poems
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I am a poet
I sprinkle hearts
With verses, flowers
Rhymes and kisses
In front of this mute
Beauty
Which moves away
And that I ogle
Oh! Woman
Madam
Often times we think of grief in stages. I like to think about it as waves. Up and down it goes, never finding a home base to land. Never asking you to take your hand and dance.
For some poems, you’re punctual:
You place your pencil on your notepad,
You settle in your seat,
You even read the syllabus,
The poem introduces itself,
Listen, dear readers. My name is Hébert.Brierre, Vilaire, Césaire, Baudelaire,And I write sweetly inspiriting words,And about umpteen beautiful things.We find Lociano Benjamin and Victor Hugo
Let the ashes rise and disperse
Till there's nothing left of the earth
Let the greed die from those among us who lie
The city was filled with fog and murk
All I could see was white
All I could feel was a sharp winter breeze
But my palms perspired and my fingers trembled and my heart raced
And I paced
We have sprinted on our paws from silver fields into the ashen corridors of Office-Max How early we set our alarms, how grown up,who don the coats of men, despite the heat, who drive on four wheels down Park Avenue pasts the willing lemonad
poems
are mirrors of the soul
they show everthing
they show one's hidden saddness
or happiness
they show who you truely are
they show yor true nature
even when you don't want them too
माना कि तुम बड़े हो पर हम तो अभी बच्चे हैं
जूठे तो तुम हो - हम तो अभी सच्चे है
जो हमारे सपनों के घर कच्चे है वो तुम कच्चे ही रहने दो।
अगर हम आपकी नजर में बच्चे है तो बच्चे ही रहने दो।
Push comes to shove
Paper to pen
Tears leave my cheek
Feeling the ocean's waves of emotion again
Sitting in the dark pit of my room
I look up at the ceiling
When I realized
Shall I speak to you my secrets
in hushed and airy tones
near the warmly-lit fire?
Sweet taste of nectar and honey
you praise me and forget yourself.
How this narrative reminds me of one such time
I write with the
hands of a pauper,
with the grief of the hopeless.
I write
with the caustic memories of
mourners standing by the grave
chanting dark dirge to their beloved.
My physical body aches
Terribly as it resonates through my bones like a chord plucked on worn acoustic guitar strings
I beg for the release of the metallic chains of my inability to see beyond the depths of my own soul
The power
of writing.
The freedom
of expression.
Oh Pen, your
everflowing ink,
the ease at which
You want to walk a mile in my shoes?
Man, I don't think so
I don't think you'll make it
Do I think the shoe won't fit?
Absolutely not
Maybe it will fit perfectly
But that road...
I sit here everyday
Wondering whether I should say it
But everytime I allow that thought to cross my mind
Every single time
You prove me wrong
Or I remember something you said to me
The painter stood staring at her canvas
Right infront of her
All of the painting palettes she needed stood looking at her, But she couldn't paint
Was it the inspiration that was missing
I can't really tell
For days, I sat down wanting to writeFor days, I made excuses as to why I wasn'tFor days, I put my life on hold over petty reasonsBut I guess it's timeTime to write on whatever surface I get
Working on assumptions sucksyou're feeling this, tell meyou don't feel this, tell meyou want this, tell meyou don't want this, tell mejust tell me
I stare into her eyes and float in those bottomless
pools of sun-kissed honey,
words flow from her mouth like poetry as we lay intertwined
you always knew
that i was scared of small spaces.
you act like you don’t remember
but you do
i know you remember.
The only person who can ever take away your humanity is you. So don’t let them.
You are more than what you tell yourself you are.
The world never stops moving, but you’re allowed to every once and a while.
Looking for distractions
Hiding in my absence
Tired of my actions
Feeling my inactions
Scared of my emotions
Sinking in commotion
Looking for distractions
Tell me who are you in the dark? Are you the devil or the little spark
Tell me who are you when I'm alone? Are you the light or the huge storm
Bruising it with a knife
healing it with a cut
Brushing it with a sigh
breaking it with silence
Silence I hear it
so deep it could stop it
i called her my forever girl
because it’s only with her
i felt the need
for a never-ending
romance
Kira
Instagram: @kirapoems
Hey little jazzier girl..................
Dusky skinned with lil curls
Elated, intrepid and demure
Plethora of dreams, intentions pure
Waking up in the mornin', picking my writing utensil.
Pulling out my composition book, my brain trying to settle.
Thinking to myself about becomin' a star.
I can imagine myself just tryna live large.
The heart,
that craves the taste of being intoxicated
but by love,
The poison, is it the cure or the end?
