Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
September Roses May 2018
Once we were on fire
Young    rebeliouse   free
We stormed the castles and took to the skies we flew we dreamed
We were ablaze our light setting raging screaming fire to the world around us
When our thoughts could not sit in silence any longer
When the kids were engulfed by a wave of fury of the injustice done by this world before we were even here
We screamed and demanded
OUR VOICES WOULD BE HEARD
But now it rains
Now the cold heavy water blankets the restless
The fire has been drenched in worry and stress
The brutal downpour has distracted all with false life or death
The blaze once 100 feet high now nothing but a charred soul

And all the ones put out by the rain
to tired to fight again,
pray on the generation next
That their fire is enough to best the storm
amber Jul 2018
I rip myself apart,
piece by piece.
I place bits of my heart,
into your hands.

you step on me.
burying my body,
beneath soil.
no mercy,
in your eyes.

you were never aware,
of all that manifested,
beneath my shell,
deep within my heart.
so why would you mind,
tearing it apart?
Eva Aloezos Jul 2018
Tonight,
I was a Red Queen
starring in my own circus

Dazzling in authentic velvet
being looked upon,
but more importantly looking

Sitting on a mighty pedestal of white winter smoke

Gazing down on my misunderstood subjects,

Wielding a rosary, I never once believed in
stepped in water, that caused me no spiritual awakening
Sneaking through the haunting open corriders

they should know how empty the life of monarchy is

please let them see” much of this life is fake

they must see* there is much to live for, but also lots to die for

However, all this was an herb induced thought

Which stemmed from a memory of myself, a child of merely four years

Creating little soap operas, with the cards from a card deck

Mumbling to myself on the bathroom floor, wise beyond my years
Gary Z Jan 2016
With parted lips she soundly rests

As soft sound breaths flow steadily

I rest my ear upon her breast

Rejoice in her heart's melody
Tanay Sengupta Oct 2018
They were young and in love.
They didn't know, what it was
All a game of push and shove.

Smoking up and gazing at the stars above.
Without any reason, or any cause
They were young and in love.

Black dress and a leathered glove.
That one night, inside the bus
All a game of push and shove.

Like a pair of doves.
Always sticking together, because
They were young and in love.

Maybe in their naivety, they knew love.
Maybe it was better when it was
All a game of push and shove.

Maybe the river of lust flows to the ocean of love.
To them, it didn't matter, what it was
They were young and in love.
All a game of push and shove.












Tanay Sengupta, Copyright © 2018.
All Rights Reserved
I am often accused of not writing anything naughty. So, I thought of giving it a try. Happy reading!
Susanna Jul 2018
I guess this is what a real life existential crisis feels like.
What I know now I did not know before.
Small bits of thought swirl through my head,
A tornado of broken glass.
And now that the wind has settled,
I struggle to fit the pieces together
In a way that would resemble a window
Through which I might view myself.
ouch
Heavy Hearted Nov 2018
I'll turn into a song
when everything feels wrong
While the roses are still red
Intrinsically, I'll sing along.
While still I'll rise, and glance ahead
Until I entirely realize:
that im alive within these half dreamed dreams.

powerful to mind that somewhere glow sunbeams-
the inevitable engulfing night, remember,
's oh so shorter than it seems.


Wistfully forget
Or
gracefully remember,
I turn into a song-
and its a very solemn playlist.
King Panda Mar 2016
every profile of the body
drapes of a fallen dress
the flowers twang
the bassoons
the wooden harps

the human body is a temple
with the purpose of changing
into new forms
ephemeral
beauty
or love
or passion
or life

the metamorphosis of another
the brother
the kiss
the flowers of evil
the death of a maiden

Ovid
hear me
Ovid
love is simply a measure of
bumps and holes
Ovid
love grows out of soft marble
Ovid
we are one

the mythology of
passion ensues
the act encased in
fire
Margaret May 2014
He moved away in 5th grade
A few towns down
Never saw him or heard of him
after that
until
the news.

Taught me how to write my number 9's
Fancy like they did in the text book
We joked about movies we liked
in 3rd grade

But he was hit by a car
and killed at age 13

1/3 of our middle school
hung our heads like a
rusty sign
on a graveyard gate
and the other 2/3 chatted
about not knowing him

All he is known for now is his ending
The news advertised his life
as "Hit by a car and died"

The obituary sums him up
but only we know the real him
and what lies behind that title
Ken Pepiton Oct 2018
Honest,

that meaningless word left dangling before children,

a damoclean sword held fast in a gordian knot tied with scarlet thread,

finer than the spider's that once tied men's souls to an angry American God,

birthed in Transylvania,

over the woods, and through the dale, no lie

There is a tale of lies told in Nobel houses, never reachin' ground,

Down here, we situations manifested to, vain, again, stem the tide,

We flounder, fish out of water, why are we sent if

wait



he hears, he listens, haps he knows, and

how such as we came

to be here,

Welcome and see, dare ye ask me in? Might I ply you with lies

and you, believe 'em?

I could make a mindless robot out of your parts, but

that would take forever and

that's not how

Wisdom's child would tend to be, for first,

You must believe a lie and I, amusing as can be,

can't tell lies.

Discernment, fine points, per-spicacity per se, the only way.

