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Jack Jenkins Jun 2017
there's a poem I have written
that probably makes no sense
to anybody whom would read

it's simply the names of every
person who has made a change
of great influence in my lifetime

most people probably wouldn't
understand it at all, thinking that
it was just a list of random names

but it's the most precious poem I have
//On friends//
There's many people on here who are in this poem. I hope I have shown you that you mean so much to me, even if we haven't met.

I love you all. <3
Mykenzie Feb 12
So many poems
and stories
have gone unwritten
due to fear of not being good enough
annh Sep 28
The writer is unwritten until he writes;
But ne’er of the unwritten does the written writer write.

‘There is nothing new except what has been forgotten.’
- Marie Antoinette
OpenWorldView Jul 24
blood, tears, agony
among the crumpled paper
lies the poet's soul
Jesse stillwater Jul 2018
I’ve finally stopped
writing
unrequited letters;
there were too many
wasted breaths
left unsent

Lapsing intentions
befallen on timeworn
tawny crumpled  pages;
aging like spent flowers
in fading earth tones
and rumpled paper regrets

Multi-hued words uttered—
mummers of voiceless exhalations
spoken without a sound;
indelible spilled ink
left behind,
lays fallow for so long

A love once new,  and
a growing silent ache—
a hungry heart
left for dead—Déjà vu

We leave a lot behind,
fallen leaves in unspoken ink
a restless soul laid bare
by a passing moment's
random gust;

atrophied
like unwritten poetry
stifled stillborn
in a wadded up paper lament


jesse stillwater ... July 2018
feelings aren't right or wrong, they're just feelings ...

Thanks for stopping here
Antino Art Sep 2018
Who draws strength
from watching the passage of time
after dark
blur against the windows
of a moving train bound
for ends uncertain.

Who walks most balanced
on the beams of empty tracks.

In the shuffle of strangers
at a crosswalk, who finds
direction.

Who sees
clearer through rain.

Who finds their place
in the limbo of airport terminals,
on delayed flights
between chapters,
over open roads that branch
into tales of cities unseen,
in the turn of pages unwritten.

Who can keep track of time
during the improvised chaos of jazz,
catching notes scattered
in the winds of horns.

Who understands
that wind moves
fastest through dark places like tunnels,
during storms in late August.

Who finds their center
hurled in flight,
always coming and going.
Storm flight trains movement
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.
Akira Chinen Jun 28
She stole little pieces of his heart
or maybe he gave them to her freely

the truth is most likely hidden
in another story
another song
another poem

it was the little things
the simplest of gestures

the kindest of her smile
the soft colors reflecting in her eyes
in how she had perfected
the art of a hug
both in the duration and snugness

it was the the way she talked
how every word that left her lips
became a song bird all its own

it was in the way she listened
and the way she was quiet
when nothing else
needed to be said
in how she turned
a moment of silence
into a heart felt orchestra

and with every piece she stole
and every piece he gave
his heart grew bigger  

and so the story went
the truth hiding
in the open pages of a book
the notes of a song
waiting in a poem unwritten

where she stole
and he gave
until there was nothing left to give
and nothing left to steal
and all that was left
was love
Nancy E Tracy Mar 2015
Gentle ballerina dance
dance your way around the world
with bold precision dance
with graceful arms unfurled

Tip toe to the passion of the tune
whirling, leaping maelstrom of romance

existential exercise of poetry unwritten
fluttering, a butterfly of souls unduly smitten
with love of life and dignity stirred all up into one
resounding splash of destiny
the last breath of a swan
for my world traveled, ballerina friend Marilyn on her birthday.
Born Sep 2015
"Born"*
was created from lost hopes
dead dreams
unwritten tales
tough waves

"Born"
has magnitudes of words to be spoken
to be written
to be heard

"Borns"
profile is simple

If I told you my story*

You wouldn't be satisfied
You wouldn't understand it
you would seek more of it
and still beg me to stop narrating it
you won't bear the pains
but you will crave for the joys

"Born"
is most about reality, life
not much fiction
When reality finally hits you it hurts
When the truth comes into focus it’s brutally painful.
Hope isn't always enough
It’s not always a happy ending.
What happens when faith is not enough?