The taste of insanity
it remembers so vividly,
my flesh, my strings
my bones, my veins
When you are born it's dark
Then comes the light
You eventually learn to walk
and stay up late at night
Growing up has stages
You start as a child
You start to go through phases
It’s warmth from the fire,
Expanding, expanding, and expanding until I struggle to breathe
The color of my palpitating heart as it teethes,
why do people think that its okey to judges others when they
know damn right they shouldn't judge. Its like they think they know
more then others but they don't know crap.
There's something different about todayMaybe I'm the only onewho'll notice itbut it's better than nothing
i read this somewherei have a thousand things to tell youand thousands reasons not tothat really hit home
I feel beautiful todayI should take a selfieas soon as I get board the next vehicleit's not everyday that I get to feel thisno matter how many peoplesay it to meshe thought to herself
A blurry future isn't a motivation to do better
But leave today better than yesterday
And even though we don't know what tomorrow looks like
Make sure you go at it with your all
There once was a girl who was fearful,
It left her day and night tearful.
With all her might,
she looked to the light.
And now she knows what she’s here for.
If the lined pages
Were a prison
Then the words
Were the prisoners
Whose sentences
The Wealth of Being Prosperous by Janet A.Wilson Great Wealth acquired, by the riches attained throughout the years,Living prosperously, depleting the sorrows and the tears,Immerse in joy, happiness, peace and hope,Help those less fortunate and a
Fulfillment by Janet A.Wilson Fame, fortune and wealth,Brings this world into being,The barren land is nothing until plowed,Seeded, watered and fed, ripened and reaped;Contentment and love for our daily needs.To live prosp
You walk towards me, effortlessly showing how flawless you are, with the wind around you content, as if twirling to celebrate your existence.
You’re a breathing piece of literary art and you don’t even know it.
Is voting the only time you’re able to truly validate your voice?
I’ve heard about the police brutality, the shootings, food insecurity
But turning 18 is not the only time you get to make a choice
Words are the bridge to our thoughts;
Created to convey an idea inside.
When my mind is tangled in knots,
I was your ant
and you were my shoulder
We shared so much memories
and crashed down the walss
but these walls will forever stand firm
and these crosses will remind of our lost
There are times when it seems like
My mouth is filled with buzzards
And I can't make sense of the words
That come and go like the wind;
Sometimes there is too much wind in my chest
Words are powerful
Words can be strength
Words can be weakness
Words can be a cry for help
Or a cry of praise
Poems have no end
No limit
No rules
Just
Words
Driving down the highway, breeze caressing my locks.
Palm trees, blue water, sunshine,
Icy mountain tops, and thrill in the cable car.
Is there a way to capture these sights?
Poetry, there and here.
Here and Everywhere.
Everywhere for those to hear.
Hear the hearts of those who care.
Poetry, revealing the truth.
Truth behind those feelings.
good poems dont come from your head
they come from your hands
they are words flowing from the blood of our wrists
the stains of the past
broken memories
He was a traveller
Someone I couldn't compel
To stay a little longer
Oh how beautifully
He seeped through my skin
Something more warmer
Than a summer morning's sun
The way my body responded
It was dark
And gloomy
A drip drip dripping noise
In the eerie silence
A frail body
Beauty… The beauty of words
Connected without an arrangement to accompany.
This, I’ve learned, can shake the world with just a step.
Beauty… The beauty of words
Connected without an arrangement to accompany.
This, I’ve learned, can shake the world with just a step.
I purge my soul of things only I know.
It helps me see what can truly be,
Not just a dream of you and me.
When my fingers hit the keys
It lights a fire in me.
I set off on a rant
Of rhyme and chant
I have late night conversations with the moon
She tells me about the sun
And I tell her about you
What we used to do underneath her other half
And during her time when we went our different paths
I step into silver slipstreamsof SEMI conductor dreams
broad halo days of golden innocence
buried in the hatchet holes of
this aging tree bark frame
my thoughts are limbs
that lead to falling leaves
T'was once before the break of day when in the silence of a stored cachethere upon my memories ladder one ring above a thought came afterwhat was once so fine, so well placed, now lay defeated and disgraced
They honk incessantly, bellowed bathsof incorrigible bass, pond pricks,but, oh to watch them flylarge V's slide sweetly.
She was the wind's breath
alive and moving
with grace, a sweet slide
across the room.
When she kissed me
the world went away
but, like the sea
she too could roar.
The earth quakes in thunder claps
a hapless dressing for a proud sun
melting clouds enough for rain.
