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Anthony Carrasco Feb 2016
We held each other
like breaths under water,
day old infants in their mommies arms,
and dreams we never meant to wake from.

You touched me
like I was your instrument,
a texture you were testing to buy,
and a newly used pan after cooking breakfast.

I loved you
like my favorite tv show,
warm blankets on a subzero night,
and the tattoos I designed with you in mind.

There are no amount of
I could say to express
how much I miss you,
yet here I am again
writing like an author
striving for a movie deal.
SS Jan 2015
I want you to love me like the sun loves the sky at sunset. In beautiful hues of lavender and pink.

I want you to love me like the stars light the sky. Bright, everlasting, blinding and unreal.

I want you to love me. Like I love you.
Kagami Apr 2014
I am a silent scream. My soul
Spits at broken glass hanging from the wilting sun
And the moon colors it a glowing red.
A red like the ruby of my lips as I dream they would be;
White dress, ruby lips, black silk lining the inside of my coffin.

Pages of photos litter the ground and
People kick them. Step on them. Those were my memories,
The visions I had, and the world I wanted to live in.
The dust and grime erase the ink and leave
Blackened footprints over the things I once remembered.

The memories were erased, like a sentence in a diary.
Verses written on the page and similes
Raining among the mind of the writer.

And the inspiration is gone.

A blank page replaces the one with images dancing across the ink.
A chill spirals in from the open window and the moon shining
Across the expanse of city lights and fire.

A melancholy sound radiates from the belly of a cat
Perched on the roof of an abandoned house.

The girl is there with her star charm anklet, bolts
And screws still loose in her joints.
Her doctor never came to fix her. She is still as broken as a glass slipper.
Her new hideout devoid of mold and charcoal, but filled with
Tears and memories of the pain lived there.

She reads it.

She find similes in the haunted parts,
Sees the tears as currents in a river
And views the poetry written like leaves in the wind.

Yet everything is dead.

And everything was a dream.
Arlene Corwin Aug 2017
Bemoaning Similes & Metaphors

         (the lack thereof )

I cannot think in similes or metaphors.

I can, but it’s

An artifice.

A gift

I’ve not been left with.

Of course,

I’ve got Thesaurus –

My old pal -

To push me

In the simile





To see,

Their inner eye

Comparing parallels unconsciously –

A gift of gene and DNA –

Overwhelm me.

While I moan about my lack,

They sit with throne and luck

Expressing with an ease,

Anything they ****** well please

In metaphors and similes

I lie in bed,

This running through my head.

That’s why it’s here.

Bemoaning Smiles & Metaphors 1.13.2010/8.17.2017
A Sense Of The Ridiculous II; The Processes: Creative, Thinking, Meditative II;
Arlene Corwin
It can seem silly sometimes - even containing a sense of the ridiculous
Ormond Sep 2014
She's like a drama queen,
Plays the 'blame game' like a loser,
Fair minded as a bigot,
Wages war like drones,
As free as surveillance,
As open as privatized prisons,
As equal as feudalism,
As rich as the beggar masses,
Bankrupt as homeowners,
Socialist as the military,
Truthful, trustful as "NEWS," as propaganda,
Pagan as the manufactured Goddess 'Columbia,'
Christian as the stingy,
Pious as a sinner,
Wicked as securities, exchanges on 'Wall Street,'
Insecure as an empire,
Greedy as a fast food glutton,
As brave as a fool,
Warmongering as a chicken hawk politician,
Machevellian as a coward,
As rigged as the free market,
As selfish as Capitalism,
As tolerant as Islam,
Beautiful as a clear cut forest,
Charming as a strip mall,
Forward thinking as chaos,
Lawless as congress,
United as a belligerent crowd,
Compassionate as a swat team,
Green as any petrochemical company,
Organic as pollution,
Deep as a strip mine  .  .  .
  .  .  .
unwritten Nov 2014
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.


he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?

this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
Shane Leigh Jan 2018
This is not poetry,
and this is not heartstrings
playing sad lullabies
in the deep spaces of your mind.

