Things that seemed poetic were always sad,
though I yearned for sparkle
and my dad's guffaw, which never came.
Familiar things were always drear --
repeated motions in the same old game.
There were only distant glimpses
of budding spring, fleeting views
of daffodils. The strongest
poems dealt me death and dying.
Yet I always hoped, never went under
to gray despair, always dreaming
of a garden of love that we could share.
But those forbidden delights faded
quickly away; the only reality
I understand is the ever-looming
and final one. Nothing's changed.
The strongest poems deal death and dying.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore
A light across a river sways,
where children wasted summer days.
Not near, not far, but in between,
the grass grows soft and tall and green.
The whispers dance among the trees,
where hands once rested on lover’s knees.
And all the flowers last forever,
when fingers slip and lace together.
Now indents in the earth remember,
when days were long and feet were tender.
The sun was high and far away,
and the moon shone bright well into day.
So see the world with a single glance,
the simple things leave up to chance.
Begin at once and last forever,
for things once counted never weather.
Copyright © joshua ten eyck
Ah, memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide
grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left.
In cold or torrid waves, spent passions now abide
for you have left me, long ago, I'm now, alone bereft.
Grasping for the grains of sentiment sometimes left:
beside a roaring bonfire, where sparks on night winds glide;
for you have left me, long ago, I'm now alone, bereft.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside.
Beside a roaring bonfire, where sparks on night winds glide,
we conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief.
I huddle in a dune's dark shade with nothing left inside,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief.
We conceive a wayward child, a changeling child, a thief.
In cold or torrid waves, spent passion now abides,
as the waves of age and ages, return only grief,
ah, memory is a fickle lover succumbing to the tide.
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi
Sometimes between the lines,
trembles the silence of unspoken goodbyes,
expectant and charged, like a theater scene,
in the moments before the curtain rises.
In a dream that I've had,
you are southward bound, so it must be early autumn,
which, fades to sheer, then disappears.....
Debris fills the gutters, and the shades are drawn
Wild thorn-berries have been picked, all the branches are bare.
And through limbs of old questions, and tall, knotted trees,
Limbs filter regret with a light, between
Leaves are adrift, as if disturbed,
littering the speachless sky
along with unfettered words,
that clamor against the leadlight of a window,
pleading to be heard.
Crushed leaves are swept away,
by a bridled hesitation.
No summer aria has been sung,
and the words go unsaid.
Leaves fall straight to the ground,
and the light leaves the world.
The red velvet drape descends,
leaving unfettered leaves, and unsaid words, bereft, in the dark.
For The Contest "Vibrant Verse" Sponsored By Charlotte Puddifoot
Copyright © Carrie Richards
November Chills Remind Me
As November chill creeps in
I think of June and a friend
Sun beaming so eagerly down
our spot at the edge of town
Silent moments holding me
to a time and her pitiful plea
O' that this day last forever
and my love leave me never
She saw farther than I
the thought made her cry
I thought her so wrong
right she was all along
Clime cooled and so did we
leaves fell from our tree
October faded swiftly away
Parted on a chilly November day
November chills I think of her
so gone, I know not where
Shall June ever come again
will ever I see my friend
Sun shines down upon my Soul
keeping her should have been my goal.
R.J. Lindley 09, 11, 1976
note: Tomorrow will be two weeks and no new writes by me.
That is other than my private writings at home..
Found this in a old poetry book tucked in a chest with
divorce papers from my first wife.
Seemed fitting to present it because , well its November now.
Answer, no never saw her again. She moved away, I lost contact.
Life sent its distractions and the universe spun ever onward..
Copyright © Robert Lindley
for your arm wrapped around
my clavicle. I thought
I would loose my breath.
for the cusp of our hip bones
struggling to pull the drunken color
from our orange cheeks.
and our sweat, our sweat, our sweat
in the drenched summer air.