I get hot flashes
My depression splashes
My soul is cold like stone,
the fear of being alone.

So now I lay me down to sleep
I pray you lord my soul to keep
Don’t let me die before I wake
I pray you lord my soul do not take.

I barely have a past
And may have no future
       Empty pages of a book
       A story left unwritten
       A life left unlived
       A hope left in the dust.
Please don't take me yet
Your mercy you won't regret
I am down on my knees
Begging you please
Don’t take me away.

At night I dream a misty graveyard
A tombstone the name I cannot see
A flashlight in the darkness
A figure so lifeless I cannot breathe.
Then I awake not as fearless as I may seem.

If this is my future
And if it comes to pass
And this breath be my last
Then this thought to you I cast.

What if faith is not enough?
Then life would be rather tough
With nothing to believe in
And nothing to justify
Nothing to keep you sane
Nothing to grasp when you fall
You will have nothing,
nothing at all.

Sometimes that is how I am
Falling in the darkness
With nothing to take hold
This feeling leaves me cold
hearted, soulless, empty.
All I feel is the pain of being unreal
No one knows how this life feels,
when you are so lifeless.

So now I lay me down to cry
I pray you lord you can't let me die.
Now I lay me down to sleep
Close my eyes without a peep
Never to be opened again.

Your body goes warm then cold like rain
Slowly your body numbs,
to your fingers and your thumbs.
As your body stops working, you feel the cold mist of death
And peacefully while you’re sleeping you take your final breath.
Read more at http://www.******-in-oncology.com

© 2016 Christine Mulvihill
harlon rivers Sep 2018
words drift away unfettered
from whence they came,
passing like undreamed clouds
– pragmatic eyes to the sky
   in a searching stare –
unsought thoughts disappearing hence
a fog bow fading into sunlight

there are days when
   it comes out in my silence
there are days when
   it falls down in my tears:

muse – muted in poet's pause,
heart and soul whispers
  laid bare unwritten
  behind parsing eyes
disregarded words let loose,
        ungarnered
the way low hanging fruit
falls benign — unharvested —

   shortsighted  insight
   from a bird's eye view
silently fermenting traces
and unfiltered memories
come and go unheeded words,
discarded like the passing
   time of our lives

at times  it's  ludicrous
   to follow down
lingering footprints
left behind callous:
when the shoe won't fit;
slogging across eroding
time-worn stepping stones
scattered on this twisted line
these feet have been walking down,
trying to make a getaway
   from myself

walking away from the memories
like so many indelible footprints to escape
– while dreaming stardust into stars
   in nameless constellations –
reaching out from the inside,
   site unseen,
   trying to experience
   the empirical shape
   of  stifling  silence
   in a theatre made by chance

distilling the gifts and burdens
of trying to live a worthy life
   only I'll see...


harlon rivers ... September 27, 2018
pondering reticence, my recent hesitation makes me wonder — do you ever just not write down the poetry that is right in front of the eyes of your soul? This is the last piece i've written and feels as if it could be... but any poet knows — you can't steer a river

"One Man's Wilderness" by Richard Proenneke, is the title of a book I read twice this summer "Alone in the Wilderness"

"poet's pause" a truism/expression coined by Pagan Paul

Thanks for reading.
Mark Edwards Jr Apr 2013
Do as I say, not as I do
Lest you become a failure too

Despite many victories, days in the sun
The cost of it all? Millions to one

For every American alive today
The blood of another paved the way

****** the Native, enslave the Black
This is how free men freely act?

Power to the rich, naught to the poor
Remind me again what we left Britain for

We are America, filled with greed
Squeezing the world, we'll make it bleed

Ironic are we, despite the Red Scare
We let the Chinese produce our wares

The Romans did fall and so can we too
Here's hoping my words strike fear into you