This is not poetic;
this is not reading
stanza after stanza
wanting to know what's at the end.

This is not rhythmic,
nor sensual, nor smooth,
nor is it flowing like words should
from the tongues of those
that know which words to use.

This is simple.
These are words
that make sense
without peaking around corners
or hiding behind luscious similes
or over-used metaphors
and out of touch symbolism.

If this is not poetry,
I refuse to dub myself
a poet
and will continue on,
but write prose instead.
© Shane Leigh
Enjoy (:
Sky May 2014
Loving you was like
sleeping on the wrong
end of the bed:
*uncomfortable and out of place.
Your face, the moon
not unlike craters,
the mark
the scar
the fierce reminder
that there was impact
and after the fact,
a surge of dust
that left me.  Clean and free,
feeling better, like I could survive
another meteor shot to **** my heart’s desire.
Yeah, it's esoteric, but I posted it because the word flow is still fun... read it out loud and with attitude! ;-)
Edgar Gordon Nov 2015
Restless unlike the owl
I need sleep unlike my neighbours
Eyes heavy unlike the air around me
Counting sheep like a shepherd
Sleepless similes get it right once in a while unlike left
My thoughts escape me unlike the words in my mouth.
Will they be quiet? It would be unlike them.
Things start to go wrong when you're tired. My mind often wanders to the oddest places of thought. I wonder what the opposite of a simile is. What wierd things would similes do if they were sleepless? What will I think of all this when I do eventually sleep and wake to read it?
Ofentse Tsie Aug 2014
Is there something wrong with being black? Different
                 skin color tone war,
is that what our heroes fought for?
Why is it necessary for white men to form similes about our color? Is this freedom or what?
            I feel like being black is a sin.
What's really funny is racism is found in the black community only because it has turned on itself “I'm light skinned I'm better than” “dark skinned is ugly”
is this what we call love? Ubuntu? if so then I want none it.
It's amlaot disgusting how we can't show love to each other but expect love from another kind.

by: ofentse_tsie & dvniel
Different subject. We hope it moves you. Enjoy
Love is an ocean with boundless limits
At times waves do travel to the shores
Beauty in the eyes of lovers make poets
Love makes similes, beauty metaphors

She is in my heart and I am in her eyes
This is what love takes time to explore
Love takes to heart all the beauty cries
Like a lunatic entity goes door to door

My dreams are just like broken glasses
I have debarred myself from the taste
Sins have taken away all with glances
I have nothing with me she is but chaste

Col Muhammad Khalid Khan
Copyright 2017 Golden Glow
Yates Nov 2014
You have your hammer down, foot stamping Passion Poets,
the ones who feel something and like a waterfall
similes fall out of their pen and land
they are LOUD and they are dynamic,
their metaphors are laser beams out of eyes,
they are the Crowd Raisers.

And you have your hearts open, eyes closed Emotion Poets,
the ones who love something like a fountain,
spilling over adjectives their words are
red, they are heated
yellow, they are revelling in that shade of
blue that poets hate to love,
they are the Heart String Pullers.

And then you have...
I'm an imperfect, writer's block, In Between Poet.
my similes are more like a puddle than a waterfall,
all the same parts but nowhere near the power,
I am LOUD in all the wrong places
my metaphors are dead battery laser pointers, I am
not a Crowd Raiser.
My fountain spills over adverbs quickly dying
out my words are sort of... gray, they are
not Heart String Pullers.


