Submit Poems
Get Your Premium Membership

Narrative Angst Poems | Narrative Poems About Angst

These Narrative Angst poems are examples of Narrative poems about Angst. These are the best examples of Narrative Angst poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

If you don't find the poem you want here, try our incredible, super duper, all-knowing, advanced poem search engine.

Details | Narrative | |

The Rose

Once bloomed a rose so young and fair
With dark brown eyes and long black hair

Beside her be a tall dark tree
Whose branches stretch to smother thee

Too close beside the shadowy bark
That soon begins to leave its mark

She cries for help, but none shall hear
Her thorns too sharp, who’d dare go near?

To save this rose, who’d risk their life?
With naught to gain but pain and strife

Alone, afraid, she lays to rest
Her heart beats low inside her chest

And with the hour growing near
She sheds her final grieving tear

And so the rose soon falls asunder
Her final day, eternal slumber

She lies beside the old dark tree
The only one who mourns for thee

Copyright © Nina Hernandez | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

Lego Narcs - Under The Cover Of Night

Night! It’s around nine thirty maybe ten. The phone rings. The voice is irritating, the words frightening. Within minutes I’m in a car with my mate. Within minutes I arrive at my own ground zero. Exit the car. A body walking says you must be Courtney's Dad. Yes I am. I don’t say those words, I don’t say anything. I enter a strange house. My eyes go into a computerized scope mode. I assess the scene. Devour every image. There is talking. I can see that I am involved and in conversation. I am breathing the moment committing all the three dimensional images to memory. That’s what I do, that’s what I always do, I pay attention to detail. I record it in the recessed region of my brain, the file I named celluloid. This is one of those moments. You don’t just live it you also live outside of it. You adjust angles from the ceiling from the floor from every degree from one to three hundred and sixty. Your camera guys are working at a furious pace. We only get one shot at this take anything we miss is gone for ever. I'm looking at the undercover guys, three cops. There’s the linebacker in the middle the young basketball player on your left and Meatloaf standing on your right. They are still talking to me, but they are one dimensional a cruel reality, so you send in your third string rookie quarterback to deal with them. Meanwhile your sixteen year old is a part of all this. She just happened to be here. They know she is an innocent bystander, well at least they do now. She is sitting on the end of one couch among the devastation created by ... I think they call them the law. No hurricane could have caused this kind of disarray not a lifetime of hurricanes. This is what the good guys do they tear places apart stand with sanctimonious airs. I think that my third string player is getting a lecture something about the friends his daughter keeps but I am barely paying attention to him. I want to crawl in to my daughter’s skin absorb all the pain she is feeling. I want to hug her mind gentle supply her the exhale she so desperately needs right now. You don’t choose unconditional love it chooses you. All that matters is how much my daughter is loved and can I trade it in for a magic sphere of protection. For her part she is scared to death but I can also feel she is somewhat relieved that this has come to an end. Relieved I am here. Relieved she will be coming home with me. All this will just be a nasty memory. We look at each other. We both think this 'too has passed.' I don’t like to judge, but boy it sure seems like the bad is on the flip side of this vinyl forty-five. That’s the law as it turns out. They can bust through your door with a battering ram. Ransack your home. Step on your soul. Hand out unwanted lectures leave with a pat on the back. You want to scream you want to yell foul. To what avail? Serve and protect for what, from what? They found two lousy marijuana plants, that’s right two lousy plants. They can get a search warrant destroy everything might get in the way of their large swollen heads and destroy lives, destroy people. They can destroy, destroy, destroy and destroy, never serve, absolutely never serve and less than protect a lot less. In fact they can put a young sixteen year old girl in danger walk out laughing. They will even be commended for their acts against humanity. Remember those laws. The right to be someone to not be looked down upon by the hired help. I guess in the end that is our only bonus in all of this, they are after all only the hired help. So let them worship their false Gods in their agnostic ways. From my perspective they have acted like demons this evening. Only one angel walks out of this man made mess. Thank God she’s my daughter. Feb 26 2016 armand

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2016

Details | Narrative | |

The Phone

The phone rings empty into the night.
Filling a void that brings strange comfort
to thoose around.

Rage eats away untill it bores a hole
straight through are hearts.
Whiskey cauterizes the wound.

Alone with fools we gather.
The bitter ones taking to there barstools.
the weak look to punish thoose happy
bastards.
Who dare to feel anything in the place of  
emptyness.

She left so many years befor.
At least her mortal soul did.
I rememeber when it was when I still
dared to dream.

Long befor reallity was a friend.
Lovers lie.
Motions keep us living.

She spoke but the words were empty as her heart.
So as strangers we parted just as we met.
With a bitter taste I never did reply.

The phone rang it's last time.
I herd it echo farewell down the hall.

I had to go so I never unlocked the door.
i just left my emotions hanging  like some
forgotten coat pushed back in
the closet.

Its been almost a year since that phone filled
the emptyness of my soul.
If only I had answered.

Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative | |

I Am a Sex God

What is it like to be a sex god?
To know the exact spot that will rock their worlds in ways
never seen before and never seen again, their parting words,
You are a God!
.
To have them scream your name, knowing
as soon as they’re gone you sit alone,
eating cold spaghetti from a can,
as you continue to detach yourself from
another emotionless encounter.
Nonetheless, they know you’re a god.
.
What is it to be this god with
so many lovers yet never knowing some names,
or what should solidify what you’ve shared?
The object of their fantasies yet to never see
“I love you” in their eyes, or hear it from
the lips of one lying beside you the next morning,
for there’s no one there.
.
What is it to be a sex god ruling none
for once those words are uttered, their worship is gone.
The god who rules universes of lust
where stars flash but never ignite,
leaving blackened skies crying out for full moons.
The god who has never felt another’s heart beat against his own,
who cries himself to sleep for the mistakes he’s made,
longing for the anticipation of 1,000 kisses that stand still in time?
.
I am this god, and I stand alone.

Copyright © Ra Oremraeh | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative | |

The Bell My Mother Rang

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 | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative | |

Am I Turning into a Lizard Serial Killer

Hmmm, where do I start? With deep sighs, I am sighing right now.
I just finished burying 2 lizards, and my heart is heavy...

Let me back up a bit...bear with me if I might turn out to be confusing here,
but I just need to write this, release something, in some way
Although I must admit, this is not exactly what I had in mind to write for this day,
hopefully I can write something more decent later...

I have been wanting to write something for my brother since yesterday,
since February 26 is his 10th year death anniversary.
The words remained stuck in my heart, 'til I fell asleep.

Visited him again today, heard mass for him, 
ate a Chinese dinner with my parents and sister, went home.

I now needed dessert. Got a piece of Ferrero Rocher, but just one wouldn't do.
So I got a piece of Almond Roca this time and ate it while walking.

All this time, I have managed to keep my tears away
but maybe somehow, someway, if tears want to fall, they will find a way?

I walk to that area again as I ate that piece of chocolate-
when what do you know, what do you know??

Oh sighs.

I stepped on a lizard.  Again 

Yes. Almost exactly the Same area, tail falls off, and the lizard skitters away.

But. I did not slip this time. But, yes, I still screamed, scaring everybody again.

I. Could. Not. Simply. Believe. IT.

One month and 25 days after, I step on a lizard. Again.

Today, of all days. As if I needed more reason to be sadder.

This time around, I had the sense to try to find that lizard. 
I had to know if it lived, if it was okay.
I pushed away the nearby cabinet.
And there it was.
Rather, and there they were.

The lizard that I stepped on now
and the petrified remains of the lizard that I stepped on on new year's day...
the other one didn't live after all :(

I know it was that lizard, same area, no tail, who else could it be?
Survival mechanism, no match for my killer foot.

By this time, I am crying, sobbing. 
Seriously, the tears just start falling, and my heart so heavy.
And I know it's from the combination of so many things.
The day itself, what I had just done, just things running through me.

What broke my heart, was to see that lizard. 
I was wearing rubber shoes this time, last time I was wearing slippers.
And its guts had spilled from its sides. 
I couldn't help but keep on saying, "Oh, oh, oh lizard, I am so sorry"

I touched it feebly, and it was literally gaping its mouth.
I don't think I can ever forget that?
Such a small creature, gasping, with its insides out, 
its skin on its legs and body scraped.
In pain.
Dying.

And it was all my fault.

My sister was there with me, trying to help in her own way.

But yes, there's nothing you can really do...I didn't want to stress it even more,
and let death finish what I did. 


There's so much I can glean from this, and I want to ramble on, so badly
but I will try to stop myself from rambling too much.

I put the two lizards, along with a note, the dates when I stepped on them 
(ok, killed them), and placed them carefully in a chocolate truffle box.

I buried them and still feel so sorry.

In some ways, this is can be so funny, and just  freaky & crazy (what's new, this is me?)
What were the odds??? Same place, same thing happening.
And I can't help but roll my eyes at myself as well, just finding it so hard to fathom
how I stepped on not just one but Two lizards in just two months.

I bet that the lizards are all afraid of me now, 
saying how I am a lizard killer. A serial lizard killer.
MO: stepping on them while screaming, maybe my screams also killed them off?

I actually took photos of both lizards, I am not sure why though.
Oh dear God, help me, I am acting like one, even documenting them.

I tell you, as I watched that lizard die, I couldn't help but just also
think of St. Jude (for the impossible) and St. Francis of Assisi (for animals).

I know he was dying, but somehow, yes, prayers still comfort me.

I just feel so guilty, with this happening. 

I still can't help but cry for those lizards, death by me, for no reason at all,
no purpose served.

Animals, people....death.

I know it's all a part of life... 
but it still doesn't change the fact how death can change us
and of how I am responsible for two lizard deaths.
I know they were just small animals, but Still. They were living creatures.

