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Advent Jan 2015
i have plenty of unread books
from Roth
to Palahniuk
supposed have been read
at a good nook

these books I have
are stacked on one shelf
cause time hasn’t given
a minute for myself

these books I have
are my companions
when I’m split into halves
amid destruction
David Lessard Nov 2018
I used to read your poems
but lately you don't write
you're silent and aloof
you know that isn't right.
You can't close a door once opened
you can't abolish all your dreams
you're a poet of the heart
mustn't fall apart at the seams.
Say what you can in words
they speak the message true
spoken from the heart
the poems will see you through.
A hermit's not your style
a recluse, you are not
never give up writing
of things that you've been taught.
I used to read your poems
I'd read them once again
if you would send them out
(this one's from a poet friend)
I wrote a poem recently.
Not so much a poem,
more like a story;
a story of love,
kind of like a love story.
it was the best love story
we've never read.

There were romances,
some revelations
and resurrections...
even a few bruised egos.

a bayside view of
false paradise
if I'd ever seen one;
some dogeared page
ripped out of a
journal written in ink
and found in the gutter.

No beginning or end.
Just a thought.
A memoir
of a fantasy that should've just
and never had to explain itself.
note: Do not read.
harlon rivers Jan 2017
...a diary of the falling dominoes chapter

invisibly dying from the inside out
no one is looking into unseen eyes
no one can hear a muted voice fading
no one is close enough to be near

the deafening thrums echo
anxieties’ racing heartbeat
within morphing flesh shell ,
gasping for new breath
in a hovering stale silence

from a distance
the broken mirror ricochets a subdued light ;
much closer the reflection reveals
someone I once knew by heart

now an unrecognizable mask
enshrouds a terminal emptiness
inconspicuous at a fleeting glance ,
impossible to discern what storms rage
from the inside out ,... unnoticed  

an uncontained wildfire
smoldering within,  lies in wait
for the imminent winds of change
to fan the flames into the final
eternal silent ashes

a poet reaches out demurely
offering a candid look
into the window
of the imperfect human soul

there is no poetry
met by indifference
just gathered unread words scribbled,

squandered time
dripped slowly on an empty page ;
moments turn into days
days turned into years

invisibly dying from the inside out
an unfinished life trickles out
like seeping blood evanescing
from a bottomless puncture
wounding ... penetrating the heart,
leaching out the slow death of a poet

for poetry is only words unless they touch someone ...

befallen to indifference is poetic death
by salted paper cuts ...

a muting suffocation
that hiddenly erodes away,
silencing the passion
of a musing soul
one unread word at a time ...

© harlon rivers ... all rights reserved
it is an enigma how poetry evolves in meaning over time
― like a self-fulfilled prophecy, some become transformational, some become new beginnings or some become a finality of a metamorphosis of peaceful endings or deleted attempts at understanding the misunderstood...

... all to be determined and allowed to let be

Can you determine the Cause of this Spite
By Twin Connections of Mistakes long past?
That which must be Forgiven; And Enlight
To soothe those Swollen Muscles at long last
I think there was a Page which left unread
Caused many Translations to poison us
That Philosophy: If Thoughts can be dead
Then reinstate that Puppet in a Bus
Who knew all his Movements were Concepts formed
And those Ring-Joints dictate his every Move
But this: Illusion and Concept conformed
Thinking these are actual Gifts from Above.
My Point, is that all these Frictions we had
Were Real Illusions; And Concepts bad.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
If there was a Medal worn on your Neck
Un-Commissioned by any Metal or Cast
Was one Purple Flag which many would respect
But worry on how your ****** will last
Such Flag just stood by, waiting for Salute,
Open-palm-right timed to Shots Twenty-One
Take it or leave it; Your Brand absolute
Better to change Clothes than survive with none
What Concern, Sir, does my own interfere
If Bland Words tweeted are Letters unread
Folly how your Cousin charges me here
To assume such Feelings are most undead.
He thinks of the Separate and Exist
And so do you, which you tend to Resist.
#tomdaleytv #tomdaley1994
GulRukh Oct 2017
Did you just say i love you
or it's in my head?
Haha, why would you say it
cause you think  I am ****, I am bad
and I dont listen to your mother
cause I am too busy with my own self and it makes her mad
Did you just touch me
or it's in my head?
Haha, why would you love me
cause you always come near to hit me even in bed,
your hands always touch my face to slap, you want me dead.
Your hands were hard and they never stopped no matter how many tears I shed,
sometimes my healed scars fills me with dread.
Did you just say you miss me
or it's in my head?
Haha, why would you miss me
when I was never part of your life,
I am just a story unread.
Did you just say don't leave
or it's in my head?
Sigh, why would you say that
when I know your cell phone is more dear to you than me and I remember every word that you said.
It's like I am under your debt
now I am slowly coming out of red.
love and abuse
Lyn Senz 2 Nov 2013
poeter poetess
poetee I must profess
there's more and more
with less and less
implore explore
impress express
ignore deplore
digress obsess
undress unless

poeti poeted
the only thought
inside your head
your life is fraught
with constant dread
the dreams you sought
all dead all dead
***** unread

poeto poetum
no fee no fi
Jack run run run
oh me oh my
another one
won't satisfy
don't be no fun!
poem poem

©2012 Lyn
Sav Apr 28
I took her to my best friends house,

Was hard to convince her,
but eventually she came out.