We cannot repent for sins of our past
Make a bright future is all that I ask

America the Beautiful, I scoff at thee
Make me a believer, prove unto me

Until that day, a skeptic I'll be
Saying a prayer for you and for me

A future unwritten, lets make it shine
Aspire for greatness, or intervention divine

10/13/2011

Edit:  03/10/2012

Edit: 10/30/2017
Logan Robertson Nov 2017
Her orchards I often dream,
buries of my eye,
lost in my fairy book
of beaten pages,
of sunken tears and of mind.
I kept turning the pages, racing,
racing,
looking for her,
between the lines,
now gone,
gone ... are those
lovely high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
swaying and smiling,
her,
her saintly smile,
haunting,
yet shadowing me forever
in my mind.
Each page turned, a sad tear falls
deep and deeper,
for the pages are blank.
Her absence ferreting out
blackness,
skeletons and silhouettes,
the pages turning,
weeping ...
my heart pains
for the book of love
unwritten and unfinished.
The wishing well of ink unspent.
Her essence forever corked
from my heart ...
I now lay arrest,
peas in a pod,
aberration and distortion,
for
lovely those high hanging trees,
elegant and so berried,
gone.
Sullenly the music plays
to a different song.
Indelible was happenstance,
our chance encounter,
a special one at that,
puzzlement lays a longer shadow
... of why she walked,
without any words.

Logan Robertson

11/09/17
Nassif Younes Mar 2016
Never trust a polite person.
It is merely a mask -
The suppression of instinct;
For the tyranny
Of convention.

The polite person will never tell you what they are thinking –
They will only tell you what they think
They should be thinking.

They are well mannered liars.

Unable to argue,
They will cringe at argument.
Unable to challenge opinions,
They will declare all opinions equal.

They are social terrorists,
Poised to drop buckets of sand
Over the fires of controversy.
They talk about the weather
Because no one can argue about the weather.

With their barricade of unwritten rules,
We are forced,
When asked how we are feeling,
To say we are feeling fine
Regardless of how terrible
Or how wonderful
We are actually feeling.

They have completed the destruction of art
By applauding at everything.
They have completed the destruction of intellect
By nodding at everything.

If we do not speak often,
They call us rude.
If we speak with conviction
They call us rude.

Like silent assassins,
They have painted us all grey
And none of us have ever seen the brush.
We are their neurotic servants,
Bound in chains
Of brutal neutrality

And for that,
They smile
And thank us.
ryn Aug 2014
Pen
This here...my heart is a book
Sadness and hope inhabit most pages
Marred by past experiences that took
Scribbled are the ironies and broken adages

Worn pages tainted by the lowest of my days
Dark ink leave them smeared and stained Fresh ones stay crisp; free from nays
Awaiting dreams and wishes I have not gained

Silent are the pages still left unwritten
As though I have saved them for something
For future chapters yet to happen
For you to come and begin your writing

Welcome the pen that would herald a new start
Imagined it's ink to bear the flightiest notions
It would speak in volumes ensnaring the heart
It would sing a song with the sweetest of emotions

Seep in, dear ink, into my pages past and new
Seep through, dear ink, feel free to make your mark
Seep strong, dear ink, maybe you could undo
Seep true, dear ink, and bring light to the dark

But rip not the old for they forever will speak
Lessons that are learnt, strength that was bestowed
Tears that's been shed, happiness that I seek
Gloom that was braved, hope that I have sowed

Come, my heart is your book
You are the sole pen to my infinite pages
Ink are your words that would fill every nook
Eternal is the bond that would last through ages

This here...the rest of the pages are yours
Occupy them as you have in my everyday
I was saving them not knowing my course
Almost as if I knew you'd come to pen the words you'd say

A promise as sure as the sun would rise
A promise made as good as the noblest of men
My book is open to our laughs and cries
As long as you would forever remain my pen
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