Death can change us in small ways, some in big ways, negatively or positively.

It all boils down to death transforming us one way or another...

I won't expound on it anymore, this is too long,
but one of the ways I can think of comparing it to, is that of a chemical change,
maybe of the spirit, the soul? Not merely a physical change.


And we can never be the same. 






022720141207123552

Copyright © binibining P.iNk | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative | |

Whatever Floats Your Boat


She floats like a message in a bottle on a massive ocean of crystal blue waves towards a horizon she never reaches.
Maurice Yvonne

Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative | |

Raven's Plight

Raven was Death. She dwelt in death. She lived on death. Ages past, she had worn 
the blue-black, purple, feathers of the raven and dined on royalty at Tower hill. A 
tumble from grace had lodged her here in this fragile form. No more would her maw 
drip ruby red, no more would her caw fill the mourning, or her soaring flight slice 
the air like a Frenchman’s sword. A Raven, with clipped wings, was she.

Centuries had passed since she, in her feathered form, had feasted on the King.
**Bran the Blessed, giant, King of Wales, had been her down fall. Cursed was she,
as she dined on his eyes, in the field of battle. Ah, what did a raven know 
of the curses of man.  But, she knew now. Bran's head was placed,
as a talisman, on the grounds of Tower Keep in Londontown. She, 
transformed, cursed, walks the night in this beautiful, weak, human vessel for
as long as, Bran's name is remembered.

Her satin-sandaled feet hold her earthbound. Just as superstition 
holds her clip-winged brethren in the Tower courtyard, Bran's Curse holds her here. 
No longer can she fly, but, she is free to roam. The churchyard calls her. Ashen skies no longer welcome her, but the gravestones, spade-shaped like the tails of carrion feeder, beckon. The evening corpse has arrived. Draped in mourning weeds of black, her death-like pall, luminescent in the moonlight, her lips a tell-tale crimson, she arms her self with a firebrand. The bluish steel glistens. Death with a gun, certainly, one could see the 
over kill? She laughs. Looking skyward, she calls. “Husband*, children…” 
she mimicks the caw of her unfettered kin. “Come to Ma Ma..dinner is served.”  

*Raven's mate for life...or death? ;)
**Bran is the Welsh word for Raven/ King Bran the Blessed

***A NIGHTMARE

Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative | |

True Praise

I used to look at your wrinkly hands
And see the veins follow routes like a map
Your fingers shook like a spayed chihuahua on the piano keys
Demonstrating the chord in which I was supposed to play after you

I was thinking instead about the stool we were sharing
How old and fragile  the wooden piece was
The green-blue floral padding faded and worn
The chipped, wobbly legs 
That creaky sound when you repositioned...
And I was praying it wouldn't collapse under our bodies

Your voice was gentle and calm 
Softly pushing me back to my practice
 and my fingers played that bright G Chord
“Very good,” You praised with a smile
Your voice so small and lightly faded
But still loving and pleasant

You explained to me arpeggios and broken chords
And I was glad it was you explaining it
I remember yelling at my dad
And throwing a big tantrum over playing “Allouette” 
His straight harsh voice cut my fingers off the keys
As he ordered me to pay attention
Watching his hairy fingers demonstrate the left hand
And then the right
Pressing loudly and ramming the song into my every being

And I remembered 
I was never concerned about making him angry
I would laugh if he made a mistake in teaching
Or if he stumbled on his words - which was frustratingly rare
I would scream if he corrected me
And yet I was determined for his praise
That he never gave 

Your son loved music like you
And he wanted me to love it just like him
In an annoyed kind of way, I obliged
But I would make him suffer for forcing it on me
Even if I couldn't deny it was something I would always love

We never have our piano lessons anymore, Grandma 
But I will never forget how you taught me
That stool remains in the room
It hasn't been sat on for days

And it took far more than mere days
To receive from your son…true praise

But that’s okay
I will pray it collapses under his body

Copyright © Laura Breidenthal | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative | |

Bottled Up

Summer of '99

How ironic. There I was, waking to a magnificent kaleidoscopic sky 
and I had no one to share it with. I thought you'd be there but I knew 
that it was too good to have lasted. It was too perfect--
you were too perfect, all the way down to your cheesy pick up
line... "Steamy Summer Love" indeed...

But what is steam anyway? I guess the love that we shared
that summer literally evaporated. All at the heat of the moment.
How cliched. But it sure burned me, now I realize how true it is 
that steam is way much hotter than boiling water. 
Was it all a dream? I tend to think so, but then 
I finger the bracelet around my wrist, 
and realize it was true after all.
 Breath on breath. Skin to skin. Heartbeat to heartbeat.
Soul to soul? I thought so.

I've come back here, to this same spot where we were a year ago,
just for me to let go.
 Literally bottling up everything... 
this write goes in this bottle, as well as some sand here 
and your joke of a bracelet.
I'm tossing this out to sea, because that's where it belongs--
those memories to be swallowed up. 
Passion purged 
by angry waves...

