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Prose Poetry Angst Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Angst

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Just Three Pounds

Three pounds a month they
ask, save the Tiger, save the
Panda, save the Jaguar, save
the rain forest.
Three pounds a month for
the children's hospital and 
for the save the children's
fund, the RSPCA, RSPB,
Cancer research, just, only
three pounds a month, now
my pockets are empty with
all these donations.
Our governments, they also
donate, mainly to the 
FAT CAT SOCIETY
yes those poor sods who
caused the majority of man's
suffering with their greed and
avarice.
Please just three pound a 
month for the Daniel 
Cheesemans poetry fund.

Copyright © Daniel Cheeseman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A SLave's Cry

Stranded in this place
I cannot recognize
Abandoned and lonely
No one hears my cries
AS i walk through this wasteland
Of wilderness and desolation
I am consumed with anguish
I walk this road with hesitation
On every turn that i come upon
The is more pain than at the last turn
Agony and torment spews from my pores
With every step i take more pain i earn
Until i am enveloped with grief
Buried alive on my feet
Dirt in my eyes,nose,mouth,and lungs
I throw up my flag of defeat
Each painful blow leaves behind a deep gash
That is constantly reopened never able to heal
Infection has now set into my heart
Slashes and scars on my body reveals the detail
Of the despair embedded deep in my soul
That tells a tale of a soul so lost
A soul wandering through this wilderness
A tale of what being born black cost

Copyright © April Mitchell | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blood Of Your Passion

He's staring off into oblivion;
dead-lights, who of their own free will choose to illuminate
the gray matter microwave that is TV:
too vain, too vulgar. Thought Vanquisher,
brought to you by your friendly-facade-keepers:
the politicians pussyfooting on a pedestal
built of an uninformed (yet united) public -
whose belief in "connection" is in reference
to a wall socket. Not love. Not kindness.
Who unwittingly become hamsters on a wheel,
convinced of stars held in our pockets; while promises of prosperity
dangle on a string. Like Maya's caged bird we sing
- but not of freedom - to sing of that would be akin
 to declaring the sun has risen in the east. Freedom is a given,
at least that's the belief that's bandied about.
There's a boldface lie in that belief . . staring us in the face.
Are we too ignorant to see or too coddled to care?
Organic antenna, playing a fuzzy station;
our loved one's voice like a pesky fly -
six-legged silhouette on precious phones.
Halfhearted hmms-and-yeahs exuding from lazy lips. A lone
wolf, misunderstood youth - the euphemisms of today,
tomorrow's regrets. The diarrhea of words floating
in cyberspace; ricocheting off planets, but never touching earth.
The constipation of passion - nonchalant bloodbath of values -
no one strong enough to carry the hearse. We'll have to work
together - in unity redirected - to carry the load of our ancestor's past.
We descendants who reap the aftermath; let's carry on and forgo the calm.
Complacency is no destiny to pursue; crack the bottle against the bow,
that ship has sailed. Let us dabble in truth, instead of sugarcoat lies;
deception maybe be sweet, but give it time, it'll go straight to your thighs.
Embrace controversy with a bear hug, and give tyranny a timeout.
And should our words sharpen swords instead of mold minds,
may the massacre be only metaphorical - and the white flag of truce
be mistaken for a canvas - painted with the blood of your passion.

Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Bob

He used to always sit silently 
in the middle of the bench, 
like he owned it.
Tattered old bag by his side, 
throwing breadcrumbs
at grateful pigeons.
He must have been in his 60's,
balding, but still with silver
strands on the side.
Always in a faded grey suit,
with a sullied white shirt.
Which had out grown his
jaded, gaunt appearance.
To me his sluggish eyes
seemed fatigued by grief.
I was young, but I could see
he was haunted by memories
submerged in his mind.
Others passed him by,
but ignored him; I don't think he cared.
He did intrigue me, but
apprehension lingered.
On the day I managed a coy
smile, he stuck up his thumb,
but never said a word.
The next, I said "hi",
but he only stuck up his thumb.
A few months later, 
I called him Bob and asked 
if he was all right - again just a thumb.
On a cold November,
I gave him my plastic poppy.
To my shock, he got up and saluted,
in respect, I saluted back..
Five years, sun, rain and snow,
Bob only stuck up a silent thumb.