Our pants futile afterthoughts
Left crumpled on the floor
It is here I asked for your respect
And you filled me with it.
for the musk smell of our blanket den. I would watch the way dawn light
speckled your shoulders, pale, white-blue
I would trace the ink
of your skin, fingertip hovering a half inch
from your bone.
for how my name would hesitate
on your breath in brief puffs
like dandelion seeds blown from
My wistful lips when I was
waiting for them to bring back my wish.
for my sleeveless dress, as we strolled from
your father’s funeral.
It was the only time I watched you cry.
There were little holes in the cement sidewalk.
They filled with rain, oil
And your tears.
I watched your face change through
their watery colored reflections.
for the way your skin repels from my
Touch, quivers as though my finger-
print were a red hot poker.
You haven’t allowed me to touch you
In a year.
for the color of her font, as she responds to you. It is an eager
Color. She responds with all the passion of an Eskimo kiss.
You left her waitng..always.
I have been special to you,
she replies to your
like a maid
Who’s felt the hot moist
whisper of something naughty
tickle against her ear lobe.
for the way your eyes punch accusations
sharper then your razor tongue.
blue crackled lightening,
like an angry alley cat.
My words cannot reach you here.
You will leave.
We will divide our booty
Words that once held my name like a piece
Of carefully folded origami
now hiss cold
devoid like the plaster of our empty room.
for the morning
now knocking on my window.
I am livid in my withdrawal, tossing and turning
I can find no comfort
the tangle of these vacant sheets.
Copyright © Jennifer Brooks
Alone in loneliness
Amid forever nights
And these four walls
In faint, whisper soft your name
I beg out loud to the nothingness that remains
"Please not another nightmare, no more storms"
But, answers are merely glimpses of light
Filtering through the pane
Cast empty shadows on the wall
Of places where you used to be
Eyes wide open
Now asleep, afraid I am to fall
Trapped within this never ending dream
I cling to all the memories that I have
Spinning me closer to where you were, in parallel on the edge
The thoughts, like imaginary rubble, comes tumbling passed
A fire for you still burning inside
Why can’t I let go of the tragedies last
And silence your unrescued suicidal screams
Or is it only the rain falling faster as it taps harder, and harder upon the glass
Or is it of your wandering spirit
Haunting with its vindications
Of "why’s" I can never seem to grasp
All this amidst lost stares into black windows
Where gutters overrunning, burdened by the strains
And I swear I see your reflection
Among the flashes, tracing out illuminations about your face
And for the first time
You are noticeably absent of all the worldly pains
And your lips releasing out a comfort that for so long I've been seeking
As I hear the words echo within my stormy heart "That where you are everything is okay"
Copyright © Michael Smith
A vignette of domestic violence and the weird rationale of love amidst such
circumstances - adapted from how it was depicted to me by a female friend and
taken from her own personal experience.
I was defined china and porcelain,
Inlaid glass flowers and gently spoken;
Fragile in doe-eyed delicacy,
Pleading and begging not to be broken.
I loved him with total forgiveness,
Did not, could not, would not understand
The dark chaos mood of lability,
The spontaneous violence of his hand.
Blue and black bruises indecorously swelled
Question marks about tear brimmed eyes;
And I wept and despaired in confusion,
Smashed and grabbed by wherefores and whys.
How could he dream to hurt me so,
The brutish malediction of his touch?
How could he stand to hurt me so,
When he knew I loved him so much?
And now the years have drained away
Like sweeping veils of rain;
The agony of our breaking apart
Ever haunts me with anguish and pain.
I still see him some times,
Rarely, truly out of the blue,
On the old territory of familiar streets
When unconsciously passing through.
And always shook by the stalking truth,
A lancing bright-bladed knife,
And with dogmatic aching my heart lets me know
He was always the love of my life.
And I know there's no sense to be had
When I look to the heavens above,
Just the sad and lonely heart of the matter:
You never can choose whom to love.