We are all Poets
we are like similes
we are comparing our words to something bigger,
we are metaphors we find a way to put love into words,
put hate into words,
jealousy into words.
we are adverbs quickly coming to life in all its splendor
we are
All the Same.
E B K Sep 2018
"Walk amongst the similes"
Or so her mother said
For there you'll find a garden
Which fosters, like your head


You'll find the dirt and grass
Of the words
"Like" or "As"
You shall see


Fire, Earth, Water, and Air
can all be
comparisons there
to Life


Perhaps you'll find the people
comparing to each other
not necessarily fighting
just getting to know one another

She is like him
He is like her

I suggest you pick a couple
to nurture in your head
so when you wonder what to write
you'll look to those instead

Moriah Jean Feb 2011
You make my heart fly like it's still whole,
like the bones in my wings aren't brittle and broken
and these palpatations actually follow some sort of a beat.

Like maybe my feathers are still beautiful,
even though I've made a habit out of flying too close to the sun.
Suddenly, it's heat just warms my skin,
and now I'm glowing.
Instead of bursting into flames.

You burn me from the inside out,
but it's a comfortable energy.
You play my strings so delicately,
I feed off the vibrations.

You make me feel like a song,
that missed a beat, but found it just in time for the crescendo.
And now I'm playing on
like nothing bad has ever happened in my life.

Just like a Dali painting --
Beautiful and ugly and brilliant
and no one's sure exactly what it means...
But you're the artist,
and in your eyes, every stroke makes sense and I'm perfection.
© February 7th, 2011 Moriah Jean

For Bryant, It's just how you make me feel.
And for # 2 on the 100 themes challenge, which is love.
Kate Lion Jan 2013
A decade from now,
            My words will only be a carcass even birds won’t want
            To pick at anymore.

I won’t be able to keep track of where my similes skip off to,
And maybe I’ll discover later that they crossed the street like a chicken
That wouldn’t know to look both ways,
Causing a six car pileup,
But never making it to the other side of the road as I intended them to.

Maybe my metaphors will age quickly,
            And ten years down the road
            Their doggy jowls will quiver with one last yawning breath
            As they collapse beneath the nearest tree from hip failure
            Resting at last beneath a pleasant summer sun.

I don’t like to think about it,
But I’ve entertained the idea
That perhaps I will neglect my words,
            Letting all the quatrains pass me by.

Yes, that is how my structured sentences will meet their end:
            With no periods
            But a blank space
                        Where your name should be.

I’d like to think that someday
            I won’t have this horrible need to write anymore
I’ll describe my perfect days because I want to,
Not to fill this void I made
When I handed out my consonance like candy
            And scattered similes in the air like skittles
            During that drought we had a while ago
When everything was black and white
And I thought everybody wanted
A taste of the colors I’m made of.

I like to entertain the thought that someday

            People are going to reach back through the decades and excavate my words
            And try to find deep meanings beneath all my poetry.
            Scholars will slit the throats of my similes,
            Claiming there was some philosophical point pumping through the jugular,
            And I might laugh somberly [a little] if they do.

            They’re going to find the rotted carcasses in the most random of places:
            A passenger seat,
            The floor by a bathroom,
            A stairwell,
            Under a tree.

I know that some might try to find the cause of death.
In fact,
I know they will.

But I’d much rather people look for the only reason of birth,
The only meaning behind all my metaphors,
I want these people to catch the quatrains I let pass me by when it hurt too much.

When it hurt too much
To just write-

I love you.
shaqila Jul 2013
As random as the appearance of rainbow
As fresh as grasses tipped with morning dew
Like lightning, a forerunner of thunder
It’s slick and smooth and full of energy

As happy as a little girl with a soft dolly
As giddy as a kid in a theme park
Like stars that glitter when the sun’s gone to bed
Like rough seas and gigantic waves

Love comes and conquers all!
Third Eye Candy Feb 2013
cherry blossom
vintage clothing

You Are These, My Love.

like a fairy
is like a dark-eyed Junco, twitter-pated in snowfall apocalypse
like a painter's palette, engrossed in the notion
of gone from me. like chocolate. a sun down
feathering our bed.
like water and thunder
blasting sand
through the blossom
of my cherished -

clothing the naked risk
of my honest poesy.
like the grass roots of joy
fairly gaming the
opaque eye -
of some rara avis-
blinking outside Caravaggio
deep cocoa
of divine waters,
that flood the ludicrous
of your charms
like austerity
is plush

our heart's are vintage clothing

and we must.