Picked her up in my best friends car,
didn't have a license but,
it wasn't far.

She came to see me, and I was glad,
Best night that I've ever had.

I sang some songs and then kissed her, I held her in my arms
and whispered.

When I took her home it was 4am,
said I'd love to do this again.

She messaged me to say thankyou,
and that I made a
purple sweater look cute.

I loved her then, and I love her now. I know its crazy but thats the truth somehow.

Yellow sunglasses, hockey puck, love notes and a special rock.

You hugged me when I told you so.

But closed your eyes and then said no.

Still think about you sometimes though,
and hope that you do the same too.  

YoU hAvE * uNrEaD mEsSaGeS

"*, you make an oversized magenta hoodie and a purple beanie look beautiful"

, I'm falling for you,"

"I', sorry, I can't be with you..."

*beep, beep beep
This is based off of real events but not current events
What is it, that I need to read
Haven’t I read it all, that I ever wanted to know
What is it that’s missing
Haven’t I written it all
Do I need to read more
To finally know
What’s left unread
The chapters that went missing
Unfinished portion of life
Partly inspired by Hindi movie, Zubaan(2015)

Listen to your inner voice
Don’t quieten  it to the din of sorrow
Eliza Mar 6
You are my unsent message.
The cursor blinking rhythmically,
With my heartbeat,
For me to hit send.
But I am not ready,
And I’m not sure if I ever will be
So I left it like that.
Unsent. Unseen. Unread.
“I miss you.”
Kenn Rushworth Jun 2015
A world in colour lies
                semi-distant, semi realised,
A near-forgotten future exsanguinates, yearning
              in the weakened glow, of infinite winter morning.
The voice, the voices, the voiceless, my anger, my age,
                Pan-millennial youth in coming years will fade,
It will carry duvet and pillow from hateful home
                to halfway-house until half way home
It will make all its hearts into the shape of cardboard,
                blemish the fire with chemical ****, **** hard,
It will seek forgiveness at the steps of screen,
                beat asthmatic chests, fingers, ribs and seams,
It will see itself cower in the horrible light of mirror,
               sail to the sun on wings of fakes lashes,
And it will burn, burn not in forgiving hangover sodium,
                but burn in the eye of a guilt yet to come,
And it will drown, drown at the blessing of the water,
               drown at its birth time and time over,
And it will wound, wound in scythe and cushion comfort,
                wound the waking dream in Siamese horror of sorts,
And it will leave strangled in the cords of its university hoody,
                leave alone at night, touch itself and cry.

Bursting rhythm from the panopticon, viewing all aspects
                of itself engulfed in ex-disney coloured acid
                spewing forth from the desired wreck,
Hurtling profound and profane into and beyond
                ******* and love and love and *******,
                *****-tinged snows lubricating seasons onward into each other,
Gut-busting, gut-busting, gut-busting societal downpour to harridan office
                from liquor dormitory, escaping and elevating
                on citalopram or selegiline,
The surgeons and nurses, the poets and builders, ever restless
                at the unbolted door, screaming into their unread palms,
                comparing varying hell to holy water lakes of others,
Sipping the dew from paradise wing, discontent with all
                in purgatory-England whilst licking the knee
                of America and imagined Europe,
Wanking itself dry at the lottery of thought,
                crude reckonings spiralling sugar into salt
                landing on the tongue of want,
Feeling crucified at the Atheist tea party,
                climbing the cross of trend
                supplying own milk and nails,
Unwanting in the chrysalis, ignoring coming candles
                but fantasising a thousand symmetrical suns
                to limited avail and idea.

But idea there will be, birthed, blood-hungry
                gnawing at the heel ‘til bare bone,
And it will rip apart fat riddled arteries,
                Deconstruct, Reconstruct all the bodies and the cites,
And it will write and spell all the words wrong
                realising that what ‘they’ are selling is sign language for the blind,
And it will note of itself as harsh but not unkind,
                reject bribe bread and water be it divided or divined,
And it will say of cartography “No need as of yet,
                I have seen men lost in the lining of a suit,
Crying into their shoes, uncombed, unfettered, unfertilised, without hope,
                after laughing into empty lakes.”
We can each say “My God, my empty sky, my cartoon prophet, my local MP,
                I have seen everything and want none of it,
                I am alone in a narrow shape of time,
                watching us all unfurl to the scent of burning feathers and hair,
                to the sound of punctured veins.”
We watch silent litanies for graceful pardons of filth,
                in “Amen” then nothing,
We watch our age’s world rend lung
                through hollow cheeks and air in our bones,
We watch ourselves into eyes or no eyes at all
                watch ourselves read last lines and then
                watch ourselves realise and whimper
                from ulcerated gut, tongue or pen,
                the everlasting knell…