One is born, another dies
a constant neverland of never come again.
Last night I saw you in a neon dream
all lit up in a throw back scene
the streets were wet in reflective haze
where the truth is shadowed
by the fire's blaze.
We were only jokingWhen we sat beneath the weeping willowThe soft hairs of your armsElectrocuting my sensesOur conversation went onIn silence
Like some provincial rain that came crisp
from latent springs sprung too tight
stored energy fast relinquished
down a sliding sun into new light
Her eyes are the color green you can't describe without a viewThey soul speak of December leaning towards August's blue.The girl, the choice, the time, oh it must be forty years.
I crawled deep inside myself
sand crabbing my way to a deep security
there were no stars to gaze
They quarter-toned their deliveranceagenda based and ill conceivedin a quiet corner there was always eyeslooking at me smilingthe quiet ones were wise.
They are confined in canyons of chaoswriting crayon graffiti in the dark corners of restless mindshither too, and hither from, come hither to a have not,a has been, a has to have, a half a man,always incomplete
We are like cans of soupcollecting dust in a discarded martonce, when the day was sharpour pencils pushed the poembeyond a feeble flight of emotioninto the grand promise of new suns
Tidal changes of this floating heartwhen to stop, when to start?My pulse expands my waking mind.
He danced the Mapiko while stary-eyed
women looked on in fear
and lust.......unashamed
walking the dusty streets
searching for a cuandeiros
the dengue fever pitched
to the blazing ball of sun
There is no test to time for time itself is of rest, or work,of giving, living, loving, hating, lying, cheating, repeatingitself over and over, just as the soft clover rises in the Spring.
It was the beauty of lifethe gold dust of dawnthe dripping, dipping, haloed moonthe crystal light of a summer noondressing my dreams of agape love.
These tribes of thought gathering tracks of non-compliancethis hardware-brain that racks pins waiting on a rollthese wars that internalize their every battlein the space between the filters of swift change
I am driven by such things as those that drive a hobo to a train
tall grass waving in a Midwestern field, August dry and gold
against the back drop of proud Rocky Mountain peaks
Side A
Find me on the flip-sideWhere vague percussionsTap below quarter-tones.
Part 1.
I tossed the day awayYeaton’s farm a memoryof waving cornsoft hill grasses the bent barnred in a gold sunbut, it is your eyesthat still live in me
There is an essence to angerthat bites the heads of snakesrattles the chains of Asmodai,in the vague light bad seeds wilt and diehe stands alone hands on hips,
I want to be part of something better,
sail skies to unknown paradise
while finding love in bones
I call my own.
My child has finally been born.
Thy world awaits ye beauty.
Yet I must hide thee from scorn,
So I take thy to a place that’s gloomy.
Notebooks, napkins, and testsHave all served as resting places for my wordsEvery surface that dares meet my eyesBecomes a potential burial site
Coffee-stainedAnd littered with ear-dogged pages,Oh, composition book;You were always my favorite.
A year ago,I would have done anything to make you stay.A year ago,I had it all in the palm of my handto have it all fall apart six months later.
To him:
I dreamt of him
Again
Of his dark caramel skin
On my porcelain white
His soft hands combing
Through my thick hair
His full lips
Pressed against mine
To him:
I dreamt of him
Again
Of his dark caramel skin
On my porcelain white
His soft hands combing
Through my thick hair
His full lips
Pressed against mine
Your smiles are lipstick deep
Never to permeate into your heart;
That centimeter wide smile
Veneers your chicanery.
When you are in need
Your gorgeous, yet pretentious smile strands
A song, elegant
Dancing across thoughts
Trailing along a string of words
Poetry is art pure and simple
Abstract upon many levels
Limitless
A unique perspective
The stories we grow up with aren't always what they seem
if you took a step inside, you might find that it intrigues
only those who have an eye for it, can actually see
Africa sweet
Africa my home.Africa my sweet home.
My black race I will embraceMy black race I’ll not disgrace.
Back to school.
Back to 3 am ice cream runs and coffee running through my veins.
Back to word limits and pop quizes.
Back to study groups that aren't really study groups.
There was once a princess in a far away land
Who was offering up her marriage hand
However all the princes that had come a calling
Found her behavior gross and appalling
Everyone is a poet at heart, They come up with brilliant ideas Only to be shut down by a wired minded society. Your brilliance stands out among all of these plastic molded people Darling, Don't be discouraged YOU, Your ideas, Are what we need i
"Why am I so feared?"
I ponder this ages. I ponder this for years.
I am the "Evil Queen," they say.