Copyright © Tony Bush
I Refusing To Cry, You To Ever Yield
I never went into your dark room
never saw your silent rage
In my mind your cannons never boom
nor does your face ever age
I never felt your lonely trance
never saw you naked in a cage
In this dark world you truly dance
with the melodic words of a sage
We never journeyed to the Keys
never saw that perfect moonlight
In your gaze rested your pleas
to be so closely held at midnight
We never lived in each other's dreams
never wept to the same sad tune
Side by side we waded cool streams
yet we never wed in early June
Our days, were they numbered badly
sunburnt harvest stripped from the field
Was it destined to end that sadly
I refusing to cry and you to ever yield
Robert J. Lindley
Copyright © Robert Lindley
Wont you find me here?
Drifting in an expanse of swirling storm
Outstreched fingers graze debris...
recklessly circling reminders.
Stand in the eye with me
Lick our wounds rebounding
Warriors victoriously smiting circumstance
leaving wolves discouraged
disparaging darkness with insane glee
Walk here and find me
Reach out think here
You create me and I construct you
Piece me in missing places
Mending voids delicate and knowing
I slay inherited growths of insecurity
Stating truths untold to your beautiful ears
Know this warmth....
Let these branches sprawl
grow in all directions to withstand walls closing in
A grand old tree would remain...generations of our eyes
taking glance from limbs strong and true
You crush my cycle--end it's existence
I'll destroy your boundary...kill it's constriction
Our tower stronger and rooted
Yet with loftier cloud grazing height
lets disorient ourselves in this foreign altitude
Touch this sky with me
Copyright © Steve Voorhees
strands of light
flash in the beauty
of my mind
the past dwelt
in the corner
I was thrown
back in time
to the good
and the good
happens to the
replayed in my
the circle went
but I remembered
the dashes of hope
the splashes of
all that I had
all that I had lost
round and round
the strings of
the white rabbit
called for me
reality was paper
burning in the pit
I held fast
as the standard
falling into delusion
I lay in the mire
for a millennium
with a song
the dance of life
flooded my veins
of my mind ripple
today has returned
with no fear of joy
Copyright © Jayne Eggins
strange it was there just the other day
hanging about as usual,
reminding me in my mirrored image
of my definite femininity
now gone, am I less of a woman?
will you look at me differently,
or strangely as I do myself?
I never really gave it much thought before
of how things come in pairs
how lonely one would be without the other
how misshaped one appears,
no longer jutting forward,
thrusting into the limelight,
now scars and a flattened ego,
fill my robe, bras useless without stuffing
men, look at me in horror,
women in shock and pity
and with gratitude, yes that it is not them
my left breast is missing
no not missing, taken, stolen...
it was just a lump a few weeks ago
a tiny pea shaped knob,
that hid its cancerous intentions
so very well, yet lay in silence waiting
to steal away that part of me
that defined who I was
what purpose I served in society
am I still a woman, a sexual being?
I'm not sure, my right breast thinks so
but yearns for its mate,
the image in the mirror just doesn't seem right
unequal in its proportions, glaringly lopsided
my left breast is gone, surgically removed
I can still hear its scream
Copyright © Bernadette Langer
When I am Colder,Older and then alone...
I will collect the sky on my own...
When the art has faded and the days then fade-
when everyone has gone away...
I may finally see what never was saw
.....ahhhhhhhhhhhhh............... the quiet sky
The unlit room which bares my end...shows the flashes of my pains my joys and sins.