                “…And it will happen again…”
the newbie failure complex(ity)

the poems come torrentially,
hurricane, waterfall & tornado are working adjectives
worthy of the task, yet unequal to the unlimited army
of the written dead of unread poems and poets
that occupy the nether of blog, podcast, and poetry sites,
orphan stars in the un-salvaged junkyard galaxy of verbiage

a faceless wight, once alive, now permanently dead,
we shuffle march, chanting each our own newbie poem,
onward soldiers to ignominy and glory so fleeting,
we are forgot before we are remembered

this is life in poetry,
or better yet,
the worst of it, (sigh)
this is the poetry of lives

all for nought,
nought for all,
at least we pass our prison time
in the company of fellow strugglers
poem #1
How much poetry live within me

Or am I merely a vessel

That has to be loaded and unloaded

To not waste away under the calm wind

And sink to a weighted depth of silent

And unfulfilled dreams

Yet what is the use

Carrying a soul from an unwritten land

To an unread land

Both dotted with footprints of past voyageurs

But no path or end in sight

Perhaps I am destined to be an unnamed pilgrim

That treads upon and whose marks will be tread upon

The wasteland of hapless ambitions

Transforming it into a garden of everlasting

Love, freedom, and hope


You may find me one day

Though you will not know it

Nor will I

Within a petal of the rose

A dust in the dew

The wings of a honeybee

And if you look closely,

Listen closely

Within the laughing wind

As the gale brings all of us

Across the sea

Carrying vessels after vessels

From dream to dream
Sentient Dreams: My Poetry Anthology

This is the manuscript to my amazon vanity press poetry anthology: "Sentient Dreams" that I have now decided to just share it here digitally. All of the poems have been published here on HP at certain points of time anyway.

Almost all of the poems are from October 2017-July 2019.
Please feel free to share! :)

I don't think I will be adding to this specific anthology in the future. (Except three more poems that will be updated later.)

Vessels from Dream to Dream
By: Yidhna
June 25, 2018
Nico Julleza May 2017
I'd tried to run but you led me to wait
through surging snows and rusting gates
I'd crumple but you pushed me out of subtle
what is it that you want from me?

Is it my faith, my future longed I have made?
my dignity I had redeemed, or my felicity for your company

Oh Solemn, where can you be?
when uncharted shores crushed my midnight sea
aren't you free? or just uncanningly meek
like sheep upon my feet, though as I was blinded to see

why did you ever hide away from me?
why did you led me up, when you ****** me down?
why did you give me light when I'm ready to see?

just so as you disappeared, unsaid, unheard, unread from me
Oh, Solemn did you ever try to care for me?
"Loneliness triggered the man to think if someone really cared for him"

#solemn #care #love #vulnerability #obscurity #questions #answer
(NCJ)POETRYProductions. ©2017
Melpomene Jan 2017
Breathing on the surface but smothering inside,
Pale face blue lips and wide open eyes.
Running desperately with no company and guide,
Too little time and too many disguise.

Like a lost site pervade with dreariness and spite.

Who would help you when they heard your yelp?
Hoped to be broach but no one actually there to approach.
Who would love you when you lost your dove?

Trapped in this coach and let the soul slowly encroach.

How would you feel when no one is there for you to reach?
Stares at the window just to look for a shadow.
How would you feel when  your heart starts to screech?
At last it became hollow and loaded with deep sorrow.

Like a letter unsent filled with unread content.

Holding on like a puppet that is being sway,
With those unsure senses and constraint.
Living faithlessly giving in all and ends up stray,
Nerves are brutally torn and mind gone insane.
Traveler Mar 14
It's not there any longer
That sparkling loving glow
I see you reaching out for
Someone else to hold...
You've an itch deep beneath
Scratch it as you may
I will write this unread poem
And bleed another day!
Traveler Tim
M Aug 2017
You are like an accidental good read that was left undiscovered
The kinds where I never want the story to
come to an end
The kinds where as I flip the pages, I do not feel like I know the plot better, but rather, there's so much more to know about the story
The kinds where I know my heart would feel heavy as I'm reading the last page because then I wouldn't know what to occupy my waking thoughts with except how morose I am that it had eventually come to an end
The kinds where years down the road when the pages are foxed, I'd reread the book and fall in love with every single word all over again
And although I know that you'll definitely be an accidental good read turned best piece of writing I've ever read,
I keep you on the shelf, unread,
because I would rather feel contented just seeing you sit prettily untouched than be left devastated to see the blank leaf at the end
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