Was it a fantasy? Maybe, but then I hold him close to me
and realize it wasn't. I named him Nicholas, you know.
See, I remembered your name.


---------****-------------------------****-------------------------------

Summer of 2008

I've come back to this place to mull over something rotten
 I did a decade ago. And remember-- that gorgeous face, 
those mesmerizing eyes and smile... that amazing spirit. 
And hit myself on why I was such a fool. 

Then I see this bottle, and in it is some sort of letter, 
and what is this? A bracelet? An all too familiar one--
holding it in my palm, I get a chill not brought on by the sea breeze.
Reading the note, I burn up, ashen.
I then weep till my eyes and soul feel like dying.

I have a son.
and her name has escaped my memory. 



** July 18 2010r06262012

Copyright © binibining P.iNk | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

Sleepless Nights

Insomnia, familiar friend,
crawled into bed this summer night
so once again, inflamed with dread
I wander now in pitch of dark 
and touch the places, now by heart, that sprawl unstirred by weary minds

This lonely place, where I used to come
where armless grief, and headless doubt
and worry filled the rooms
I know you cold, my land of oz
So ruthless do you change your face
into a place I once refrained

But,  don't pretend to make me fear, toxic robber of my sleep
I've known you much too long
You masquerade in shades of gray
And now I know that dark of night, is not the blackest thing
And room by room, I'll play the game
until the light of day

The shadows magnify your art
and though they magnify my loss of sleep
and while I've tossed and turned in vain
I've lost the lonely albatross
that pulled against the grain

From hooded thresholds I embark
to find a language of the dark
A liquid language of a mystic night, 
that switches on the light

I've walked the halls of ghosts I knew, and those I hope to meet
I've felt the stares, and shared myself, no secrets left to keep
But not tonight, familiar friend
you bask in myth I understand
I'll fill the tasks that need my hands, until the light of day...
---------------


For Leonora Galinta's Contest

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative | |

Portrait Of Red

Pain is just another form of medication, feeding the demons that nest inside.
A temporary fix, a band aid per say, covering the secrets I am trying to hide.

I am like the right hand to the devil, with the ability to manipulate others thoughts and emotions.  Exploiting there fears, insecurities and dreams, I can flip in a split second, merely to show my complete and utter devotion.

My eyes and ears are magnified by ten, a gift to some but a burden to me.  I close my eyes to try and escape for a brief moment just to feel free.

Intrigued by the sharp edges of a blade, and the power that it contains.  Just a simple brush across my skin, paints a beautiful portrait of red, dripping like falling drops of rain.

I hurt myself on the outside to kill the evil that lives within.  I'ts relief flowing through my veins, with a rush of instant gratification to make me grin.

The truth to any story always has an open window, it will sneak it's way through.  The eyes can be read like a paper back novel, every word, every image, a tragedy but true.

I'm always aware of my situation and my surroundings, even though it appears I am not paying attention.  I see all, I hear all, studying anyone and everyone requires my full concentration.

Fantasying about death and the peace it brings, oddly is what makes me smile.  To finally put an end to my journey in hell, only keeps me in denial.

Overwhelmed with exhaustion at the end of everyday, I lay my head to rest.  I think to myself that maybe someday, I will finally pass life's test.

Copyright © Priscilla Ford | Year Posted 2013

Details | Narrative | |

Remains

Here
In this centrifuge of sanctimony
Where I sip the atrophied air of my ancestors
The shipwrecked tide of my unborn children
Angels dangle from a precipice of silence
Strained by strings of a theoretical God
Sung by eyes of defiance
Which navigate the jagged epitaphs below
Searching
For that one sediment of salvation
That one moment of submission
Hoping he will see
His wonders, atrocities, his indifference
To cast a shadow of conviction
Over shivering light
There
Across the inlet where ivory columns crumbled
And modernity now deftly mumbles
Its fleets of fortune baptized
Nigh the bronze dust of golden millennia
Where history lies with its victims
A fugue of fossilized souls
A silent prayer remains
Here

Copyright © Xavier Keough | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative | |

A Note To None

If I rewrote the story and somehow are paths
did not cross.
In temptations fire.
We would only know the cold of others.

Freezing in the silent agony unable 
to speak.
The statue remains its meaning erased.

As into others we will seek.
The emotions we no longer share.
Alone I am now inthe isolation of many blank
stares.

The jokes are but a wall built to conceal.
All that I am.
That I could never reveal.

Use the substances to keep you numb.
And let the voices take you to another place.

Beyond the madness there lies 
beauthy in pain.
And always truth.
Destruction breeds art.

I light up in a room of vacant stares
and empty lives.
To blind in addiction to know the other does exist.

In this den like some scene from a opium parlor from the west. 
Ashes hit the floor along with my pride.

This battle im losing with devilish glee.
All but nothing is left.
so in the shadows I confide. 