It was one of the best days of my life
when I passed my driving test! (freedom)
Driving was a nice relief from walking,
until the day it broke down, close to the path.
Curious, I walked toward the bench,
which was now decaying - he was not there..
Just a plaque in the middle....

Wow.... I didn't know his name was Michael...

15 April 2016


Copyright © Silent One | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Beautiful people

People make me smile the way 
their eyes shine when they talk 
about something they love 
when they feed me food. Or tell 
me how much they love me 
when I look into someone's 
eyes and see it I see that look 
in their eyes I see love in them 
When I see someone laugh and 
have fun in what they do 
The way they cry for there lost 
ones
When they give me a smile and 
tell me how beautiful I am 
People are beautiful well some 
are and I wish someday I can 
find someone who will look at 
me and say "you have that look 
in your eye"    what look?
"Happiness" 
I want to find someone so 
beautiful in the inside I can't 
stay away they amaze me with 
what they say an do how they 
will dance in the rain and know 
every detail about me
Will bring me Starbucks on a 
rainy day and just talk about 
the stars 
I want someone beautiful

Copyright © brittney lopez | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Frozen Ground

I bent down to pick up a penny from the frozen ground.
I could smell myself, the acrid stench of sweat and soot,
the taint of vapored vagrancy
that marked my movements, masking me from the reality that used to be.
I hate me and what I am, more than you could ever think to,
but more so becuase you do, with your  limp laughter and scared stares. 

I never knew my life never needed me to know it could all go away in a single day.

 I see it all through dirty windows draped in singed eyelashes and gutter grime,
 the pathetic gazes from afar as another afternoon of sale shopping and shoe sizing is ruined 
by my appalling appearance.

"How dare you be here!  What's wrong with you?"
"Go get a job you junkie,  you slob,  just jump a bus so you can't disgust us with your sewer 
shoes and hard luck blues. You deserve the dirt and a kick in the teeth from the steel-tipped 
toe of a jackboot too. No one wants to see a scummy sack of crap like you, bending down to 
pick our scraps off the frozen ground."

The helping hand of man slaps the taste of humanity from my mouth with each volatile volley 
of acid arrow analogies angrily slung and fired furiously  from the bows of bastard 
businessmen and bleach blonde bimbos.
My weary wounds fill with the sea-salt of sarcastic statements and unflattering finger 
gestures from frat boys as I bend down to pick up a penny I found on the frozen ground. 
"Head's up means luck," Abe smiled at me, and suddenly my thoughts began to run 
differently.

I took a long look at the lingering light of one of the sweetest sunsets I had ever seen, and 
the simplicity and majesty washed over me.
There was no use in listening to abuse and accusations and obtuse observations any more. 
I was being shown a door.
Wrapped in the warmth of the amber and amethyst glow, I finally smile for a little while and 
close my dirty windows against the icy winds of waning words.
Tomorrow, someone will bend down to pick me up from the frozen ground.

Copyright © Curt Mongold | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Accepting Pain.

She's sliding and if you look past, if you watch her.....

maybe you'll capture a glance of her yesterday.....

“Sunrise only falls when you don't believe tomorrow exists,” I explained, in my most
patient tone.


She bit her lip and shook her head, she followed me into my room and shut the door, she
locked us in, for an hour it seemed, and whispered in my ear....

“I can write pain better than anyone,” she informed me, “I'm brilliant at tears.”

And with this she tore pages out of my beloved sketch book, the one that no one is allowed
to touch, and just when my jaw fell with the shock of her brazenness, I shut my mouth as I
watched her pen turn letters into sobs....

I followed the words as they ran down, as ink turned into pretty swirls that screamed art
and I told her...


“Your angst belongs in a museum.”