what's a metaphor like ? do you simile -
the way I am a valentine ?

or do you


[ ? ]
Dark n Beautiful Apr 2015
I was in love with a Poem:

The poet lured her victims into her wild kingdom of
Word, words, words, that
became the forest of ****** illusion
verses and verses that I never encounter;

In this kingdom I never notice the Sunrise before Sunset
The chanting before the protesters
Lightening before the winds
suddenly brought on by the rain,
That triggers the mighty storms:

The poetics effects of Similes, Hyperbole,
Understatement and personification devices got my attention
Pages after pages,
line of words that opened my eyes,
The mighty pen, a trending poem,
and there I was a loyal reader
With an amazing cup of hot coffee

The poem took me through
this much-modernized tale of
Alice’s rabbit hole adventures

Poems are to be read aloud,
loving making is meant to be private
So is mourning for the dead:
Some things are just meant to be...private

My love for the poem and
my admiration on its poetic views
Is more than human emotions,
than my stimuli of brain ***
I read the poem while sipping my coffee,

Birth, death, politics and religion
***, drugs and empty souls : human emotions,
This much-modernized free verse poetry can causes multiplies  *******
Perig3e Jan 2011
Similes are weak
like a rusted link in a chain,
stronger with authority, the metaphor,
that hammers iron into maille.
All rights are reserved by the author
pure as the moon on darkening nights
radiant as the stars and growing, growing
bright as sunshine, gold, gleeful
warm warm warm
crisp and fresh as a spring breeze
full of life, deep roots gaining strength
gentle, gentle
buoyant as a bird's wing, joyous
freedom freedom freedom


Messy as an unkempt room
scattered and complicated
desolate as the drying desert
burning burning burning
lost and mewling, blind as a cub
clumsy and careless
volatile as active volcanoes
destruction destruction destruction
cold as rain and tough as hail
harming, harming

Beyond the sun there is
*violence, violence
I want to be so bright
that people want to orbit around me
but i am a supernova
consuming all who stray too close
Terry Jordan Nov 2016
The first thinkers were poets
Naming Mother Earth
Beginning symbolic thinking
Of nature, death and birth

Though themes are often repeated
Love, Beauty and God
Poetry in the guise of Religion
A prophet or a fraud

The poet resurrects the Primitive
Through allegory and similes
Disarming the unknown like explorers
Sublime Prophets and Visionaries

They must lay bare those treasured images
That must be expressed
Unraveling and revealing the sounds
At each soul’s behest

Encompassing the entire Cosmos
So lyrical the beat
The poet’s excitement flows outward
Laid at the Reader’s feet

So original, individual
She won’t examine or explain
Letting go the festering feelings
Disturbances in her brain

He exposes his dark, wounded psyche
Just to release and express
Such capacity to see and compare
Hyperbole at its best

I love, I hate, I suffer
A special dance in rhythm and rhyme
The poet as a buffer
Lessening the pain and sting of time

Laden with symbol and feelings
She gives you sweet relief
From something urgent, revealing
Confusion to belief

Through a cinematic kind of seeing
The poet purges to transform
By leaping through Alice’s looking glass
She never was one to conform

Quite intolerant of convention
Just like The Mad Hatter
His passions immune to all logic
In syncopated patter

Jamming up the poet’s mind
Struggling for expression
Seeking order out of chaos
An infantile regression

Cleaving to his imaginary world
The poet breaks out into words
Creating sound paintings to be unfurled
So his own agony is blurred

She succumbs to storms of passion
With instinctive techniques
Rhymes and rhythm still in fashion
Out of hand flows mystique