This life has been a strange one since the curtains were drawn
These paper and plastic figures have clouded the dawn
I was once younger,foolish,and obsessed with truth
Now I am bitter,sour,dour faced with my heart under shoe
The children were all searching or lost in a crowd
All weeds in a garden...growing vile and foul
Though beauty was sold it never came true
Obsessions and vanity have traveled safe through
Materials and poison and everything lost
have been burned in the fires or lost in the frost
I stand face to mirror tearing my being apart
Winding thoughts of love,pain,god,and art
As the sun sets and the darkness grows
I too shall follow this pattern in tow
Death has a friendly hand and a pretty face
She has given me comfort as I leave this place
The wars have occurred,humanity's lost
Souls have been burnt in the fire or lost in the frost
Day was Life,Night is Death
And the latter has given counsel on my final steps
Copyright © Winter Wallace
From dry wooden cracks
Seeps the elixir of life
Oozing out of its earthy shell
It crawls upon the outer walls
Of its once eternal prison
It flows and covers
Encompasses and drowns all
Preserving death within its clarity
All else seems insignificant and weak
Thus it perishes before the creeping nectar from within
The elements awaken
And let loose upon the forgotten and the lost
Time passes and clouds pass by
Frayed by the undying winds
The Sap Turns to Amber
Carries within its crystal the tales of an era
Trapped now in golden glass
Forever preserved, yet still forgotten
So the amber in our hearts preserves
Our defeats and triumphs
Within its recesses
Only the foolish are captivated by the luster
And only the wise see through to its core
Copyright © Moose Bak
Oh, Poisiden, you disrupt my sea;
Alter not your color for the likes
Of miserable me;
Your mouth foams in revelry
As I gasp desperately for
One remaining breath;
My rosary floats upon your
Fickle friendship of fury,
For your whims leave me
With goose flesh as
The grapevine wraps itself
Around my throat ~
I bear witness to antiquated
Notes which deceive;
The tongue of thy counterpart
Scorches this bosom...
Nevermore do I grieve,
Yet I swim vainly;
The chastity belt on land
It does remain,
Drowned dreams of delusion ~
I lurk within the shadow of
Door number two.
Copyright © Tamiviolet Manchas
So stay the gold.
foolish thoughts wasted
apon the old.
Your never alone except day and night.
did we forget the cause.
Or just grow tired of the fight.
Evergreen moments dont exist in books.
Or pictures trapped apon the page.
The wisdom of life is nothing without the rage.
Into a maze we go blind.
Far past the moment.
Nothing is left to remind.
Motions are not feelings.
Along with contracts and lies.
So many loser's with there double dealings.
Taken from the city lights
I lost all that was obscene.
My pasion was turned into my evergreen.
Time you change all but me.
Casting many storms.
That turn so very deep within the sea.
Erased are thoose moments
apon the slate is clean.
I wonder do you ever reflect my sweet evergreen.
Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo
A fleeting still small voice tries to warn me
A sudden overwhelming desire to run
The tell tale taste of metallic flakes
Means my nightmare has begun
Everything around takes on a ghostly pallor
A landscape of anguish and corrosion
A moment of silence before the violence
The flash of light, the brilliant explosion
The sound of the Sun fills my ears
Fear, my throat, though none escapes me
And paralyzed I clench my eyes
As my tormentor prepares to rape me
And it's endeavor is absolute
Consumption is its ultimate goal
It exists to chase me so it can erase me
Whilst feasting on my soul
And then that familiar salty smell
The sudden rush of warmth so stings
Engaging me relentlessly
In vile unspeakable things
Over and over and over again
My limbs stretched and wrought
As it's teeth tear my bones bare
It's mind defiles my thoughts
And still wounds beget wounds beget wounds
As in the mouth of madness I suffer
And with every injury he just seems to be
Rougher and rougher and rougher
Then just as suddenly as it began it ceases
And for a moment I am clearer
And then the true horror of it all
Is revealed in a darkly lit mirror
There in front of me stands my destroyer
Face flush with it's fill of my pain
And I find that it's eyes and mine
My God, they’re one in the same
Copyright © James Burns
i am a possibility
of many possibilities
i am a ratio
an indecisive factor
in the rest of what this dimension has to offer
the world is a top
i spin it and predict the probability
that the end will equal the means
or perhaps surpass it
even if i never surpass this muck-up
these broken eardrums
and the inquisition of my empty head exclaiming empty words
and i don't even exist
especially to the solipsists, nihilists
and i no longer give a sh--
i am now officially some lazy apathetic prick
oh i could have been a possibility
but that possibility was so small
that you'd need a magnifying glass
and some tweezers
i am rust, oxified and tearing up
i am crust, the sh-- in the ring on the toilet
i am lust, but never just enough
i am bust
i am a loser without a leash and/or choke chain
Copyright © Val Murah
They mourn wisdom not yet learned
It flounces from their grasp, withers
Away in the solar wind it burns
Itself in the remnants of
What once was a beautiful mind,
They mourn wisdom not yet learned
In this instanced reality
Parallel our own treasured find
Whisked away on the breeze it yearns
Awhile for its past then thinks, as
They mourn wisdom not yet learned
These creatures of habit turn to
Only what they knew, will never know
The truth in starlight again nor the
Real beauty of the sun's glow
They mourn wisdom not yet learned
"Nolite umquam oblivisci"
*Took 5th place in the February 2012 International Poetry Soup contest.
