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PandaLyn Apr 2016
I scream
And scream
But no one seems to hear me
I'm trapped
Inside my own head
Stuck in my own self-pity
I try to help others
Despite my being weak
But my words of encouragement is unheard
My mind starts to deteriorate
As these words these demons inside my head
Encourage me to quit but yet I still fight
Still knowing
That I will be unheard
Kitty Jun 11
What must I say
When you are here
And all I want is pray
For you to love me dear?

What must I do
When you are here
And all I want is for you
To whisper your love in my ear?

What must I feel
When you are here
And all I want is kneel,
Beg, my desire you to hear?
~May the words always be by your side!~
Diana Jan 14
I love the way
You love dancing in the rain
Freely twirling with your arms outstretched
And head tilted towards the sky
Attempting to catch the rain
Within your mouth
Leaving all of your inhibitions  
On the floor
Where the rain carried them

I love the way
You allow loose strands of hair
Wildly fall around your face
As you have a mountain of hair
Atop your beautiful head

I love the way
You always ponder questions
And desire to know more
Than what's been told
Or what meets the eye

I love the way
You separate yourself from
Every
Other
Girl
I have met
Without intentionally doing so

I love the way
You laugh embarrassingly loud
At all of my jokes
Terrible or not

I love the way
You chew your thumb
When you're in deep thought
Or the way you twist your lips
To the side when you're confused

I love the way
You hype everyone around you
Making them feel as special
As you are to them

I love the way
You never strive to be the world's
Depiction of "perfect"
But your own version of it

I love the way
You're passionate about
Well
About anything really

I love the way
You write notes to yourself
All over your left hand
With a blue pen
Which eventually gets smudged
And smeared all over your right arm
And chin

I love the way
Your fingers get abnormally cold
And I always have a pair of gloves
With me

I love the way
You treat everyone with love
Regardless of what others have said
Or of their known history

I love the way
You smile with your entire being
So much so
That your eyes disappear
And I always have to zoom
On the picture
To see if you accidentally blinked
While you punch my arm

But
The only thing I don't really love
About you
Is the way you love him
This poem was oddly inspired by John Mayer's cover of the song "Free Fallin'."
BrokenPieces Sep 23
sometimes the pain is so overwhelming
that you can't scream
like when fear conquered you
on an amusement park ride
You don't go numb either
You silently scream
in the inside
these screams are more feared
than the ones heard by man
Tanay Sengupta Aug 2018
Chirping crickets, unheard whispers and a lonely street light.
For a small town, it is such a typical night.
A sweet aroma blows with the breeze,
Perhaps, coming from one of the flowers or the trees.

Red flares and moonflowers blooming under the moonlight.
Adding more grace to this beautiful night.
Peace and serenity rule in this silence,
There is no noise, there is no violence.

There are just sounds of heartbeats, deep breaths and whispers.
Just sounds of heartbeats, deep breaths and whispers.











Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
This is rather recent, I hope you like it. Happy reading!
Paul Hansford Aug 2018
The first cold letters, alone on the page.
A quick pencil found them,
and the lively and beautiful syllables blossomed.
The pale book felt the pencil,
and the terrifying, hot words entered.
The lines grew, living and sensitive,
gleaming as never before,
and I knew the unheard lines!

First, a tiny and unselfconscious sound.
A noun struggled to appear among overpowering words.
A strong, golden adjective ran out,
a short, fragrant adjective, beautiful in the early spring.
A young verb grew among tiny blue conjunctions,
and a fortuitous adverb understood, instinctively.