I had never seen her smile before, I had never heard her grin, but her lips parted at that
moment as a single curl dropped down her previously wrinkled forehead and I saw the beauty
in eyes that cry and knew that she had realized I accepted it.


“Oh, but who would pay to hear me scream?” she asked, almost joking, as she crossed her
legs and sat forward a bit, as her teeth tugged on her bottom lip, as she looked more her
age and resembled a child instead of me....


“I would,” I replied, as I pushed back her hair and kissed her on the nose, “I would, if I
didn't hear you in my dreams almost every night.”




Copyright © JeanMarie Marchese | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Blackbird

Trapped like a bird in this filthy cage 
Where I am starved of compassion and understanding 
Left to survive on meager crumbs 
Of affection and tolerance
Held captive and unable to fly and be free 
From the physical and emotional restrictions 
Placed upon me by my keeper
 
Who’s only reason for my presence it seems 
Is to stay its loneliness and insecurity 
To feed its selfish need for control 
Through its twisted concept 
Of love and adoration 
I am looked upon as a possession 
Other than the living, breathing individual 
That I long to be 

So now I sit upon my proverbial perch 
In my so called gilded cage
In the confines of my seemingly mundane existence 
And walk though my mind confused and alone
Aimlessly wandering through the now empty spaces 
That no longer hold the dreams or aspirations 
Which I once thought gave my life purpose 

Memories which were bright and alive 
Full of promise and hope but have faded away 
Into a past that is now grey and bleak 
Devoid of anything worth remembering 
My footfalls echo in the silence 
Giving testament that these memories 
Have been empty and forgotten long ago 

My only hopes now are that my keeper 
Will grow tired of my deliberate silence 
And obvious disdain and release me 
Whether through life or by death 
At this point either would be welcome 

How I long for the freedom 
And comfort of the clear blue sky 
The ability to soar like a bird 
High above the reaches 
Of those who only want to keep me 
And fly towards the bright and colorful horizon 
Where I know my future waits 
And new memories and dreams can be made.

Copyright © Thomas King | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

With You

I sat on the edge of your mattress, unsure what to expect; I kicked off my shoes and took in 
your bedroom for the first time: the bookshelves, the plastic stickers wreathing the windows, 	
your little brother’s action figures mid-battle on the carpet, the clothing stretched out into 	
long piles beneath your feet.

I remember thinking you so strong and confident, wondering how we ended up beneath the 
covers together. You reassured me as you crawled out to take down your blue jeans. I looked 
away for fear of seeming too eager. (I wanted to look.)

Your hand trailed over my back, tracing my stomach. I had never been touched before; 
every inch your fingers followed burned a path into my memory. I was sure there were 
scorch marks on the sheets.

We kissed and kissed and I gasped and we kissed and I fumbled, I heard my pulse throbbing 
in my ears and we kissed and I couldn’t believe I had gone my whole life without knowing the 
feeling of skin on skin.

Then, you were forcing my lips to part with yours, and your tongue surprising the inside of my 
mouth, a slippery, rubbery thing. I let it wander.

You curled a loose hair behind my ear. I imagine you framing my face in your hands and 
bringing my chin for another kiss, but I find my memory inventing moments between us that 
never passed.

But, I am sure of the sleepy look on your face every time we pulled away, the half-pouted 
lips, and the pressure of your hands on my back, urging me to never stop.

Copyright © Robin Lane | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

BITTER SISTER

Bitter Sister:

Don't want to leave
like this
want to pick you up
in my arms 
kiss you and tell
you - I have 
stored away and
protected,
this love I have for
you.

Don't want to feel
like this,
Like the only way
into your 
heart is when it's
vulnerable.   
Making it seem as if
I hate you

When I just don't 
want you to hate me.
Never could 
I even dislike
you,snide remarks, 
resentments
I have endured-
Because I hoped,
and took the shots. 

Realizing that my 
defense was strong
my retaliation could

kick you into
eternal
wickedness.
I surrendered 
I Love you 
too much, to let 
you continue hurting

yourself, to hurt
me.