"Snow White, the poor girl!" they say.
I wasn't always this way...so obsessed with beauty and such
Golden hair miles wide
Inside the tower she would hide
A maiden oh so fair
Such beautiful flowing hair
Far and wide
Princes ride
On a quest
To steal the heart of the tower's princess
“A new set of clothes for the emperor,”
That was all the servants would say,
He cared not for war nor play,
Only for the fine garb hanging from his frame.
On the day of Briar Rose’s seventeenth birthday,
As the curséd fairy had said,
She pricked her finger on the spindle,
But many do not know the truth behind this story…
Little Red Riding Hood
walked through the thickened wood,
traveling to her grandma's house
not really thinking about a spouse,
low and behold she caught someone's eye,
but it really wasn't her perfect guy,
Composed with envy atop his brick wall
A gust of wind coursing through his veins
Humpty Dumpty sat and pondered, with tears in his eyes
as he studied his broken remains
Why not write poetry?
Who says you can't create
New words on a blank page
To make another smile
To bring back memories
To pass a lengthy day
Poems are neat little presents
We wrap our feelings up in and
Give back to ourselves to sort through.
Poems come in different styles
Elegant, peaceful, calm
Angry, fierce, heated
Depressed, deep, meaningful
Happy, funny, lively
But
There's one thing that every poem relates to....
America, the great, is what it claims to be, But the America I know is a giant catastrophe.
I write because
if I didn’t
you’d find me dead with
a pen by my side.
I try to break free
from the bones that control me,
Do not fall in love with me.
For I will show you movies,
Read you books,
And sway with you to music.
I will poison your favorite places to escape.
And when you decide enough is enough.
The question “What is the meaning of life?”
Is like asking the question, “What do all poems, taken together, mean as a whole?”
You search for a single meaning through the entire realm of possibility
I looked up in the clouds
A year ago I was making sounds
Now I look at trees, and the fallen leaves
Last year I made music and told people to be a feature, then leave
Nobody knew I loved the pen ink
My love burns like hot coals.
My eyes burn like hot coals
melting into the back of my head.
My brain is just liquefying in love
I love you. I don't know why I said
I didn't. I was alone in Australia.
Poems are what you make them out be.
There is no definition of their effect on you or me.
They change, shape and support the way we see.
All need to be felt with skin, tongue, ear, nose and eye.
My soul is like a peace of paper; white and light and soft and new.
My friends are like the pages; close enough to feel the pain, but like a page they too can turn away, who new.
When days are dreadful and they drag one down,
The act of finding bliss is cumbersome.
A time where the world was your own playground,
Playtime came before personal income.
Far away. Go back. Rewind.
Poems fall explicitly from my mouth.
Demons crawl explicitly in my head.
I'm never sure how to handle the speed at which both are produced.
I just know that I
amd the only thing
between them
Little Brother
Little Brother
I’m here for you
Don’t be frightened
Don’t be timid
I will comfort you
Little Brother
To be beautiful
To be hot
To have a skinny waist
To have a six pack
To have a Kim Kardashian butt
To have a baseball players' rear
I’ve been waiting for you
Maybe for a minute
Maybe for my life
Yet, how come I’m waiting
To see your face
To see your body
Nimejipata mashakani baada ya Hakimu kuniukumu
maisha gerezani na majukumu ya kazi
ngumu
Tumeingishwa kwenye basi ambayo imetungoja pembeni
Ndani tuko wafungwa watano ilhali tumetwikwa kijiweni
Poetry is inclusive like an outstretched hand
Its words pull you near and into Its foreign land
Escape, escape, escape again...
You dont need to fear, to tremble or roam without a cause
It's not just a string of words
Set out before you like an array of different cheeses
At a fancy party.
That's not what poetry is.
It's not just about the swing,
The thing that moves you out of your seat
From Robert Frost to Tupac Shakur,
Poetry means a lot and more.
Rooted into the songs we play,
sprouting into the movies we see,
the words of shakepeare we say,
it all stems from the same tree.
What does poetry mean to me?
It is, simply, the ability to feel free. To be able to take your mind places where you physically cannot go. To be able to look from the inside out and grow.
It means freedom
It means opportunities
It means being allowed to have feelings
Feelings are raw
Feelings are genuine
Bring a pen to paper,
Hear the scribbling sounds
Do it now and never later
What you write may be profound.
Constantly erasing,
This one is for the kids
with no more hope
No more purpose
Broken smiles
Shattered teeth
The kids who fall short of their dreams so closely
they scrape them with their fingertips
I lived and I praised and I loved and I gave
And Finally
I was empty
Nothing
Left
In Me
Been turned to the side by the mind's greatest enemy
Depression
What a taboo word
I spoke with painful memory that each word wasn’t clear to those around me.