The first sentence dreamed of trees, and a sad cloud.
It dreamed a grey rain,
and the tall trees felt the rain.
There was a first and unknown river,
imagined, inconsequential, like snow in summer.
A red bird glided beyond reach,
as if it had never happened.
The soft sounds fitted the lines,
and the quick bird cried,
Remember the short rain!
Remember the sad poem!
This one was a "collaboration" between myself and an app that I imported to my computer. First I entered lists of nouns, adjectives and adverbs (including adverbial phrases), then clicked to start the process.  The computer didn't "compose" the lines that you see here, but it gave me lots of ideas, and I had to work quite a lot on them. Streams of sentences poured out onto my printer, most of them complete nonsense, and when I had enough I pressed Stop, and started the process of weeding out the *******, editing the more promising lines, and re-arranging the order. My favourite line is "There was a first and unknown river," which I could never have dreamed up by myself.
Inner voices
outer choices
Complete chaos
Stuck in a riot
Inner thoughts
Outer taunts
Complete recant
Stuck in a rebate
TORSIONAL TOTTIONG
TRITE MY HEART!
Hlengiwe Jul 9
I want to know myself
I want to explore myself
I want to search my heart
Exploring every curve,
invading every room's privacy
I want answers to unasked questions
I want accurate answers to rhetorical questions
I want to have conversations about topics that are ignored and hidden
I want to drink coffee with the Lord
and let him fill my empty mind
with wisdom to understand life.
I want to know what is pain, hate, depression, and discrimination.
I want to understand their origin
I want to fight bad guys
I want to succeed
But how can I
when fear is all that I know.
I want...
veritas Jul 2018
gods and goddesses stilled mid-flight,
immortalized in a glory fast fading.
distilled sunlight filtering through, unheeded,
as a devastating dawn for redemption awakens.

     dust scattering over marble hands, forever supple,
as angels fall from grace,
wings clipped and torn asunder.

the sigh of a thousand lost souls, searching;
the thunder of a thousand chariots, unbridled.

     a wing outstretched, a bow pulled taught;
drawn, not fired.

frozen heroes lifting voices unheard;
     the calm before a storm, a fight unforeseen,
silver linings beckoning victories
of heaven's epics left unsung.

look up into the clouds and you'll see a history unwritten,
for they speak to you in murals
of smeared colors and pure light.

but hush! sweet child,
off you drift into an insincere sleep,
until these stories buried beneath your lips,
     singed, searing, burning away memories of the battles that
   linger ,over your tongue  ,
are no more than a shadow of a flame.

   and as his lashes flutter closed over blue eyes
   and his heavy golden curls fall on white sheets
   she whispers,
        the renaissance was not painted for you.
look up. and then higher than that.
Stephanie Jan 12
two letter word and the goodness it held;
crossover the forbidden pleasure of sense
no sudden burst of supernova
shall ruin my assayed constellations
if million years do exist, why seconds don't?
but if I have to wait a light-year for my universe,
I will spell out a more magical three letter word
when the time has come and everything's in place
where would I be? in my universe?
I wish I'm with my universe, but first...
let me be drowned in my own bittersweet dreams
I'm not yet done in killing myself so I could finally live
if matter has space and has mass and so do I,
then why I keep asking "do I matter?"
the absolute value is not my care, to whom is
because for those who really care is the essence of worth
many claimed pledges were already burned
by the raging wrath of my trust-doubting sun
in a world full of lies, where should I start
to breathe the purity of painful truths?
so by then...
four letter word will rest in my soul again
01/12/2019 | 22:29
-- these thoughts are dangerous, they are suffocating my mind. begging me to let them finally out. guess i'm hiding myself in messy combinations of words again... :(
Alvin Jul 28
When the calls of life go unheard

Are they ignored or just rehearsed?

When the calls of life go unheard

Are they too loud or plainly cursed?

When the calls of life go unheard

Do they echo so they sound fake?

When the calls of life go unheard

Do people laugh at tears you make?

When the calls of life go unheard

Don't people see the pain in you?

When the calls of life go unheard

Don't you feel the knives they threw?

When the calls of life go unheard

Is the cry for help not enough?

When the calls of life go unheard

Is addiction making you feel tough?

When the calls of life go unheard

Can they see your out of breath?

When the calls of life go unheard

Can they actually be calls of death?

When the calls of life go unheard

The family you knew, Are they still there?

When the calls of life go unheard

The alcohol and drugs show the scars you wear?

When the calls go silent is when they're heard

Addictions are real and should be feared...
jane taylor Sep 2016
awakened
in the silence of the night
unable to return to sleep
i sat listening
as the stars taught me
unheard messages
delivered on a shimmering moonbeam
tho' i did not intellectually understand
i intuitively knew
what the starlight was saying
then sleep returned
and upon awakening
my intellect seems to have forgotten
the message
my heart now knows

©2016janetaylor
False Poets Oct 2017
does the moon get tired?