You won't see me
again
As I aggravate 
your condition on
sight.
Transposing
your guilty,trading 
places with
innocence.
as I remind you of
your 
well held onto
condition.

The truth is I want
to 
hold you and tell
you
It's fine-
I want to clear your
eyes.
let you see that 
the love is here 
It cannot be
released. 
I cannot complete 
the task;until you
ask.









Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

To weather the storm

Storms above me, storms below, Storms of violence, Storms of sadness, Storms of anger Storms of people laughing, mocking my existence Sorrow, and the joy of the few lights of hope and friendship echoes Through the storms The storms surround me night and day No land sight Poseidon’s rage is all I see No mercy found, twix’t night and day But for the brief repast The gift night brings To weather the storms I travel unseen, unheard Past those who give the storm its powers To the places in my dreams Where night and day are side by side And Wolves gather below the moons Midday and night, to sing Their songs of peace Of legends from long ago Of loyalty to their pack And the fight to survive. To weather the storms I look to the wolves As a cub, to the mother The strong live to be the hunters Whilst the weak become the prey The storm takes all Partial to none it hunts One by one, boat by boat, all fall to the storm Human, Animal, Angel, Demon, the storm resides in us all waiting to take hold to drag us to its depths when hope is gone darkness rules until the Light is found hope is gone

Copyright © Wolf Lief | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Cheat

Even in the dark, it doesn't feel right. 
Even in the silence, I know it isn't you. 
But I'm young, and I'm scared, 
And he gets me through. 
The first was lips, 
Just a sweet, common meeting. 
Only, I can't call myself his anymore.
It was a moment, short and fleeting, 
But I won't belong to him ever again. 
Three rotations around the star, He is all I know, so I let it be. 
He promised it was friendship, and he wanted nothing more. 
Then why is this happening to me? 
The drink swims in my brain, 
Watching the waves lap at the shore, 
And I can't remember a damn thing, 
I don't remember a thing more. 
Scared. I was scared. 
So, silent I was. 
My heart was hidden, lies were snared. 
I made the dark vacuum seem like a torrent of sound. 
When his ideas of happily ever after fell through, 
He ran with one last plan. 
He ran squealing like a pig to you, 
And I almost lost everything I wanted. 
I let the lies break, 
I let the tears fall, 
Because although seventeen, 
I felt so very small. 
I promised, I swore, 
And to that I've kept true. I
I've never again 
Cheated on you.

Copyright © Erika Raiken | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Pawns

We the old and broken, have become the pawns
in the grand game of politics. We are as in the game 
of chess of the lowest esteem, expendable 
if not worse unwanted, a barganing chip.
For three years we haven't even received 
a cost of living increasee
while their income they have 
increased handsomely.

They have as they so often do broken
their promise to us. Social security was a
promise made by them, that we paid
for when we were able to work, 
extracted from every pay check we earned.
Those  revenues where to be put in a trust
for us to draw from when the time came
that we had need of them. However our 
government for decades have used those 
funds as they pleased, for things other than 
what they were intended for. Why am I not surprised? 
because our so called public servants have 
broken  countless promises and in the process 
lined their pockets from the spoils of their deceptions. 
The Bill of Rights and the Constitution
they have shredded and the first casulity 
was the truth, now we are the second. 
Most of our fatrhers fought and many died to
defend the rights that they have cast into the 
the trash heap.  Our national debt is now beyond
any hope of us ever repaying, robbing the young of
any hope of a future or even a job, taxes they will have
to pay tremendous to pay for there folly. China Told 
President Obama, We're not going to lend you any more,
sure can't say I blame them, probably never pay back what
we already borrowed form them. England is burning because
of the same folly of the politicians, won't be surprised
if the same thing takes place here. People with no hope
and no future what do they expect. They'll go on filling their
pockets with the taxes we all pay, the don't care it's all
well and fine for them. Will give themselves another big
pay increse next year, you just wait and see. Like mother
Hubbard everyone elses cubbard is bare, no bone for
the doggies anymore. They have destroyed everything
 Along with, "One nation under God". This once upon a time
good nation has quite literally gone to the "Dogs".  The only
Thing that I can say is that I wouldn't have said before,
I'm ashamed of what this nation has became.

