava rocks beneath your toes
and soon, I will be one with the ash that aimlessly goes around
and around and around you and the others that detest my will to speak
because apparently I’m a silent know-it-all, too fragile and meek
to survive in an obstacle course that is my existence  
Enlighten me,
you people who hold the needles and threads
How dare you ask for my preference of color
if my liberty to speak is dead?

I'm never really good with words,
so maybe it would be better not to say them at all

— The End —