Sometimes wisdom can come from great acts of stupidty 
sometimes pain brings us closer to the truth 
nothing stays buried   it just lays in wait.

Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

A Slight Return

Darkness is my life that apears in
light.
Has it come to just another fix.
The smile does conceal my losing fight.

The music the screams within.
The lies eat away at the man I can no 
longer stand.

Hollow is thy heart.
Crimson stains all that is never held in
hand.

It started a game now it's a curse.
In darkness I speak to you
all I could never say.
The man once known to you.
Has all but faded away.

And as I slip into adictions abyss.
Candle lit memories were taken
with the breeze. 
That killed that romantic glow.

As the stranger who exists in the form
once you did love.
Twist's into a form you cannot understand.

I ask out of love for you to forget.
The monster that haunts this form.

In memories true love we will forever know.
The emptyness of of this life.
And the once splendid candle lights glow. 
In truth we die. 
As we live. 
So must we cry. 

Not every every question has a answer my friends. 
Gonzo.

Copyright © DR Robert Gonzo | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

That Sinking Feeling

Murky sea this day as she wades chest deep
Battling strong waves with every step
No other swimmers, no lifeguards, no sun
Nary a gull on the beach so windswept

Solitude is her preference, she floats
Closes her eyes, attempts to clear her head
She’s tossed about, but opts to remain
She’d rather be here than alone in bed

Suddenly she feels a slippery nudge
To her feet she slips, scans surrounding sea
No life in sight, but she’s drifted out far
Her heart pumps fast, she swims feverishly

Another bump!  Is this her worst nightmare?
Sea creature preying ‘neath turbulent surf?
White caps surround and her cries reach no ears
A painful sting, she’s  p
                                  u
                                     l
                                       l
                                         e
                                           d
                                              .
                                               .
                                                .



For Gareth's "Leave Me Hanging" challenge

Copyright © Carolyn Devonshire | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

Today

it hurts again today
i wake up in pain
tears flow
pain grows
no one loves me
all alone
please hold my hand
let me love
let me be loved 
make the pain go away
soon 
so i can stop crying on the inside
and live again
laugh again
be whole again
it hurts again today
go away

Copyright © lm klopp | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative | |

DESPAIR

He despaired. He was despondent and desperate.
He was impelled to violent action but restrained from acting out.
He had finally given up. He had lost all hope.
Disheartened and dispirited his will had collapsed.
Lacking confidence or courage, depression defined him. 
He languished in gloom and grieved in lament.
He succumbed to a wretched tribulation,
a miserable melancholy, so forlorn was his ordeal.
He anguished over his prospects, so painful was his worry.
Desperate and wholly dejected the criminal faced his judgment.
As justice was served he fretted, ruminated, chafed, sulked and moped.
Now he faced the torment and ridicule he so easily delivered.
Finally he too understood the meaning of despair.

Copyright © Ed Coet | Year Posted 2008

Details | Narrative | |

Drowning in Fire


The flames are rising,  my fears have come alive!
Far away, are sirens wailing
I must decide….I must decide…
My head spins, my hands are numb
What to reach for?   What to grab?  
What desperate measure must I take? 
What treasure lost…would cause my heart to break?

I quake in fear…I scan my brain
I see embers burning, swirling as falling rain

Our documents? With taxes due…what will we do without such proof?
The doll I’ve kept from childhood? The crystal vase I cherish? 
The pearls that came from mother, or the photos of our family?
Letters from Dad, when he was far away,
       or satin slippers worn by baby…from way back when, or... was it only yesterday?


I’m calming down,…..
My breath is found,  for now I know that won't drown

Not in fire, not in fear….not today, not in sorrow….
What to take?….. Nothing!
For treasures clutched in trembling hands, are never really gone….
                                                                
I have had them all, and will take them in my dreams for tomorrow….


.......................................................
Inspired by the Contest: Last Chance
Sponsor: Kristin Bruni

Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2012

Details | Narrative | |

this was me

it began so innocently
we exchanged ideas on poetry
his art, the suffering he endured
he preyed upon my compassion
as he meticulously bided his time...

i felt safe as we expressed
our mutual love of words
i was excited, i was learning,
unbeknowst to me, i was his prey..

many months and thousands of hours, 
talking, reaffirmed my trust; faith in him
he shared his life, triumps & tragedies
i supported all he desired for himself..

i understood, i felt his pain, 
his drive i admired, he overcame tremedous odds,
became a doctor so others would not suffer as he had;
he baited me; the innocent and naieve one.

living life with no regret,
i chose to take a leap of faith,
he guided me, alleviated my fears,
of promises to cherish and adore me..

as a tiger waits patiently to pounce on his prey
i was oblivious to his hatred inside,
he was a master of manipulation
his mission - to destroy me..

i felt he was worth giving 
up all i knew to build a life
he so lovingly described to me,
little did i know, his words - poison..