Copyright © Jack Ross jr. | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

ID

I have a secret place to go whenever I feel the need.  It is a place that is visceral,
dark, and so unforgiving that the joy of being there sometimes makes me want  to stay
longer than a moment.  There, I am like a beast uncaged, running free, and devouring all
that I see.  When the beast runs, there is no stopping it.  There is no leash or muzzle to
keep it at bay.  There is no place that it  cannot go, and its desire for retribution is
like an insatiable hunger in its belly.  The beast there is ever hungry.  "Where is this
place?" you may wonder.  I always try to remember to take the key with me.  For it is the
barren, lonely, and impassable door you cannot reach...it is the Id within me.

Copyright © Daniel Cwiak | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Nothing But Chalk

She sits there in the back of the class, doodling on her paperwork. Getting lost in 
the scribbles, tuning out the teacher, forgetting all the madness around her, her life 
fading in the paper. Slap! The sound of the ruler splintering across the desk. PAY 
ATTENTION! Head jerking upward, she sits up in her little desk. Pencil dropping from 
her hand, rolling off onto the floor. She looks straight ahead, back straight as a 
board, eyes glued ahead as the teacher drones on. Drilling things into their heads, 
eyes sharp like an eagle. Looking for every chance to catch someone falling asleep, 
to catch someone passing notes, to catch someone whispering. The little girl quietly 
picks up her pencil and her mind drifts to dreaming of playing dress up, drifts to the 
path the lead makes on the paper. The curves of a woman, not a little girl. Dreaming 
of growing up into a woman. Confident, pretty, smart, strong....someone people will 
notice....a woman with a voice. Slap! The ruler across her hand. She jerks it back, 
clasping it to her chest. Instant sting, instant redness and she feels the tears start 
to pool in her eyes, her lip quivering to hold back the yelp. Pay attention! You’re not 
listening! I asked you a question young lady. Should I repeat it? She’s so scared 
that she can’t even speak so she just meekly nods her head. Hard as steel, cold as 
ice, the teacher repeats the question. She hangs her head and answers but her 
voice is barely above a squeeking whisper. Speak up! says the teacher. The class 
can’t hear you, I can’t hear you she says. The little girl raises her head and repeats 
her answer. WRONG! Slap! The ruler across her other hand. See if you had been 
paying attention instead of DOODLING, then you wouldn’t have gotten the ruler. 
You’ll make sure next time you will listen now won't you. The little girl doesn’t 
answer, doesn’t speak up. She doesn’t want the ruler again. So she carefully and 
quietly lays her pencil on her little wooden desk that bares the markings of many 
ruler slappings. And on her little wooden desk, she rests her hands that bare the 
scars of many ruler slappings. She stares straight ahead at the chalkboard, 
unwavering, searing a hole in the chalkboard. She tries to find the dream of dress 
up, tries to find the girl dressing up as the woman she wants to be. But all she sees 
on the chalkboard…no matter how hard or how long she stares...all she sees on the 
chalkboard.....is nothing but chalk.

Copyright © A Rambling Righting Riley - Shauna Riley | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Lawyer Envy

(The writing exercise was to choose three poetry cliches and make them fresh)
(back stabber, after my own heart; and a soul of discretion; maybe more...)

He was a back stabber
After my own heart
Meek and sleek and sneaky
He wormed his way in
And 'innocently' uncovered
State secrets
Private tales
Skeletons in closets
They were all fair game

He was a back stabber
Not to be trusted
But had 
Such a sweet smile
That promised a soul of discretion
It was too easy to believe him
It felt good to trust him

He pulled his victims in
And it wasn’t until the court case
Was over
And the jury voted for him
Again
That you realized he was a back stabber

He pulled it off with such panache
And charm
You had to admire the guy
Even while you staunched your blood

I wish – oh I wish
I had his skills
He was a back stabber
After my own heart

Copyright © KJ Hooten | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Grandad's Missing