~for the children who never tire of moon gazing upon the dock,
by the light of the fireflies,
till the angels are dispatched by Nana,
to sprinkle sleepy dust in their eyelashes so long and fine~


<•>
while walking the dog I no longer have,
a happenstance glanceable up over the River East,
there you were, mr. moon, in all your fulsomeness ,
surrounded by a potpourri of courtier clouds,
all deferentially bowing, waving,
passing past you at a demure royal speed on their way
perhaps,
to Rebecca's northern London,
of was it south to grace of  v V v's Texas^,
in any event,
the cloudy ladies, all bustling and curvaceous,  
all high stepping in recognition of your exalted place,
Master of the Night Sky

We,
the word careless, poets excessive,
sometimes called silly poppies, old men,
left footed, still crazy after many years,
most assuredly poets false all of us,
without a proper prior organized thought train,
outed,
bludgeon blurted,
an inquiry preposterous and strange,
strait directed to the sombre face,
to mister moon himself!

tell me moon, do you ever tire?*

the obeisant clouds shocked
as that face we all uniform know,
unchanged anywhere you might go  to gaze, be looking upon it,
watched the moon's face turn askew.

He looking down at our rude puzzlement,
with a Most Parisian askance,
a look of French ahem moustacheoed disbelief,
while we watched as the moon cherubic cheeks
filled with airy atmosphere,
then he sighed

so windy winding, was it,
so mountain high and river deep,
that those chubby clouds were blown off course,
from a starless NYC sky
all the way past Victoria Station,
only to stop at Pradip and Bala's
mysterious land of
bolly-dancing India,
on their way to Sally's Bay of Manila,
magic places all!

Mr. Moon looked down at this one tremulous fool representative  
(me) and in a voice
basso beaming and starry sonorous,
befitting its stellar positioning,
squinting to get a closer look at the
who in whom
dare address him in such an emboldened manner!

Mmmmm, recognize you, you are among those
who use my presence, steal my lighted beams, my silver aura,
my supermoon powered light, borrow my eclipses,
reveal my changeling shaped mystery without permission,
only mine to give, you tiny borrowers who write that thing,
p o e t r y

head and kneed, bowed and bent,
I confessed
(on y'alls behalf)

we take your luminosity and don't spare you
even a tuppence, a lonely rupee, no royalties paid
to you-up-so-highness,
and we hereby apologize for all the poets
without exception,
especially those moon besotted,
only love poem writing,
vraiment misbegotten scoundrels....

with another sigh equality powerful,
mr moon pushed those clouds across the Pacifica,
all the way to the  US's West Coast,
up to Colorado,
where moon-takings from the lake's reflecting light
so perfect for rhyming, kayaking,
and moonlight overthrowing,
once more, the moon taken and begotten,
nightly,
as heaven- freely-granted

yes, I tire
and though  here I am much beloved,
usually admired though sometimes even blackened cursed,
seen in every school child's drawing,
in Nasa's calculations,
of my influential gravitational pull,
moving human hearts
to love and giving Leonard a musical compositional hint,
and while this admirable devotion is most delighting,
would it upset some vast eternal plan,
if but one of you once asked,
you fiddler scribblers
my prior permission,
even by just, a lowly
mesmerizing evening tide's tenderizing glance?

yes, I tire,
even though my cycles are variable,
my shape shifting unique, my names so at variance
in all your many musical sing-song dialectical languages,
my sway, my tidal currents so powerful a deterrence,
unlike my boring older sunny cousine  who just cannot get over
how hot looking she is,
I,  so more personally interesting,
yet you use me as if I were a fixture,
on and off with
a tug of the chain string,
never failing to appear,
even when feeling pale yellow and orange wan,
and worse,
mocked as an amore pizza pie,
do you ever ask how I am doing?