Good luck (Luc, said luck in many tongues, is said Lose- as in Luc-ifer.

It means light, as in light, regular old granted light.)

Lightifier, good, take some, good light, for the travail, in the night.



You see, not so long ago, for me, five years before I'as born,

my momma moved to town.



What was that like, I axed my old uncle, while back,

movin' t'town, in 1943?

Well, he says,

We had electricity.



USA, 1943, some folks still was poor, and all the good men

was gone to war.

Cities, it was different,

if the movies got it right, Bowry Boys, n'em.



In the desert we did, okeh, in town, though,



we had electricity.



He was ten back then. He'd been huntin' rabbit's,

to buy Christmas presents from Sears and Roebucks,



since he was five.

C'mon, I say. No lie, he say,

BLM or some gover'ment

whatsajigger, was payin' 2 cents a pair fer jack rabbit ears.



'Said he bought Christmas presents for his mom and dad,

and my mom, with his first rabbit money, at five.



Shootin' with a single-shot 22, 12 cents a box,

Jack Rabbits, 2 cents a head.



Three Christmas presents, plus postage, $2.56.

Do the math, I think, and go -



Five years old, at ten, he moves to town, 1943,

we had electricity. That's all.
An older man than me gave a thought to ponder. Thought I'd try to share the bounty. This is read, by me at http://anchor.fm/ken-pepiton
Adilson Smith Aug 2016
Boy meets girl.
Boy is hooked.
Boy neglects his sports and books.

Girl meets boy.
Girl is smitten.
Girl leaves the house without permission.  

Boy likes girl!
Girl likes boy!
Both beget untinctured joy.

Then girl annoys boy,
And boy ignores girl,
And slowly their love begins to unfurl.

Boy grates girl,
Girl leaves boy.
One finds the other too hard to enjoy.

Girl gets better,
Boy stays lesser.
Boy thought girl would stay forever.
Eleanor Sinclair Sep 2018
Here I am laying, filling my head
At 3 A.M rerunning every word I have said
I suppose my tears are the blood from my soul
Happy or sad it overflows out of me and I can’t seem to feel whole
I don’t want to die anymore because things aren’t too bad
But I’m tired constantly and I miss my mom and dad
That’s the thing about being an adult
You make the tough decisions yourself and if they’re wrong it’s your fault
You choose right from wrong and no one is there to tell you otherwise
No one is there to catch you in your lies or wipe the stream of tears from your eyes
Momma isn’t there to hold your hair when you *****
Daddy isn’t there to point to the sky at the comets
It’s more like a hollow and dark lonely place
Days feel like years yet weeks seem to race
I suppose we take for granted our youthful state
We don’t know what we have until it’s a little too late
I’d give anything to go back to a day before loans
Spend a day with my family before I wanted to become skin and bones
Give my brother a hug and tell him I care
Tell my father that the things he calls my mother are wrong and unfair
Play with my dog before the cancer took him away
Show up to work with enthusiasm as though it was my first day
See my town like I did through an adolescent lens
Bike through my neighborhood to the house that once was my friend’s
Run in the yard and climb that one crooked tree
Relive the trip to the forest that ended with bees
Laugh at myself when I fell off my bike
Not take myself so seriously and be willing to admit who’s right
Tell my sister “thank you” for yelling at me to not speak English
She kept me fluent and that was her wish
Go trick or treating from door to door
“Here’s some candy, would you like some more?”
My eyes fill with liquid nostalgia as they sparkle and close
My head bobs and nods as I catch it then doze
I miss the world before it got complex
Before I had to worry about what came next
I’d live for a day at the age of ten
Before things began to hurt and I was mistreated by men
I’d watch the stars with Jessica and talk about life
I’d give her a hug after a sleepover and get back on my bike
Pedaling home in the cool fall breeze
Everything was simpler back then and I took it for granted with ease
I wish to go back to a time almost half my life ago
I wake from my sleep to realize it can't be so
Sam Hawkins Jul 2013
This hand which moves and rides some voice is not mine.
I have given it over to you, young boy.

This is what makes it fly so, traveling out,
tripping along in dance of shape and sound.

I acknowledge your presence in this fashion.

You tell me by messages,
beaming out the back of your head,
you are the very boy who has waited an eternity
at some upper railing.

You sit and peer through the spaces,
down the twisted stair.

Your hands, they grip the vertical rail.
Silent. Silent. Waiting you.

Let this right hand of mine be your secret voice.
Let this scrawl and scratch be your gravelly tongue—
ick-nicking, ga-chooing, click and stutter.

What language may I shape for our sake?
With you, may I follow, setting trail markers just so.

Will others come mistaking their ways for yours?

My hand is opening and opens wide.
I remember you. I am returning.
Let it be.
Katherine Smith Aug 2018
A moment. A blunt, passed.

Watching him get higher and higher in the wind-bitten evening.
This town, this place, isn't home anymore, but for a moment we can pretend to belong to the dusty air, the crumbled ocean of Joshua trees.

Someone blows smoke in my direction and suddenly it's summer again.
Does he remember those days?
Back when his hair was longer than mine, when we spent the nights chasing back insomnia and the fear of failure.

We were two tired immortals, shoulders made heavy with the weight of another god's world.
a completely romanticised telling of my first college beau.
Next page