Copyright © Tim B
The day’s beginning is a special gift.
Given over a life’s eternity,
One can’t help but feel the daily change.
How often we stay into the evening. An attempt to hold
Onto the feelings of joy and elation,
That made our day so emphatically special.
Are not the future possibilities also special?
That we dream of yet other gifts,
gifts of such thought, that might also inspire elation
From giver and receiver for all eternity.
Constantly close to both, holding,
As if to say, “Don’t Ever Change.”
Does growth not require change?
Should not that change be also special?
Only if you have forgotten about holding,
The longing embrace of previous gifts,
One that requires attention for all eternity,
fueling existential feelings of elation.
Even when intentionally forgotten, holding
On to the recipient, despite elation.
At one point, this internal agony was a gift.
What could ever make this change?
This gift that could never be more special.
Now it has changed for eternity.
The re-direct of energy through eternity,
The loss of love’s forever embrace.
Love, making pain beautifully special.
Will there ever be elation?
Maybe if we only change
The way we exchange special gifts.
Our future’s eternity might fill with elation
From holding the exchange
Of something special,
… the mere appreciation of a gift..
Copyright © Matthew Sample
I'm half-way through this one..,
and long before it becomes one,
I usually erase the
I chose to call a poem.
But after a while, one thinks,
That like energy,
the truth radiates in spurts..
That continuity is a daydream,
That all growth is involuntary,
That not all coincidences are coincidental.
Like things, people too die,
and, that just like the root of a negative one,
One too, was an imaginary i.
Copyright © nikhil kshirsagar
Pigeons flutter in the park
eating refuse from the grass.
Noon comes; the hours pass.
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Silence reigns throughout the park.
A crumpled headline, a forgotten toy,
lifeless, do not hear a far-off bark.
In the park, not a single little boy.
Midnight comes; the hours go --
soon, the sky begins to glow...
morning breaks, and with it, sound.
In the park begins the morning round.
White skeletons of benches -- slats --
in all the wintry parks of Age
fill up in morning. Deserted flats,
each with the aspect of a cage,
become an unused, waiting gauge
that measures dull and wasted years --
floods of loneliness -- rivers of fears...
The weak and battered, pallid crowd
which, daily, parks ingest
speak in muted tones; but loud
is the message all suggest.
The clangor of the beaten Belles,
trampled in the slime of years,
entreats the mind to plug its ears;
yet, if it will, it hears...
memories, perhaps, keep active still
the shriveled and the loosened flaps
that are the mouths of all the Bills --
reduced to gray and ugly gaps...
Down the graveled pathways come
children bent on carefree play.
Belles, though silent, are not dumb,
nor will the Bills forego their say.
But warnings fall on ears too deaf;
around are eyes too blind to see.
And so the tots, too young for Death,
play on and on till time for tea.
Day after day after day
children come and children play.
Pigeons flutter in the park;
Leaves fall; the sky grows dark.