Each time the words went to sound they danced upon the waves as noise.
Funny how paradoxical the world is.
Humans selling their souls for a dollar.
Making profit off of pain and while their coins add up, so does their shame.
But who’s really to blame?
I run as fast as I can.
The sky gets blacker and blacker.
I hear laughter fill the air where the wind once danced.
I can’t see where I’m going.
There’s no where to hide.
It’s after me.
Rested your mop of hairOn piles and pilesOf poems old and newYour mouth running like a faucetNot yet digested meals and fluidsYour green apple chunksAnd what used to beA Reese's Peanut Buttercup
Listen fool, you write and weep.
Go out and see, the truth that the world hides from me.
Why do you enslave yourself in your own emotion?
Like a man lost out in the ocean, drowning himself
With faith and devotion.
I read a beautiful book
It brings joy for my feeling
Heals every broken piece inside me
And gets my lost soul back with the peace it found
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In third grade,
They handed me a poetry book
And I found it terribly boring.
I was a child of prose, reading stories of adventures
And faraway lands.
Tell me poetry
Why would I write for you?
I stare hard at the blank lines, demanding
You're a wielder of words, they whisper
Maybe I am ill,
Perhaps I am not,
But the issues many of us face
Remain unseen.
So I ask that people read along.
Look into my head,
And into what I have seen.
This is why I write my poetry.
Poetry and I,
We are inseparable.
We are long lost friends
Who found each other
Inside cracks of foaming hate
And melting sorrow.
Poetry and I,
We are connected by truth.
This is my book of poems;Poems I swore not to write.Somehow I couldn't help it,Temptation: too much a fight.
Tell her that you can't promise that you'll remember her favorite color- but that
you'll remember the experiences you've had together
tell her that you will always remember the butterflies you got whenevr she was around
God of mercy,
sweet love of mine, your love is like a radiant diamond.
Such love I cannot contain, like a blazing wild fire.
On the cross you shed your blood
for a sinner like me.
I cannot live without you.
The happiest absolute of life to live,
would be to start the work, unnamed, in death,
But confused above this harsh world,
I'd died a worker with the riches.
That everything you wouldn't lose,
The minute she steps foot in a libraryShe has an excited lookAnd before you can even blink your eyeShe has her nose in a book
The last thing I'd thought I had lost,
my thick oversized journal I wished I had it then,
And not stacked in boxes, my hubby has his prized books in
Those infallible words, and thoughts, and reflections and poems
How can I understand what you say behind the lines of those silent words of exclamations?
How can I understand what you are trying to say when I cannot hear your voice, ...you don't pick my calls...because you were busy.
I am a Visionary,
Always thinking about the future,
I work hard, I strive,
nobody can bring down my pride.
I live and I learn from the ups and the downs,
they try to burn my bridge,
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I have an infinite faith that never ends
within the obstacles that I face
there is a light of hope that shines
so bright in my heart and soul.
I have an infinite faith that god granted
Do you view a sheet of paper.
Like stone-craver.
Views a block of granite.
To a lot of folks.
It just a block of granite.
To the stone-craver.
It is a beautiful thing.
Cpl Robert Lin Cook USMC
In his 300 plus poems.
Wrote about what we wore.
And what we carried.
But more important.
He wrote about what Marines
Are all about,;
Eyes are our passageways to see the world
In one simple movement, eyes reveal a kingdom of color and life from a realm of darkness
The walls of my retina are painted your image,
Colored magnificently by your beautiful face,
Your dimples, so simple yet eye captivating,
Oh, I wish to kiss those juicy lips till eternity.
My life seems different.
It seems unreal.
Please wake me up
I know it's a dream
Reality is harsh
And ever so unkind
Please don't let go
I howl in my head before I sleep
Howl so loud, afraid it will be heard
Howling alone into the pillow
Scratching imaginary door to be opened
I miss you like a dog
I like the poems of yesteryearThe poems of ‘twas, and yon, and ere,The poems whose ol’ archaic tongueWas in its prime, and lo, e’er young.Their tales were spun of days of yore
Latin is dead by language is everlasting
Passing
From one form to the next.
Changing
Rearanging
In times contingent upon the feelings
of the people that are speaking
Theres a point to poetry.
Theres a point to the words people say that create images in our heads and fule our intentions.
And there are people meant for it.
They were chosen,
There are a lot of things that have been plaguing me.