There's a void, now
Where once a steadfast heart beat time
The soul in perfect harmony with life's uncertain pulse
With those who clambered eagerly in solace or in joy
To scale that mighty pinnacle
The Rock, within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
But marvel at the structure, the firmness of the ground beneath
The strata richly layered with wisdom of generations past
A fault free seam constructing firm foundations
Binding those within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
A hollow cavern 
echoing the anger and the pain
Trust time; it has no fear of finite elements
The source of unremitting pain
Within the bosom of the family

There's a void, now
So fill the emptiness and catalogue the memories
Harvesting the richness of their meaning
The fullness of the seed sown long ago
To bloom forever within the bosom of the family

Copyright © CAROL ROBINSON | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |

MegOHBlister

MegOHBlister
They built the underground chamber well reinforced with concrete to the depth of 
three miles into the center of the earth. NO steel girders were used. They did not 
wish to be trapped when the atomics started dropping from the sky. They putt three 
tons of food within reach for everyone to survive. Radiation suits with water in 
drums to be used only in the event of the end of the world. They even used double 
doors like saloon doors which could not lock them inside. But they forgot what could 
happen iff Murphy is in charge. The SILO for this is the right title of this thing the 
SILO for this is the designation of this thing the SILO drifted above them only 17 feet 
away but it could not have been worse it could have been 17 miles for there were 
no equipment down there for them to tunnel up or out. The spokesman for the 
group turned out to be the worst the nerves evident in the strain of her voice there 
is no reason left to us. So now we will die here entombed no one could foresee this 
problem the concrete silo above us has drifted into the earth trapping us 
underground for the rest of our lives. Which recourse will not be much longer now. 
The lifer PFC Hice stepped up to the dirt floor roof just above them he took his 
shovel from his pack then he began to dig slowly at first then faster faster he pulled 
the dirt from the opening letting it fall behind him uncaring he begins to turn the 
tunnel to the west to begin his task of getting to the concrete Wall of the silo. 
NOTHING else matters now to most of them they sought out ways to help him. He 
turned over here he is to sleep then wakes to begin the shovel urging the others 
taking turns to come up behind him with the bucket then drop the dirt into the 
kitchen or the stove they filled up every free spot in the effort to conserve room they 
intended to win this fight for survival now. For where there is one free Man there is 
hope for the others. It took too long to get the concrete tower open. They found 
them there one September. They held open the tower door for the Prime Minister of 
the world. He took one look to the Man on the tunnel floor. He smiled. It is my son. 
He died he gave his life upp here down here trying to get them out he was trying to 
save them. He brought him out into the light only to bury him further. Such is the 
power of men. Such is there intelligence. One huge MegOHBlister.

Copyright © charles hice | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Dark Prose

A happy little girl. Bright colors and sunshine. She grows older and enters middle 
school. She is teased constantly. Not the right hair. Not the right clothes. It hurts, 
oh God it hurts. She forgoes colors. Black and gray are good enough. She gets older 
and older still. High school; a new place, new adventure. Dare she hope...new 
friends? Foolish, foolish girl. New friends? New enemies...new pain. Dyed hair...what 
color? Black. Black hair, black clothes...black heart. Poetry, music, the only escape. 
Dark, Pain, Despair...Destroyed. Heart bleeding and inside she's screaming. but no 
one sees. No one hears. Alone...so alone. Who would understand? No one. Dying 
inside. Drowning in pain bottled up. Invisible. Misunderstood. Who is she? Who is 
she!?! Screaming, bleeding, dying. What a waste. That's what she is, a waste of 
space, a waste of breath. Better off without her. The world's better off. Despised, 
Destroyed...Death.

Copyright © Angelita Becerra | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The news game

No news is good news we’ve all heard that before
that said  I’d like less bills when I open my mailbox door.
If it bleeds it leads  with more than enough yellow journalism 
where facts are shifted and twisted then shown through a tainted prism
then a little tease to keep you hanging through long commercial breaks
this isn’t the news we’re being abused and it’s giving me a headache.