The poet mines from his unconscious
The Reader is not blind
For every single line and symbol
Means something to the mind

Causing an inner liberation
Enlightenment or flight
It is a matter of life and death
When darkness turns to light.
Been working on this piece for a while; my thoughts on the inner mind of poets.
ottaross Dec 2014
A heart beats monotonously,
Like a leather-encased clockwork, a spring-wound toy
It ticks away the hours until the moment
When, with a silence like a stone, it stops.
Jonathan Veres Nov 2012
What is Poetry?
Is it emotions flowing onto paper?
Or is it the tranquil sea that holds the world's tears?
What is Poetry?
Is it the outpouring of emotions onto
A canvas of beauty?
What is Poetry?
Look around you.
The lives of those surrounding yours are Poetry.
Those feelings that extend and pour out to one another is Poetry.
What affects you, runs through your being and
Makes you who you are.
Who you are is Poetry.
Poetry, the undying form, style, wanders through the generations.
An emotion?
Love is Poetry.
An indescribable emotion flowing from the depths of the soul.
Such is Poetry.
Reader, listener, friend.
No poet can say what Poetry is.
Similes, metaphors, analogies,
All just chalk on the board of life.
A poet can't describe Poetry.
Even now I am left in the fog of understanding, contemplation, and wonder.
So, friend, again I ask,
What is Poetry?
ottaross Dec 2014
A slow-rising migraine seeps into my head
As toxic floodwaters that fill the rooms of my home,
Seeping into my skull with powerful fingers
Like heat-seeking needles to pierce the calm quiet
Of a relaxed and peaceful reverie.
Skogen Feb 2011
Like a fine wine we only get better with age and like a delicate ingredient your my sage,  complimenting my tastes and offering your flavor, in this time cooked sauce we savor.  Something like a hero your my savior.  You went deep inside and brought out my pride, like a magnet you pulled out my talents and rejected my fears, and like an angel you’ve brought me the opposite of tears.  Joy and light, our dreams are in sight and **** the futures bright.  High above like a kite I float over that stagnant moat of limits and push through doubts that self emit.  And like a homemade kit, I put it all together to find my own fit, joining edges, getting lit and jumping ledges.  Like Columbus, Magellan, Alexander, I conquer, discover, travel and unravel the mysteries of what my new lands are like.  Like gravity sometimes I fall, like a baby sometimes I crawl, and like a man sometimes I feel small.  But like life its natural and in the end I like myself, I like who I am, and like a compass I’ve found myself.
Alli Westerhoff Aug 2015
Like a fossil you have encapsulated yourself into my history.
Whether we like it or not, I can still feel your presence in my dreams.
Sometimes you are distant and we never quite reach each other.
Sometimes you are so close I can smell your breath again.

Like a cold shower in the dark, I feel you shockingly all around me.
Overtly aware that you are both here and not even close by.
I’m strictly aware of who you are around me.
But in the darkness I do not know what to make of you.

Like an A-frame hug, you comfort me from a distance.
The sound of hope is emerging from my lips,
But each time it’s left floating like a pebble to the bottom of a river.
The music we shared plays softly but I know I am the only one who hears it.

I could spin similes and weave a quilt showing what you mean to me,
Small memories and fragments of our time would keep me warm.
But I can tell that there is not enough for both of us anymore.
If you don’t mind, I’ll hold on to these pockets of happiness.
A Thomas Hawkins Aug 2010
Your words sting like vinegar
when spilled on open wounds
They carve their way into me
like eating ice cream with a spoon

Like lemonade thats sugar free
they have a bitter taste
but unlike health warnings on cigarettes
their message goes not to waste

As with most recipe disasters
like when I cooked Fish Ragu
I'm not sure where I got things wrong
just what exactly did I do?
Tommy Johnson Mar 2014
We are all human beings
We all have our own lives
And different ways we live them
But each one of us is a writer
And this poem is for all of you