It is something that I really need insight on, especially when wisdom is abandoning.
My name is Brandon and I am a runner.
I run, I work, I learn.
I am always moving, even while asleep, and love to be outdoors.
I love learning and growing and always knowing.
Man meets woman with a sword in hand
Like shooting stars caused by fate they clashed
Falling into territory they didn't know where to land
Original plans were shaken and not trashed
I sit in class ready to learn but with a heart that’s been burned.
Not because of a boy but because of what I have done to myself.
The real me laughs but doesn’t smile
Let me try to explain what it's like to have a mental illness.
Life becomes a watercolor someone left out in the rain.
It's who I am.
I've always been tall.
And no, I don't play basketball or volleyball.
I am constantly stranded in a sea of small and world of petite.
Yes, my feet are large, but imagine if I had small feet.
Rain bites
Wind blows
I fight
For a future
A better me
I do it without thee
Water runs
Rockets rise
I have seen many suns
And many moons
Rise and fall
Behind these eyes of mine is a person, just an ordinary person who always feels she never fits in.She takes pictures and finds uplifting quotes to put on her pictures so she can look at them and think she is beautiful.
Pulling
An ever-retreating journey
Into the caves of my imagination
I am pretentious
And cold
Withdrawn from the modern world
The jeans
You once adored
I am Flawless because i write,
I am me because of my height,
I praise the Lord each and everyday,
Even though somethings don't always go my way,
I still give him praise for all that he does,
Some day's I want to scream, Some day's I'm happy, Some day's I don't care at all, When I run out of things to say, I feel the painful words swarm me,
You know what sucks?
My pain in my heart
I'm losing my luck
It taste bitter and tart
I feel tired all the time
Yet my heart races fast
I'm losing my prime
My time won't last
The new me
A better me
A stronger me
Proven to everyone
Including herself
She can do anything
These critical steps
She is taking
For herself
Past all her expectations
Blood pools
At the end of the stairway
Caressing me
Welcoming me
Into eternity
I fall and shatter
Into millions of fragments
So that nobody
Can ever uncover
Me again
Pots
Everywhere.
Glaze on the table.
People building animals.
Teapots strewn around the room.
Teacher telling what to do.
your handwriting in the letter.
the way the blood splattered.
how gracefully you jumped.
and the sound that came from your landing.
everything was perfect.
except the ending.
The patterns of life are so lost
Just fragments and reflections
20 bucks but no cost
Kneel down and say your confessions
Once again I find my self
I don't do regular, I'm far from it
Just makes it sick to your stomach now don't it
I do stuff you couldn't do, it's too easy
When you hear of my illness baby it'll make you quesy
I hide behind many curtains
along with anyone I've ever known
its a paradox in the sense that we are all hiding who we are
from people who are hiding who they are
Like olive oil,
The first press is the best.
It is pure, unrefined.
It is the true essence of the olive.
Like chicken,
The more you process it,
The worse it gets.
Wounded Healer
His footprints fade from the sand on the beach.
I understand that depression it kills
Cause my bestfriend swallowed handfuls of pills
I was misguided. My demons would taunt me. Convince me to wander on countless occasions. I'd roam around until they'd finally attack. They always did and always do, as soon as they see their chance. They feed on any sign of weakness.
Rescue me from this broken heart
And all that is dark
From this stolid state
And harm that awaits
Take me far away
To my happy place
Hopefully you're not too late
Rescue me
The Hidden Masquerade
By: Darien Heminger
Sitting in her room thinking about the past
Wondering how life flew by so fast.
should I say, I have known these armsor should I say, I've long known their facesI don’t need an eternal litanyof hymns before I believe them.......
If we knew then what we know nowThat there were worms in their teaThat woes and headaches awaited usAt the end of the road beyond the seasWe would have pleated our dreams at home.
Driving to you
the highway rushes up to me
blends into the orange and red sidelines
my eyes stay fixated
towns pass
I do not notice
as I lose myself
miles slip by and by
you can act like you're my friend
but we both remember the end
let's stop pretending it's alright
Make mistakes.
So many of them.
So many so that one day you can look back and it and smile and say.
I did it.
I made it.
They come
They go
They stay
They leave
But to catch them
Now that's hard
So close you come
To forming coherency
There once was a girl I met
Was the best girl out there yet
From bein’ together
To barely ever
Someon’ else got who I didn’t get
Antonia
We remember
I remember
Our childhood
Had its pros and cons
We’re adults now
All grown up
It’s crazy how time flies
The few moments I spend with you now
Let me tell you my friend, she was special
Not that I could’ve chosen from several
But she was my favorite out of the rest
We became close, on the journey out west
Antonia was my best childhood friend
Look yonder don’t you see?