Copyright © Monty Newman | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Toll Of Duty

weak,and bleak
no food,sick
not speak,so wrecked
shy and meek,because idyllic

uncapable,inacceptable
unbearable,flexible
to any attack, vulnerable

*wealthy,*
healthy,and strong
always wrong,for long
no worry,there's money,
days are sunny!
no worry ! no worry ! 

sad,nearly mad
never glad,things go bad

mistreat,misbehave
misunderstood 
for strange mood

weird feeling
odd person,
midsummer madman,,,,,


at zenith to watch
and outside stand
and scorching sun
to burn his brain

paranormal
paranoiac
psychedelic disorder
eventually diabolic !


A painter
A writer
A feeler
Not Sinner
A word dealer,,,,,

scorned
abhorred
ignored
marginalized
uncivilized
decentralized

*The brainy one*

Copyright © True Feeling | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Vomit

It's a sick world.
Men of power,
greed, and cunning.
Vomit!

Banal and sophomoric, 
evil men;
ohhhh such vile, vile, vile men.
Vomit!

Arrogant,
cantakerous,
cruel and callous men.
Vomit!

May they drown,
in blood,
in the blood of angels,
and vomit, vomit, vomit!

Copyright © Robert McCall | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A MIND IN THE NIGHT

I stood in the middle of the ocean's palm and travelled along its' finger lines.
These blue waves have stolen the infinity of sky, reflecting my fate signs.
In my heart there is a blank, as I am left alone struggling with a sea unknown.
If you could show me your eyes, I would place your hopes in stars to find height.
Instead, I am burned in fires shaken, in sweaty dreams that end with the first light.
In other words I search for promises, changing places and opening new doors.
Yet, this sea of rain rushes into my expectations, driving me to the same shores.
And I am wondering if life owes us our prayers, our tears, our sentiments of glory.
If not, then we are condemned to expect a fate, a Spring belated to show a fake story.
When nights exceed the dead ends I set, moon is risen laughing at my mortality.
In the cold breeze I face my humanity, fighting in a battle uneven and unfair.
As time passes through my windows, I betray my existence behind curtains flopped.
Eyes of solitude I can't forget visit me between Heaven's and Hell's Gates blocked.
I set fire to my pain and from the ashes I give birth to a fate, in which you are not in.
The greatest dreams I left behind, a compromise I signed and gained the right of sin.
Uncovered distances, chaos in my heart rhyme
For the losses I won't accept as my fear prime.

Copyright © valeria iliadou | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I'm Angry

I have the fury of hell trapped inside. I’m so angry that words can’t express how I 
feel. Nothing in life could have ever told me that these emotions existed. I’m mad at 
you, at everything you ever stood for. At the very fact that you were so charming 
and happy in life only to die and leave me alone like you did. Angry at the fact that 
your death could have been prevented, Drinking and Driving - were you just stupid; 
careless. Did you think that you would never die? That you were immortal and could 
defy even God. Well you weren’t, I guess you know that now. I still can’t believe 
that your life could be wasted because you were too arrogant to wait till you got 
home. You should've waited...

Copyright © Tirzah Conway | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Wedding Ring

Wedding Ring
Why did you take my wedding ring?  Did taking it give you a zing? Did hurting me give you a 
double ring in your b b thing? Did the carats make your heart sing? 

Did you think your new lady would like my ring?  Wouldn’t it sting her to know whose thing 
that was first darling?  

That hurt more than anything.  Why did you take my ring?

Copyright © Marie Harrison | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Something about that emo kid

Dear make-up-wearing-emo-kid,

I hope you're having fun. I hope your life is good.
I wish you well, but I'm curious, do you wish the
same for me? I mean, you don't even talk to me
anymore. When you do talk to me, it's to question
me about my sexuality, what clothing I'm wearing
at the moment, basically anything relating to sex.
So, it's hard to tell you apart from those perverted
old creeps you might see on TV, looking up the
skirts of MILF's as they stroll on by.