Once more, deep silence claims the park.
Midnight hours come and go.
The sky again assumes a glow.
Wind stirs dead leaves to rustle.
Starts again the aimless bustle
of the battered, weak, and infirm-eyed:
those whom living failed -- who died
but still must play their signal role
of unloved, friendless, unhailed Old;
who gather daily in the park
to envy tots their vital spark --
the hope, the promise in their eyes --
before it fades, before it dies.
But tots at play -- the young, the bold --
must laugh and sing -- cannot be told
that youth's not long and Time is cold.
Time devours -- a ravenous beast --
and men are the courses at his feast.
Some he swallows in their prime,
On some he waits too long a time:
these rancid morsels, Time's midnight snack,
explore their memories. They hie them back
to that old moment, deepest black,
when they first dared to know -- and first said --
that Time's the master all men dread.
(Please read The Park -- Part Two, which is a continuation of
this poem...due to space limitations)
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore
The 18th of December was her last day;
she neither knew the date nor cared to.
Gathered at the hospital, keeping vigil,
we couldn't overcome her fright, or ours.
The pain, too great to be driven away,
was only "managed" with IV drips,
needles stuck in bruised appendages --
bony things -- arms and legs, hands and feet.
Above the medicines and washes, we sniffed
her scent, which, more than her yet familiar
face, to us identified our mother --
a smell we never would mistake
for any other. It went quickly
as her body cooled. The rouged and pickled
carcass they displayed was more a statue
than a person. We planned to bury her
with homely tokens, like an ancient mummy:
a family photo, a brooch she liked,
a pink hairbrush, and the brass bell she rang
to call her keeper during her last years.
But, when the time came, I could not bear
to have her leave so finally;
I took the bell from her metal box.
And, now, I ring it -- not to bring a keeper,
but to recall my mother on her birthday,
and on many dark days when I need her.
Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore
As lightening shone and thunder blew
I danced the dance that dancers do
They danced it back and asked if I
Would mind them dancing through the night
I thought no harm could come of this
Besides, such company I’ve missed
Thus, on we danced so unaware
That torrent rains beyond compare
Fell down in floods on higher ground
And like a wall came crashing down
Then somewhere in a step half made
The dance I danced was washed away
Now all that’s left for you to see:
Remains of the catastrophe
Oh, hopefully from this you’ll know
Don’t ever dance when thunder blows
Copyright © Jeff Bresee
A truth in rage of insult furrows my mind
For it is only an offense given to me by myself
In the mouths of others far innocent than I
I feel the tears trickle down my cheeks
For I have surfaced into an ugly mistake
I am always inadequate in this brain
I try to shine like the advice of grace given
But confidence rarely rears its head my way
There’s a sort of shade blocking its way
A shade that darkens everyday
That very shade led me to believe my feelings are wrong
That I will never belong so long as they are not controlled
I must be careful—for the lines of love and lust run cold
I hate myself truly this night
And no one but myself will give me the right
The very right to degrade my every being
Because you are not seeing what I am seeing
There is no point
My lines run cold
Can I be so bold as to say
I still love with a pang of indistinguishable doubt
All feelings enter in
As my truth blurs and checks out
Your words pierce me so deep
I cannot describe the pain I feel
God it hurts so bad
It can’t be real
Much like the love I have come to embrace
The very love that links to your face
Tears don’t give it justice
It can’t be real
Much like the love I will never face
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal
One Toy Soldier
Little toy soldiers are all put away
Training is over for this time of day.
Where do these little boys go now to play?
Away from their home to die in the fray.
Little toy weapons are no longer there
But boxed in attics by mothers with care--
Where keepsakes still hold a lock of his hair--
While rockets and missles challenge his fare.
Little toy bad guys and little toy good
Haze in the distance when misunderstood.
Where fall the lilies on long crates of wood
And each gave their all--as good soldiers should...
Little toy soldiers are coming back home...