That crumpled paper lying there,
Discarded without care
In its wrinkled lines and smeared ink
My darkest secrets hidden underneath a tear
Folded up and messy over there.
Two poems lie crumpled on the floor,
And sorry I had not the patience to read them both,
I contemplated throwing them away.
But I skimmed through one as best I could
Poems
They're not my thing
They have a social stigma
Poems
Poems
They make my inner thoughts loud
My exterior remains so stoic
Poems
Poems
Poetry is beautiful
It has meaning
It has feelings
It is strong
It can be loud
It can be quiet
But like everything else
Poetry and poems
Come to an end...
like this,
I write for the silenced,
the needy
I write for the weak
and the weary
I write for the persecuted
the judged
the ignored.
I write for those who are bored
bored of life,
Social Media
Facebook -
Making a page that will deliberately describe what I want to say.
I dream poetry
There is nothing that excites me more
More than transcribing thoughts I may never share
More than reading out loud to find what sounds best
Poetry, is anything the truth?
A lie isn't a lie and to die isn't to die.
A thing is another.
If someone stands for someone else
does the second someone sit?
Your smile radiates
Like the morning sun.
Your eyes sparkle
Like tinker bells pixie dust,
Bringing hope of true beauty to the world
The way your hair flows
Purgatory.
The endless wait, the infinite tide of fear and anxiety washes over again.
I wait to see you come in, your angelic face shining like a beacon in an ocean of despair,
The depressing anxiety was peculiar as it crept over me. A thought of another generation came to mind. Will it come with a mental period of time?
I spend my time biding by,
tie my shoes, adjust my tie,
i walk this square,
all life seems fair
a vision did i see,
a vision of what I used to be
how will i know i chose right?
Poetry is not the written word
Or ink gracefully and artistically drawn on paper
Poetry is a fond memory that comes to us
unexpectedly -
In the most sporatic times
And brings a smile to our face
This job will not only change my life.
It will change the world.
Words can stab like a knife
But without them would anything change?
In a world so corupt
With problems that can widely range
You're that gleam I see in the dark,
You stand in the corner
And shine in my eyes,
There's no better light
To a better path...
You're the answer,
And you're the want
Everything I desire
The traffic sounded like the sea, always moving,
never changing.
The sun's rays grew intense, burning the skin,
No contest!
No seriously, this is not a contest.
I am entering a random drawing
by adding my thoughts and words in exchange for money.
As she walks through the halls
the whispers get louder
she's listening
her tear drops glistening
your telling her she's not good enough
some say she's not hood enough
she's debating
In the shadows I sit
Away from the crowd,
A class full of voices
My own starts to drown.
From class to class I rush and hide
From room to room I stumble and cry,
Love is passion.
Love is attraction.
Love is devotion.
Love is a notion
that people care
for people other than
themselves.
Love is small.
Love is big.
Love is humble.
land of the free,home of the brave
laws force us to behave, the government puts us in a cage
prospectives in projects makes the world hard to digest.
Even when I try my best, you cannot let my flaws lay to rest
He once was a man just like you and I
He had a family and a job to get him by.
But then the war came and it all transformed
He went out and fought through the storm.
Everyday he put his life on the line.
Sitting on the floor, thinking of it all.
Watching the clock move slow on the wall.
You say you love me..but where are you now?
All it took was a phone call for you to say chow.
My brother was forced from home
I tried to ask, "why?"
The seeds of our love were sown
I received no reply
How long will you mourn me,
Not at all, it's not your concern
For if you were to mourn me
It would make my heart burn
Feel the cold wind surround you
Enjoy the embraces of new lovers
I don't know how to say this, but the picture, I will try to capture
But what I want cahnged is schools pressure.
The pressure to get honors, and at the end of the day try to sleep
Let's go home and spill some drinks And then see what the good Lord thiinks This is a poem about a man in my head He put up a fight but now he's dead
The words surface in my mind;
streaming, roaring,
Clicking together like pieces of a puzzle,
From word to poem.
The scratches on the papers are nonsensical to me.
If there's only one set answer, you see,
With that, you could fail indefinitely.
Math..numbers, they never cease to inspire me.
Nowadays, poetry can be seen as this
A sweet song, a love note about roses
A rap about getting the desires of the world
I don't like to be ignored.
Actually I HATE to be ignored.
And fuck those of you who immediately think that I am an attention whore.
