Oh no, I’ve fallen in love again
Why does this always happen to me?
Love is no bigger than a small apple
It reflects in the eye but beats in the chest.
What am I falling out of love with?
I can’t carry every apple I see.
I loved you.
I know asking you to love me back is not what love is about. With you I’ve seen what true love is all about. Forgiving you in the gravest of situations and picking up the pieces of us even when it hurts my hand. With you I’ve seen what love is not about. You neglecting my hurting hand is not love.
Dreams of us running wild in the rain, looking into your eyes with my hand in your hair, no horizon, no end…have come to an end.
There are no butterflies, no blooming flowers, no loud love confessions.
When you walked into the garden that day, I expected it to turn from night to day, but you stepped on the grass and it died, it turned to ash, you entered and the colour slowly faded as the fountain went dry. The rose wilt and withered as you walked upto me.
You touched me and I turned to dust, mixed with the wind and gone. And the beautiful plot of my oasis turned to desolate land.
Summer’s End
The sun begins to set a little earlier now—
a gentle breeze brushes past my suntanned face and
I walk briskly on the sand which feels cool beneath my feet.
My pace quickens, like the prance of a Cat on the prowl.
Once home, the trees which line the street on which I live
stand majestically tall. No longer still, they begin to
sway to the music of the gentle breeze which softly touches
and fondles the leaves with a caress that only the breeze can give.
The air envelopes me, telling me it’s cooler than before—
and I run to the place that I call home,
Glad to be sheltered from something I feel in the air—
from a sky whose sun, today, will shine no more.
I pause in the house whose windows openly beckon the freshness of the crisp breeze as it quietly enters, gently pushing aside the ruffled curtains, and as it filters through the rooms—
I suddenly realize, it’s Summer’s End!
What does it mean to be the next flower to fall after the garden fence is reinforced with tears from the street?
the universe,
the air,
nature,
thought,
the void,
the full,
the eternal,
the whole,
creation,
existence,
non-existence
the before,
the after,
matter,
antimatter,
spirit,
the ethereal
the pre-life,
life,
the afterlife
good,
peace
omniscience
omnipotence
omnipresence!
I cannot proclaim more than this now
I lack greater vision and light than I hope for in God
more feeling and wisdom...
Sunshine and revelry steeped the day like sweet tea dripping over a glass's edge. Overflow dribbling down rejuvenated the laughter of the gut and burst forth into an excess of jubilation. The cup wants to be filled with adulation for the man to drink; the man is a goblet steeped by the day. Over him jumps his spirit, blooming amidst his body's celebration into a new stance, pose, and guise. The transvaluation of the spirit leads it to elevation, upwards, it laughs yes, raising the cup and dousing its thirst—the birth of a madman steeped in sunshine and revelry.
The expectations of the heart bound the passions in a silent breath, holding within the roots of flowered lungs – the grandiose applause beating against ribcages. It reverberates with aching and longing to be heard. A silent breath holds the hand of a lover yearning to be seen, to be reciprocated. The expectations of the heart wilt without the waters of recognition and the abundance of love, unabated and unrestrained. Flowered lungs sprout daisies – effeuiller la marguerite, a silent breath holds the hand of a lover. The anticipation of the heart swirls the passions into dance like the wild winds carrying petals through their drift – and she loves me.
A man keeps planting flowers in a place no one visits.
It's not that the place is heavily guarded so no one can enter.
Or that the place is so complex, like love, many people are afraid to give it a chance.
It's not like that.
It is just an easy path to cross over to see that place where a man keeps planting flowers.
Expressionally, he loves what he’s doing.
At no point does he need someone who would appreciate him for his work.
He needs no one who would clap for him,
or criticize him, saying he doesn’t do it right and should work harder.
It's not like that.
No living breath has ever even touched the idea of planting flowers in a place no one visits.
But that man got it on his own.
He loves what he’s doing — but no one knows why.
And as the narrator,
I am also scared to see that place.