yes, I tire,
of my constant circuitous route that changes ever so slowly,
but yet, too fast for me to make some nice human acquaintances, especially those young adoring children
who give me their morn pleasurable squeals when they awake and my presence still there,
a shining ghost of a guardianship protector still
watching over them

how oft in life do we presume,
take for granted
grants so extra-ordinary
that we forget to remember
the extra
and see only the ordinary

how oft in life do we assume,
the every day is always every,
until it is not,
only an only
a now and then,
till then,
is no longer a
now*

<>
oh moon, oh moon,
our richest apologies
we hereby tender and surrender,
our arrogance beyond belief,
what can we offer in relief?

silence heard loud and clear,
mr. moon was gone,
a satellite in motion,
so our words burnt up in the atmosphere
unheard

we did not weep
nor huff and puff,
blow those clouds back to us,
for we knew
the extraordinary
would return tomorrow,
we will be ready,
better another day,
to prepare
a lunar composition,
a psalm of hallelujah praise,
for mr. moon
of which
mr moon will never tire,
for filled with the perma-warmth
of our affection
for the one we call mr.moon
False Poets is a collective of different poets who write here, in a single voice,
hence the confusing interchangeable switching of the pronouns.    sorry bout that.


^ HP - give them back the claimed  V name!
Worldeater Nov 2014
The empty sound of wind coiling
Through hollow vessels whispers
Groans of unheard secret
Unseen from the lips from which
Its voice echoed  
Carrying a lace of touch...
Tis a familiar one,
But still a foreign tongue garnishes
The walls betwixt and between the ears.  
A hum, a song,  
An earthly reflection of love through
A faded sense of albatross...

A thickening dissonance
Between the soothing delay of
Fingertips buried in the roots of a
Sentient heart
Wrench and twist
The angel's song through a
Seasonal mind
Resonating the lost and the torn.
The Betrayer.
And in turn,
We always destroy what we've
Come to love.
Defenseless.
Cindra Carr Oct 2010
The slow creeping numbness crawls up my legs.
This is the little death.
The fading tells me I’ve lost something.
I am lost.
I drift down in the darkness every time.
I am lost.
My whispers go unheard.
I am lost.
I know my lips are moving because I can hear the words
Garbled and lost in the darkness.
I am lost.
The echoes of the words lose themselves in my fading mind.
There is nothing left.
Darkness reigns again and the numbness finished its journey.
I am lost.

cc2010
WS Warner Oct 2011
Static, memories
Emanating, separating  
The postcard- perfect
Still life speaks
From its storied past.
Invisible, to drift
Among  
The florid aphorisms,
Ending in
Deleterious debris,
Aftermath of
The inevitable.

Empty room, echo hollow
Tabula rasa -
Carpet clean, quite candid in it's
Return to callow.
Consciousness athirst,
Absorbing phenomena
Effervesce, inquisitive
Ideas foment,
Sealed inside a question.
The what -
Against the narrow
Scarcity,
And fatigue of should.

A tender malleable
Youth,
Betrayed, under
An assumed decorum -
Residue of truth,
Flattened emotion
Privations of a self
Unheard;
Misplaced affirmation,
Buried pathologies  
In architecture
Fear manifests symbolic.

Harboring apathy
The lunacy of pious
Pedigree,
Import contagion,
Fetters of benignity
Doubt and indecision  
Into ******
Cognizance,
Fallow spirits
Seep fumes of decay,
Credulity bleeds a human stain.

Social edifice, inoculated  
Heirs of neurosis;
Palpable, sensual pain
And transience, though
Tacit - remain,
Our haunted history,
The blind hyperbole,
Maudlin
Forbearance, this haven,
A portrait
Of immaculate condition,
Nurtured with precision
Under sterling pretense.

Provincial domicile -
House beautiful,
Savage irony -
Unseen treasure
Innocence unabridged,
Faces, tiny creations;
Compliant vessels
Wounded,  
While modernism murmurs  
Its promise.

Brave New World,
In a late model sedan,
Domestic ranch on a
Corner lot,
Suburban natives,
Silence means security.
The misunderstood
Speak louder -
Consumerism beneath    
Unvarnished ambition,
Never could
Repair the brokenness within...

© 2011 & 2018 W. S. Warner
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