Dear skinny-confused-emo-kid,
It's not about looks. It's about what's inside.
It's not about sex, it's about the love in a relationship.
It's not about having to lie to me and make me feel
like you love me, because there are millions of girls out there.
I'm not the only one to chase. I'm sure there are lots of other
girls who would just love to let you chase their skirts and
hear you lie to them repeatedly. I'm just sick of it all.
I don't need you, and you sure as hell don't need me.

Dear traitor,
You built me up,
you broke me down.
You got what you wanted.
I hope you're happy.
Wipe the smirk off your face,
I don't care that you've succeeded in making me fall for you
I don't care that you're freaking gorgeous.
I don't care.
I am not your toy.
I am not your slave.
And I am most definitely not your 'baby girl'.
Just because you have my heart doesn't mean that you can control me.
I'm not yours.
I'm my own person.
I'm me.

And there is absolutely nothing you can do about it.

But never mind that now, I must go. Mother is calling me to come to supper. Until next
time, you traitor.

Sincerely,
A-broken-hearten-clown.

Copyright © Kristen Wallen | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Exclusion

Waking to murmurs	
Hum of smooth white noise 
Or waves slapping rocks

Through mirror-like glass
I see russet wings
Dampened by dewdrops	
.  		
Walk to the kitchen, 
my feet soft and bare 
on tiles cracked, and 

wish the sea
surrounded
so sinking

floats

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

before the party

A tight fist of emotion sprouts flames in my chest
and I fan the flames with a chilled smile
chiseled like the block of ice 
stored in the freezer for the party.

I have stood empty as a discarded seashell, perhaps a clam's shell,
whose pearl should sparkle like the sun spattered sea, that is its home.

But it gleams like the moonlight 
castings its light across surfaces- changing them to white or silver, 
like the tops of carved glaciers, drifting as they change the shape of the earth. 

Too heavy am I to walk on these surfaces, 
even if it is frozen.

Seabirds wind up and spin lazily, 
calling the wind for their flight- or at least to float momentarily, 
like my spirit, needing so much to be released

Copyright © Jennifer Cahill | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Fallen from Grace

Fallen from grace, 
no longer do I sit high upon the pedestal that you had once put me 
No longer am I seen as idol or mentor
Nor wanted as provider or protector 
But now looked upon as an outcast and banished from your heart. 

Betrayed by the one who now blinds you 
With a veil of lies and deceit that weighs on your young fragile heart 
With heavy words of animosity and abhorrence
 
You have been trapped in a malevolent web of hatred and retribution 
Used as an unwitting pawn in a game of emotional chess. 

Your words of respect and adoration 
Have been replaced by venomous accusations of brutality and oppression 
Taught to you by the on who now holds the chains that bind your heart. 

But I will not be vanquished or deterred 
By these attempts to falsify or dilute my love for you 
I will be strong in my resolve and true to myself
 
I will not let these misguided asseveration's destroy my confidence 
In knowing that my spirit is pure and that one day 
You will be able to break free from your restraints 
And uncover your eyes so you can distinguish the truth from the lies. 

To understand the choices that need to be made in life 
Through your own mistakes and life experiences 

Until that day comes I shall be waiting, 
Ready to stand next to you as opposed to being on that pedestal 
And walk down a new road with you as your friend and equal.

Copyright © Thomas King | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

If I had A Choice

If I had a choice to go where I wanted,
I wouldn't go where it's crowded,
where many eyes see and judge and turn-
these lessons so painful that I learned.

If I had a choice to say what I wanted,
I wouldn't say the truth to whoever demanded,
where so many ears shut and block and deceive-
believing what they hear; hearing what they believe.

If I had a choice to stay where I wanted,
I wouldn't stay in this world where I'm haunted,
where many words and the impalpable hurt-
and once vacant and stripped, thrown out and deserted.

If I had a choice to do what I wanted,
I wouldn't extirpate myself - I couldn't, I'm interdicted,
chained by your emotions, your pity, your thoughts...
Hence I wander still, forevermore lost.

-July 11th, 2015

Copyright © Bre Varzena | Year Posted 2015