america bound i left everything i knew; i loved.
the terror of his drunken rages, his icy silence,
the cruelty of his words stung like red hot coals.
what he admired most about me,intensified his hatred.

the vacancy in his eyes was terrifying, 
i was alone in a strange country, 
knowing no one, in a house, not a home, 
full of tension, rage, abuse; numb and in shock;
this was my reality..

with each painstaking day of living in terror
dreading his arrival, my fear reached new heights;
i had enough; i was leaving.
his rage increased, his words pure venom..

i was numb, shaking, fear drove me to action
he became desperate, i did not sleep 
for fear of never waking, his actions so terrifying
i felt a strength within, empowering me..

planning my escape, fear became my ally,
i reached the airport and did not stop shaking
until safely on the plane, doors shut, 
moving down the runway to take-off;
i wept, i crumbled, i collapsed.

jubilantly at home, i felt peace, safe, 
and soaked in the beauty of my freedom; my home.
it has been six weeks; i have flashbacks, 
terror still haunts me; i am determined 
to not let another change me.

i am healing and am grateful for every
moment i smile, smell a flower, witness
the marvel of each sunrise and sunset.
i am a blessed girl.

~this was me~ 

Copyright © Lynn Marie | Year Posted 2007

Details | Narrative | |

Blinded by "Beauty"

If only she had known.
Then maybe she would have saved you.
Maybe she wouldn't have turned her back.
So that you wouldn't have to face this all alone.
She swore to him that this would never end.
Another lie, if only he had seen this coming.
The water overflowing.
A beating heart lying exposed.
Left to die alone.
And she turned her back on you.
With zero regards for the consequences.
She only thought about herself.
And the shadows casted so thin at first.
Leading to an overwhelming darkness.
What  could he have done to prevent this?
Where'd she go when he needed her the most? 
Another question going unanswered.
Just look what you've done.
You place the blame on everyone but yourself.
Trying to cover up all of these lies.
Your jaded veil, a facial disguise.
You left him for the vultures to feast upon.
Oh my God.
He would give anything to escape this shattered place you made his world.
Will he ever make it out alive? 
He's craving something new.
Something to open his eyes.
Sick of being drowned by a traitor in a once beautiful disguise.
I'm coming for you tonight.
You'll never make this out alive.
I'm sick of your bull####.
Unimaginable lies.
This is the death of you.
You've forgotten what it's mean to breathe.
He let you get to his heart.
He let you wrap your hands around his soul.
But now his life is in my hands, and I will break the chains of your control.
You'll never make it out alive.
You'll never You'll never make this out alive.
Is this the end?
The end of you?
I hate to say I told you so.
Don't tell me this is not what you want.
I'm taking ahold of this.
I stand in front of you, you've become a mute.
Not saying a word.
Coward.
I will set my ground.
And without a sound.
I'll pull the trigger to save a life.
He will now make this out alive.

Copyright © Logan Saucillo | Year Posted 2009

Details | Narrative | |

Black Death

The ooze keeps flowing; bleeding, the earth cries,
"Someone help!! Stop the leaching; stop the black death!!"
Cover the wounds of greed, cover the sickness.
Help the innocent lives, being destroyed by this flow.
Pulsing, life of the USA, our heartbeat is weakening with each gallon lost.
Who will revive the country? Who is our super hero? Who has the courage?
Black gold has turned to our death.





**Thank God for our mothers, family and friends. 
God in heaven, hear my plea, give the engineers the knowledge to stop the oil flow 
into the Gulf and help the sea life to escape. Keep the people safe who work and live 
on the coast and restore the economy of the USA. Forgive us our sins, keep us safe, 
praise you for your blessings!! I pray in Jesus's name, Amen Thank you Jesus!!

Copyright © Doris Culverhouse | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

When It Happens

I cried               Why? Maybe it is because no one understands me.
                         Doesn't stop to listen to my thoughts. Cares less 
                         about my presence to the naked eye. Doesn't Care.

I cried               Why? Maybe it is because they are too intrusive being
                         happy with their lives. Because I smile a lot and I am
                         not provoked at all by anyone. Doesn't mind.

I cried               Why? Because of my concealed past that I cannot share.
                         I am unsatisfied with me and who I am. Sulking 
                         feels better to me than laughing. Hates the world.

I cried               Why? No one is there for me. I do not want to be figured
                         out. Trying means nothing to me, I am not going to become
                         flawless in any way. Love is gone.

I cried               Why? My questions are unanswered. Invisibility describes 
                         me. Caring deprives me. Interest excites me. Loneliness
                         surrounds me.  Is left alone.

I cried               Because it frees my mixed emotions. Tears are the only
                         thing that seem to understand, comfort and help me 
                         become stronger, wiser and much more of a secret. 

I smile              In the end when I fool others into believing that it is 
                        all okay. It is the only thing that will satisfy me.. well
                        at least for now.