All of you who have virtues and use them in your writing
Those who use flashbacks and revisit mental photo albums

Beginning the story from the middle for that’s usually where you mind is at
Looking back then looking forward
Studying the past so you can be ready for what is to come

Recording catastrophes with a number two pencil

Tales and blurbs of tragedy
Caused by love or the lack there of

Rewards and punishment
Self-reliance and self-fulfillment

We are mere narrators
Humble, maybe unreliable
Equipped with numerous devices
Ironic Paradoxes
Red herrings
Fortuitous plot twists
Allegoric hyperboles
Oxymorons and onomatopoeias

We sling Chekhov’s gun like bandits of literacy

We’re visionary revolutionaries
Revolution of the mind, body and soul

Changing ourselves and examining who and what we are
To become what we are destined to be
The best

Rejecting convention
Building our own paths
That lead to cliffhangers

Romantic lust
Comedic affairs
Dark massacres
Spiritual healing

Religious speculation
And the questioning of the way we, the people are being governed

We use the tools we are giving to sculpt new art that the world can stand in awe of

Symbolic imagery

Practicing pastiche with respect
Dionysian imitatio

Surreal reality
Defying mortality

Reiteration and retort

Using nature to express emotion and thought

Doubts and fear

Morals and ethics

Satisfying curiosity

Parodying what we see
Embellishing just a little

We us word play to dive deep into the topic of conscious, subconscious and unconscious thought

Using satire to poke fun at the human condition,  its senses and perception of the universe to get readers thinking

Expressing our anger, our boundless joys
Desiring unknown pleasures

Seeing past the fallacies put before us

We write with great candor about war, personal conflicts, and self-abuse

With hinting undertones to give these ideas a second thought

We write of the supernatural, metaphysical mysteries
Outlandish, obscure mind boggling theories

As the clock ticks too fast for us and the characters we’ve created

Demolishing the fourth wall with a sledge hammer of defamiliarization

Epiphanies in a parking lot
Speaking in the 1st, 2nd or 3rd person

Using fun things like anagrams and palindromes
Candy for the lovers of such things

Spontaneity is an understatement
Nonsense is an insulting overstatement
Absurdity seems to fit just right

We are chameleons
We can write in various forms
Streams of gratifying consciousness
Brilliant prose
Beautiful poetry

And chose to use or merely acknowledge the ways to achieve these forms
Rhetoric, rhythm  and rhyme
Meter and mora
Conceit and consonance
Working with phonaesthetics  

And accenting aesthetics

A poem can or could not be organized as such
If we want to get technical about it

We have a poem
With a number of verses
And in those verses
Are lines
And those lines might rhyme
And have a meter or rhythm
Stressed or unstressed syllables

In contrast to that we may write
Without all of that and use emotion
Feeling and structure our work with what we feel is the best way
Line breaks
Pauses and puns
Silly similes
Ambiguous antonyms  
Intonation, linguistics
Fight against the fascists of grammar and conservative correctness

So, in the end we are writers of a rainbow kaleidoscope forms, devices, ways and ideas

But we alone are the ones who make the world think
Make it move
Look back

Write my friends write until your mind explodes and your fingers bleed

Read, read and become inspired
Even if what you’re reading is bad cheese

Forget getting published it’s the writing that matters
Disregard the off-putting, critical chatter

And if you think no one reads
Than be the seed and sprout a tree of astounding artistry
And let’s begin a new movement composed of ideals that will hold true forever
I might be preaching to the choir but it must be said that poetry; literature isn’t dead
cr Feb 2015
because sometimes
metaphors aren't obvious enough
i used a simile to tell someone i loved them and
they still didn't understand.
ottaross Dec 2014
Wrapped in a blanket against the cold night
Like a paper-wasps' nest
in a black-and-white birch tree
dusted with snow;
Like the wick of a hundred-times-dipped beeswax candle,
awaiting the flame.
Hayley Schiete Apr 2014
i'm really good at similes
comparing myself to things that are not me gives me a sense of good ego
and makes me feel like i'm not in my own skin
but i hate being similar to something
because all we wanna be is different, a bit out of the typical box
but somehow if we're compared to normal at least we have the mind state,
at least no one will exclude us