Watch the leaves swim in the wind
As Autumn’s corners unfurl
And as we sail on
On the face of reflective waters
In our relationship
Just you and I now empty nesters
No one to pester us
(but we miss drinking from the scuttlebutt)
As we greet and kiss the morning
(And each other)
Now I'm her knight in white
And she's my bride in white
Now its just us twain
Reflections of when we first met
I’ve sold winter coldness to those who’re huge in their chests oncorners of these abandoned streets, where bars aren’t happy with myfootprints in front of every door. Where I hit myself at close range. Where I pay a price to win no game. However, she’s worked all her lifeto bring up all her children within this magical world of theatre & music.She’s convinced that these children won’t fail to understand & accept opera& early rehearsals. I'm bedridden waiting. Welcome to a pigheaded house. Welcometo your fate that befalls many emigrants you plant like beets beside the beetleto see new growth. Welcome to where you don’t fancy a beer before bier afterthe funeral. Something is bedraggled from the hedgerow & that’s your ex’sspecial brand. However, the twigs are dry & brittle, & cracked beneaththeir feet from the beginning. Her children are looking for more spaciouspremises after that premeditated murder in a blighted area where I prescribe hera daily diet chart.
Am I a foul fellow when the house is longer than this morning? Am I the designer of the living room that doesn’t encourage formality, because we’re associated with rigid boundaries? I’m the next citizen of an affluent hovel. I’ll be the next coastal lowland along any gulf & hearing your voice, pattering on every rooftop, I cover all the island-dotted lakes with your shadow. Somewhere within, a breath produces vapour, making the sauna feel even hotter. Now if my shop doesn’t pay you, it means my family goes hungry. No public property is written off here. You’re the capital of these floating islands, a nice account in the only bank here, you can take my people for a holiday to May Isle. I get a bit of capital, nothing is your own, is it? It’s for her, my daughter in a white mask.
Claustrophobic, saturated white walls constrict,
sucking the oxygen from every molecule of deprived blood.
Hypoxic cells circulate through an increasingly unstable body,
whilst rivulets of sweat flow from clammy palms.
Insomniac reality blurs with insidious shadows,
dancing upon the ceiling.
Naive faith keeps insanity just at bay,
but with each sunrise, hope is chipped away.
How much longer can a soul survive without respite
before it splits open—
spilling into the realms of delicious delusion?
Counting spots of dust in sunlight streams
now becomes the norm.
Two hundred yesterday—
is that two hundred and four today?
Slowly losing grip,
twisted nursery rhymes play out in a fracturing mind:
One, two, no one is going to save you.
Three, four, get ready for the relentless gore.
Five, six, they will play with your bones like sticks.
Seven, eight, for this occasion you better not be late.
Nine, ten, you are now in their sadistic den.
Praying for sleep, it never comes,
as reality dissolves
and this phantasmagorical nightmare commences.
You see
to be a judgmental, know why?
Free to expand your sight,
Feel before you hurt,
Read all chapters,
The animal is in all of us.
You have your own!
Yet, the big trees are clean.
Some of the tiny ones are so dirty
If you were in my shoes what would you do?
No walls
No borders
You misunderstood
a part of the whole picture.
Through the breeze driven fluttering foliage
sunlight licks lasciviously upon her skin.
Through the diaphanous dress that surrounds her
it warms her as her frenzied frolic begins.
In her rarefied rapture she prances,
ending sublime stasis from the night before
when suitor satyrs did woo her,
a legend legacy from days of yore.
Now alone in her wandering woodland
she dances dangerously close to free,
to the magical music of birdsong,
lithe limbs twisting beneath her trees.
She tosses tousled hair to the morning,
with artistic abandon she flies,
among the sun speckled leaves of her true loves
who brush branches to signal their sighs.
Left again to watch
the sun's red demise,
wandering eyes turned
to the west
and ponder anew
what destiny lies
were fate but to offer her best.
Left again to sow
the sinners desire,
a wandering archetype
of lust,
to follow a path that
Aphrodite inspires,
withholding only her trust.
Left again to reap
in impossible haste
the spoiled fruits of his dreams,
insistent
on one more ambrosial taste
to silence the sounds of her screams.
Left again bewildered,
angry and damned,
trapped in his own obtuse plan,
reflecting on violence
his passions had fanned,
and the sunset
he sees in his hands.
Specific Types of Prose Poetry Poems
Read wonderful prose poetry poetry on the following sub-topics:
christmas, death, dog, family, food, friends, funny, kids, life, love, music, nature, school, sports, war
and more.
Definition | What is Prose Poetry in Poetry?
Poems Related to Prose Poetry
prose,