Rebecca C*

Copyright © Rebecca C | Year Posted 2011

Details | Narrative | |

And Then

And Then…

My work finished
     I glanced back at the clock
Ah… The Witching Hour
     Hung heavy on the next tock
My thoughts raced back
     To childhood days
          To scary stories
               Round campfires haze
                    To daunting dares
                         In dark woods maze
               And then… It caught my eye

A phantom shape
     That just moments before
Had been shadows tossed
     Twixt the walls and floor
And I admit
     Twas’ dimly lit
          Random shapes
               In chances knit
                    Poorly viewed
                         From where I sit
               And then… I saw it move

Just then I thought
     Tis’ time to trust and pray
And steady my hearts resolve
     Should this be the reckoning day
And then I swear
     The room grew cold
          Events purpose
               Moved to unfold
                    My chest I clutched
                         My soul to hold
               And then… I heard it speak

“Time is at hand”
     And those words comforted it seemed
And my God in a timeless moment
     I became one with all I’d dreamed
Tis’ certain this
     Event of page
          Will visit all
               Upon life’s stage
                    Fully quenching
                         Life’s burning rage
               And then…

Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

Me, Myself, and I - (Part 1)

Hello Friends... I suffer from Severe Bi-Polar Disorder and this submission was inspired by 
actual events that occured during one of my especially critical manic episodes. Be sure and 
read Part 2 to complete the poem and leave your comments on the Part 2 submission. Thank 
you for allowing me to share my pain for pain shared is pain diminished 


Me, Myself, and I...


“There are things that concern us,”
		Consensed my “Selves” in earnest
““We” fear that “I” have succumbed to delusion”

“And after careful deliberation
		It is with much hesitation
That we choose to delineate upon this confusion”


“Fact is your intuition
		Is riddled with superstition
And your judgment leaves much to be desired”

“So you leave us no recourse
		Don’t push us to use force”
It is then that the “I” was summarily fired


I exclaimed “By whose authority?” Response, “Rule of majority”
“The “Myself” and the “Me,” (forthwith the “We”), are experts in our field”

“And with much technique and time
		And some forays into the sublime
The nature of your malady will be revealed”


“So to keep yourself from having a fit
		Step back and just calm down a bit”
“We,” they said, “certainly have this under control”

“We swear this won’t hurt at all”
		Then I felt my inhibitions fall
Still I said a prayer to God that He keep my soul


You know, fact is I do feel off axis
		As evidenced by such parapraxis
As this prose that I, (or is it “Us”), seek to pen

And with my mind feeling numb
		I finally chose to succumb
And allow the “Me” and the “Myself” to begin


And then came questions in a flurry
		Answer, answer and please do hurry
Not one moment of respite did they give

They pushed and they prodded
		With every “T” crossed and “I” dotted
My mind felt like it had gone through a sieve


And all this psycho-analysis
		Is causing my mind paralysis
The questions, can you stop with the questions please

“Yes, oh yes indeed
		I do believe we have what we need
To make an attempt to identify your unknown neuroses”

Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

Me, Myself, and I - (Part 2)

Hello Friends... I suffer from Severe Bi-Polar Disorder and this submission was inspired by 
actual events that occured during one of my especially critical manic episodes. Be sure and 
read Part 1 first so as to get the true gist of the poem and leave your comments here on the 
Part 2 submission. Thank you for allowing me to share my pain for pain shared is pain 
diminished.


Me, Myself, and I... (continued)


“Your, (Or “Our”), symptoms seem to intermit
		And the fact that “You’re,” (“We’re”), a hypocrite
Tis no wonder we’re having such problems with diagnosis”

Then “I” had an idea so grand
		To dispense with this at my own hand
A self-inflicted coup de grace would be my prognosis


So while the “Me” and the “Myself” squabbled
		With courage newly cobbled
“I” spotted the dresser drawer and made my run

With fingers fiercely fumbling
		Whilst they continued grumbling
“I” produced from the depths of the drawer a shiny gun


And now my life, though ill-fated
		Was soon to be vindicated
This would affect us all equally the same

Would be no myself or me
		No you, him, us, or we
But an inclusive all would be to blame


It took me a moment to figure
		Out the safety on the trigger
Then “I,” (or “Us”), prepared to do the dirty deed

Then the barrel found my temple
		And as it settled into the dimple
A still small voice did my “selves” choose to heed


Hence a moment of clarity 
		Harkened me to posterity
And I thought what a legacy to leave behind

“Can’t we all find a way
		To save this miserable day
And avoid a broken body for someone to find”


And then deep within my soul
		I felt and heard a simple drum roll
And the differing sides of me just subsided

And with my mind now as one
		I worked to get this all undone
The whole business of this stuff I derided


And tis now true of fact
		That I survived this ordeal intact
And lived to raise my face unto the sky
 
And here now as it ends
		I find I’ve made good friends
With the “Me”, the “Myself,” and the “I”


Thank you for taking the time to share in my poetry. Please feel free to leave your thoughts 
or comments here on this page. 

