Hello Poetry is a poetry community that raises money by advertising to passing readers like yourself.

If you're into poetry and meeting other poets, join us to remove ads and share your poetry. It's totally free.
Sandoval Jun 2017
I was not born a

poet.

I was broken into

one.


*Sandoval
Shane Leigh Jan 11
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 or 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,
then
I refuse to dub myself
a poet
and will continue on,
but write prose instead.
© Shane Leigh
Enjoy (:
In the digital l-and
We l-ive in
Mistakenly automatic
One pointing at a chest of tools
Eyes on i
No soul can tell a part a weakling metal


Robots robbing robbers rich
T-error terrifying t-errorists
Artist gods and goddesses
Sharing platform to unleashed gifts


Mint hue bubbles squeak
Fizzy dizzy violet haze
World head to toes spins
Any day it spins coins in change


A quiet girl is sinister
Siren of mystery or future
Robot is your mirror
Peach chin with teeth filter
No innocence and glitter litter
Guilty until proven the latter


A quiet girl a terrorist
Error mouths terror twist
Terrorist from the orient
They hide in between every end
Disguises they cover in
Racist as problem solving


Smile girl watch
A fake smile and eyes
Skin of steel so is her
Heart made alloy
How it blazes to the touch when heated
Oh it bites fingertips as it's cold
Hair resting on the curve of her spine
A woman's hair only breaks if it tries to grow


What she said
Tell me if you can tell us a part
Warning tears borne from her crooked eyes
Robot and soul
Terrorists from t-errorists
No soul knows either
Tattoos or memory shall identify you
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
Laura Duran Jun 29
He loves me, he loves me not
We're meant to be, or so I thought
My heart is broken, the pain is real
I long for peace, from all I feel

I fake a smile, so no one knows
I mimic strength, lest weakness shows
I refuse surrender, I stand and fight
I must succeed, and so I write

The ink it flows, pours from my pen
It heals my heart, and I can breathe again

Minutes into hours, hours into days
The love I held so tightly, starts to fade away
The pain begins to lessen, the tears no longer fall
Seemed misery was forever but it's not that way at all

Those nights you haunt my dreams
Are few and far between
When memories overtake me, I know I'll be alright
I know now what to do....and so I write

The ink it flows, pours from my pen
It heals my heart and I can breathe again
Yes, I can breathe again.
I write to express,
Thoughts I can't suppress,
When something makes me depress,
When things happen in excess
Feels good to pen down, I Guess.

When I am alone,
I get in my own zone,
When my heart groan,
When I miss her skin and bone,
I write words expect them to make perfect tone.

When I am in a long Uber ride,
For sleeping I stride,
For you when my heart cried,
Writing something I tried.
Rhyming I applied.
This is why I write.
Trying to explain why I write.
Ilion gray Aug 2014
they are coming
                         the riders from the sun,
                         the clouds have been telling secrets
                         sotto voce to the trees
                         words wrapped in
                         raindrops tumbling,
                         sound of thunder
                         the hooves of 144,000
                         celestial steeds
                         rushing
                         across inner heaven
                         when they ride
                         the glare off their golden armor
                         will outshine
                         the blackness of the hearts of men
                         when they ride they
                         will  not listen to the screams of lovers
                         losing
                         nor will they show mercy
                         to those of their choosing/
                         for only a few have been chosen.
                         when they ride they
                         will wipe our minds clean
                         of “the delusion”
                         that life is ours to leave
                         love and dream, eat and
                         sleep, **** and breed
                         until we’re pleased at its conclusion
*** devil riders angels demons the end revolution
Audrey Sep 25
A poet is no more than a person
A mother
A daughter
A lover  
Someone needing release
Or someone needing to recover


It’s the art they create when that ball of ink or stick of led dances on the canvas they so perfectly prepared.
And when the end result and their purpose become perfectly paired.
Cné Mar 18
A leprechaun told me, “I hear
It’s riches you’d like to appear.
Since I don’t exist,
My *** of gold’s mist —
You’d better keep writing, my dear!”
Next page