Mothers are weeping, laments all alone
Where flags lie folded--the gift of Shalom...
As the long box is lowered...'neath the loam
One little toy soldier is placed on the top
Remembering All--so that None be Forgot.
Copyright © Deborah Burch
You'll know when you have destroyed a culture,
When you have slain their last poet....
And forgotten his words!
Timothy I. Brumley
Copyright © Timothy Brumley
I am the ghost of heartaches past
I'm love's dark contrast
That empty seat
Beside you when you eat
The tear stains on your pillow case
I'm that new wrinkle on your face.
I am the gremlin of "What if?"
If you catch my drift
Who's biggest theme
Is to haunt all your dreams
I'm that loud echo in your life
That constant nagging extra strife.
I am that cold spot in your bed
I'm words left unsaid
I'm anger won
I'm promises undone
I'm that thing left to chance
I'm Lady Loneliness.....
Would you care to dance?
Timothy I. Brumley
Copyright © Timothy Brumley
I am whatever you say I am...
but, let's get back to reality...
Three short years ago, this room shined welcome mats across a screen of doldrums.
A place of unfamiliarity that screamed,
"You don't belong!"
Yet, a voice of reason spoke and said,
"Expand yir' roots. Venture beyond the comfort zone. Academia resides inside that room, but know you won't be alone."
Repeatedly,brainwaves declined what my wife and editor had told me.
"no way, I'm givin' up my soul for free, they read, they pay, like it's always been, the way it's going to always be!"
Unbeknownst to me one day, and with a slight of hand, my "Open Sores" were put on display and surprisingly more than a handful of great ladies and nice guys began to give feedback on what I had devised.
This interaction was something very new, helpful, and impressive. For a change, it was something real.
For years, those around me were quick to give praise with hidden reasons. Constructive criticism is amazing, and I welcomed being corrected or set straight.
Now there are those who choose to shut me down without explanation, and call me names.
DO NOT mistake me for sophomoric! These words bleeding from my guts have no style and need no approval. There is no thinking involved here, no plan. If you don't like it, fine...don't censor or bracket me in. So what if I am illiterate? If you don't like "street poetry" or the pathetic stuff I write, don't read it. If I offend you, tell me.
We should welcome those who are different than us.
Words of truth inspire movement, like fire.
I came to this room to expand my horizons, step outside the box, learn, help, grow.
There will be no apologies dealt for being different, or for being labelled as something uncomfortable to you.
This has been an ok room so far, but there is some clique trickanery going on.
If the dictionary must come into play, let me recommend looking up the term "Poetic License."
True, I may not be the writer you prefer, or aspire to be....but tread carefully my friend, for you have no idea of my profession. I've made a fine living, for a good long time, spewing words onto paper. I came from nothing, and may still be nothing to you...still, I do what I love, have no boss.
I am not an aspiring writer who dreams of a life, I live my dream. In conclusion, I must wish you luck in finding what you peddle poetry for. Until then, keep
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO
Since you left I seem to drift
Sorrow's current, very swift
Pulling me beyond yesterday's
Searing pain of velvet stingrays.
In this vast deceiving ocean
I drown in waves of emotion.
On the oily ocean floor of life
I try to dodge its knowing knife.
A tropical depression on my mind
In my fragile nakedness I find,
That memories are the true enemy
Deceiving fronds of the anemone.
In hungry oysters I plant the seed
On every sandy thought they feed.
Mother of pearl coating every care
I wear pearls of grief in my hair.
I explore this endangered coral reef
Your bright fishes touch my grief.
Memories in every detailed hue
Remembering the essence of you.
Are you even aware of the burning pain
Of yearning so much to see you again?
In the whirlpools of my mind
Will I ever sweet closure find?
Under rocks I find glistening tears
To keep as semi-precious souvenirs.
Timeless treasures to sustain tomorrow
As I dive into the ocean of sorrow.
Copyright © Heidie Buys