J. Scott Burns...

Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

The Death Of A Friend

There was no casket to be set into the earth.
Only memories were to be  burried washed clean 
by the bottles embrace.

Strangers  do we part a vist to a familar cold place 
by the oceans shore.
Words spoken never hurt when you  understand 
human nature.

The dark inwhich  I only know.
A dark river flowing unto the sea.
Its broken current flow's with no true direction.

As children we start fresh only to loose the spark.
Dancing under a shroud of tenderness  apon lifes 
harsh stage.

Bitter souls reflect  anger lost only tears of  regret.
Me i just cast demons down   in some  twisted hope
I just might forget.

Sometimes you gotta realize when you crash through that glass
celling  you only got to look forward to the floor.
The bottle now empty I cast into  the dark waters
eternal bed.
Along  with a memory  I'll pretend to erase.

Distanse is only a thought away.
The road echos  my lifes song.
Underground burried  so deadly the truth
just as sweet as the lie.

Barbwire and daydreams  plague my soul.
Like the bottle that sit's within the depths 
of a water cast tomb.

I know strangers  as friends.
Night as backdrop.
Farewell  seems  fitting as hello.
When the river has run dry    
To whom will go?

Read more: http://hellopoetry.com/poem/the-death-of-a-friend/#ixzz0suxHEd00

Copyright © John Patrick Robbins AKA Gonzo | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

A Christmas Tale

As evenings dark began to close in
a little girl wipes her nose on her sleeve.
Listless and hungry she walks in the snow
a poor and lost soul, one cold New Year’s Eve.

Her dead mothers slippers were much to large,
they were flip flopping while crossing the street,
two wild carriages coming full speed
made her lose them, now she walks in bare feet.

She glances in windows as she walks by,
families eating and making good cheer,
her pains from hunger she tries to ignore,
she’s starving and freezing, poor little dear.

The north winds cold breeze keeps blowing her face
catches her breath as it blows back her hair.
She spots a dark alley where she can lay,
Tired and windblown she can no longer care.

She curls in a ball tucking frozen feet
carefully under her old blanket cloak,
she leans on the building, closing her eyes
now given up and her spirits are broke.

A shaggy old dog, nudges her gently
she hugs him and draws him close to her heart,
smiling she whispers, we’ll go together 
when Jesus finds us, we’ll never more part

Then both of their eyes close, she bathes in dreams,
sitting at a fire, with food on the hearth.
When she awakes, a lady stands smiling,
pats the old dog saying, good boy old Barth.



The Little Match Girl by H.C. Anderson
Most terribly cold it was; it snowed, and was nearly quite dark, and evening-- the last evening of the year. In this cold and darkness there went along the street a poor little girl, bareheaded, and with naked feet. When she left home she had slippers on, it is true; but what was the good of that? They were very large slippers, which her mother had hitherto worn; so large were they; and the poor little thing lost them as she scuffled away across the street, because of two carriages that rolled by dreadfully fast.


Written by Brenda Meier-Hans 
12.03.2014
Contest: A Christmas Tale
Sponsor Debbie Guzzi

Copyright © Brenda Meier-Hans | Year Posted 2014

Details | Narrative | |

Midnight Again

Its midnight again, TV on
The sofa becomes my bed
As the confusion of our lives
Fills my weary head

At times I drift off
And think of days gone by
How I yearn for yesterday
So bad it makes me cry

Other times I feel just like a kid
With something new to share
And you put your soul around me 
And tell me how much you care

At times I think its working
Like I’ve finally met the mark
And all too quickly it ends
And I’m alone, on the couch, in the dark

Why can’t it all be the way it was
That day on top of the hill
Am I really as bad a person 
As you can make me feel


Inside I try so hard
Outside it seems I don’t
I want to meet your needs
But I don’t know what you want

I try to be your husband
Your lover and your friend
Somehow I never am
And I find myself here again

I try to be a father
But those efforts just backfire
Somehow I manage to destroy
Everything that I desire

I ask myself, “Is it worth it?”
Why don’t I start anew
And after hours of contemplation
Just one answer, “I love you”

And resolved to that end
I lay my heart to sleep
And I pray the lord
Our souls together he will keep

A silent kiss to you and the kids
In hopes of a better day
As I close my eyes to dream
And let my troubles drift away 

Copyright © James Burns | Year Posted 2010

Details | Narrative | |

School Days

(and long brown stockings) 

I detest these stockings,
they're coarse, brown and ugly.

I hate the garters more;
elastic circles that cut off 
circulation and fail to halt 
the laddering down my skinny legs.

If only . . . I picture myself
in warm jeans and no teasing
from Tommy Rogers.

I put the garters to better use,
roll the repulsive stockings
down around my ankles. 

Tommy taunts,
"Who gave you
jointed toothpicks for legs?"

I lost it.

Now, Tommy has a black eye
and my nose is in the corner.

Copyright © Cona Adams | Year Posted 2014