i've been abandoned
but what gives me comfort in the outcast
is english language slabbed on my paper and a slice of outkast at 12 am
we've all been taught in grade school that original is the way to go
the path of happiness
but consequences often go unmentioned and unnoticed

i've been normal, or at least compared
been a simile my whole life
"you're a lot like your brother you know"
i'd rather be excluded than have set up expectations from a man 6 feet under

i don't know where i'm going with this
a part of me wants to be excluded from the box
a part of me wants to have normality to lean on
a part of me loves being compared
i'll always been a good at similes
i'm the human embodiment of figure of speech
except i don't even want to talk
just keep on tak tak taking on this keyboard
hoping to find something similar
to self realization, self reflection
i only want the similarities to good feelings
because **** is all i've felt
i guess being almost there is better than never there
i'm a lot like myself
i'm undecided
ottaross Dec 2014
The close of the week,
Like an old familiar house you have vacated
And stuffed with memories still as fresh
As burnt Monday-morning toast
That still blues the air.
ottaross Dec 2014
Sleep comes to me now
Like a lover, faultless yet wronged,
ever forgiving, crawling silently into my bed;
Like a heavy monsoon-soaked night
Descending on a decrepit, third-world city.
Must we apply Glue on the Negative
When the Photo was meant to bring Good Thoughts?
She was with you; And on the Positive
Her Smile was the Change she had long since brought
It wasn't much to sulk on Uncle Gus
When many Witnesses saw you on Ice
Her Face also appeared; In excitement, must
Try to fit her Visiting Heart for size
How did I know this? With all Windows displayed
And most Unregistered Tributes recorded
My Laughter sincere; And Monsters dismayed
That no Finger can keep you Separated.
Indeed, my Elder Instinct will adjourn
The Sober Similes I must re-learn.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
Ormond Nov 2013
Her hair rushes like rain
As my eyes turn to stone,
Her beauty, it has no fame,
Like Brando is one great poet,
And Shakespeare, so underrated,
Her lips are like undiscovered flowers,
Opening into a mythic forest untrammeled,
Like footsteps reeling after light from beyond,
Her voice babbles as water caressing mute stones.
Brian Payamps Jun 2015
Poetry the feeling
Poetry the action.
Poetry in everything
Poetry in working
Poetry in drug dealing

Poetry in words
Nouns and verbs
Poetry in metaphors
Poetry in similes
Lest cement a brick like a drug dealer does a ki

Poetry for the poor
Poetry for the rich
Poetry for the sick
Poetry for the healthy
Poetry for those trying to make heaven on earth

Poetry for you
Poetry for me
Poetry for all

Poetry Is My Poison (****)
Poetry Is My Poison  (****).  It gives me love but do to it I destroy all I love but me.
Marya123 Sep 2018
If I could write my life as a poem
For millions who'll read, understand, think
I'd conjure an epic, a mystery
A tale on edge, a tragedy's brink.

I'd weave gripping waves of pleasure
Together with heart-wrenching tides of pain
A sea of battles with no leisure
Of joyful wins going against the grain.

I'd stitch metaphors with gleeful pride
Constructing rhythm with a bit of rhyme
I'd dabble with similes here and there
It'd be my thread on the sands of time.

But when I see my life as it is now
How different it is from my lovely tale
It retains its mystery, some agony
A once-green crop grown dead and stale.

A lost yarn of mistakes and pitfalls
With regret binding the threads as one
Repeated faults with no known structure
A once-free verse that is trapped, undone.

So I'll cast away my dream of a life
In a graveyard as a forgotten goal.
Some dreams never come true, it seems
Just like some lives will never be whole.

— The End —