I'm not, I just don't like to be ignored.
I have to write a poem
Not too long or short.
No required rhyme,
No required sense.
Just a gripping, passionate subject
with flow.
So here goes.
There are poems that teach lessons
I find feelings scary.
They tend to make people
Do uncontrollable things.
I find logic powerful
For logic comes
From the defeat of the monster
That is feeling.
You drive me to the edge again and again
But I hang on to the ledge
With my pen
The rocks at the bottom are razors
I'm slipping
Words are my savior
Feelings and memories triggered
Pen to paper, ink to letter,
Word to phrase, line after line,
Rhythm and rhyme, beating in time,
Meaning so fine, inspiriation mine,
Never will quit, the heart of the poet,
Starts when he knows it,
The sea shimmers like sunlight on chrome
Loud crashing waves and soft silky sand are my living room
The beach is the place I call home
My home is unlike the old empire of Rome
Every poets’ voice is distinct.
an indicative drawl or rasp,
a characteristic blend of dialect,
a certain brand of sarcastic humour;
Sometimes I dream
That I will see them again
My momma
My poppa
But when I wake
All I can see is darkness
I do not breathe in air
This is pure musk that fills my lungs
A what a strange world we live in.
How one joke is a muse, but flipped is abuse.
How the light at the end is glory from war, but is also the big gold gates to The Lord.
One step forward
The soft sand cushions my foot with its tenderness and warmth
Seeping between the secret crevices of my toes
The sun drenched grains heat my feet
Almost burning
But not enough to hurt
I never liked poetry
I never understood what it meant
There was too much metaphor
Without any intent
I never liked poetry
Music was my medium
At least most songs rhymed
Endless Words Which lock your eyesPlentyPlenty of puns and idiomsI'm on another planetSeems to be from a different worldHiddenFoggy and somewhat unclearMeaning
There will always be painThere will always be sorrowWe will always burn bridgesBut when can we be free?
Poems:
Expression and Lyrical.
Beautifully Hopeful.
Honesty and New.
A way to be true.
Writing is my way to vent.
In my own little tent.
My way to be real.
When lust is greater than love
When hurt is too much to heal
It’s hard to stay in love,
When there’s nothing left to feel.
When the pain of holding on
Defeats the fear of letting go
I think metaphors and analogies are overused
Like, here we all go again trying to sound all deep
Trying to make some profound point out of some thought that we imagined was original
We will never again label people like animals they said
We will never again let a government kill millions they said
But what about the immigrants I say
Getting good marks in exams makes one happy
Eating ice creams makes some happy
Splurging money on shopping makes others happy
Our parents become happy to see their children happy
Nobody in this world can live without music I feel
And music transcends all boundaries
But still some people seem to have no ear for music
But even these people enjoy some kind of music or song for
Some have an ambition to be a doctor
Some have an ambition to be a pilot
Some scuba divers, some athletes
There is a broad range of different ambitions
With people preaparing for ambitions from a young age
Hero is dashing
Goons he is smashing
The heroine is so happy
For the herohas come to her rescue,
Many portions of the script are unrealistic,
There are twists and turns in the story,
Why in the world do poems need to rhyme?
You would think with everything else in the world
People would be more willing to less rhymes slide.
With depression and poverty
Why is it so important that cat goes with hat
Sometimes certain situations are just so hard to deal with, other situations are easy, but the hard ones teach you a lesson in life, weather its for the worst or the better.
I often look to the yellow lillies in the garden on campus
Friends pass me and time shifts
Is it not the success that people want?
Or perhaps it's the driven motive in which we attempt to strive
Unjust it truly is,
As long as its in the future time will move me toward it,so im going to keep on fighting, while im struggling but its worth it., tired of all the hatred,im tired of all the fighting, so tired of my own lies,sick of my self portrait, disliking who
How to write a poem
How should I start?
This is my voice
I can write from my heart
Poems don't have to rhyme
Poems dont have to make sense
Poems start with you and your one line
I touch my pen to the paper and take in a deep breath.
I feel like I'm about to create something breath-taking.
Now to others who put their eyes on it might feel differently.
I am the quad core intel i7 chip in the beautiful aluminum unibody MacBook Pro.
I am the retina display in the iPhone 5.
I am the 4g LTE in the all new iPad.
I am the 32 gb of storage in an iPod touch.
So many days in that black swivel chair
Clicking on clues, who needs fresh air?
Staring at the screen with its curve like the earth
You’d think I’d been doing this from at least birth
Words are so tiresome,
they say many things.
they never get a break or rest,
they put your know how to the test.
