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Prose Poetry Art Poems | Prose Poetry Poems About Art

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

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Details | Prose Poetry | |

Unknown Art

The picture painted is not what 
is drawn
The drawer sketches different 
shades partly understood by 
They see and claim to know 
Complexity that is the 
Like most words, the art is not 
defined in a single manner
Many have walked with it not 
minute has discovered
The mystery of the art in play.
A creative piece reflecting 
greatness visible to those with 
eagle eyes.
A lone shadow traveling great 
depth to birth dreams
Not an adjective, pleasing to 
those deserving.
Do not desire to be unveiled.
Priceless value hangs on its tag
What a masterpiece!
But not fully discovered...

Copyright © Yei Suah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

A Dream

Strands of thick strawberry lace
Cascade and kindle together over a
Serene and still, velvety muse;
Soft sensations of quiet breath
Brush against every line within the frame;
A luminous comma poses
In an eternal gilt about her face;
Every flicker of her unseen candlelight 
Reflects a somnolent kiss
Upon the gazer's nodding lids.
Magically, the mind reacquaints
A taste and scent of red and yellow ocher, 
Along with the sound of a swoosh,
That permeates a freshly painted room;
Soon, the eyes open to a distant, familiar recall,
When two sleepwalking, kingly eras became one;
Every step blending each image
With a different pallet in time,
And while touching overlapping 
Textures, the mixed mediums are forever
Imprinted upon the memories of the two
Motionless figures;
The connoisseur, while he slumbers
And the sleeper, as she awakens 
From her symbiotic dream.

Contest: "A Dream"
Theme: Based on the painting: "Resting", by Victor Gabriel Gilbert

Copyright © Lisa Lee | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I've had enough
Yes enough of your childish games
I've had enough
Of your lies.and disappointments
I've had enough
Of headaches,and worries
I've had enough 
Of your disrespect
I've had enough
Of heartaches,and pains
I've had enough
Of wondering if and when you're coming home
I've had enough
Of planning a future that has no hope
I've had enough
Of waking up and finding myself alone
I've had enough
Of wishing you'll change for the better
I've had enough
Of talking,and you're not listening
I've had enough
Of dreaming this dream all alone
I've had enough
Of being the only one trying to make things work
I've had enough
Of treating you like a prince,king,or queen
then in return you treat me like I'm nothing
I've had enough
Of you're not taking me seriously
I've had enough
And I'm sick,and tied of all the drama
I've had enough
Of you falsely accusing me
I've had enough
And I can make it by myself

Copyright © james sturdivant.jr | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |


She sat near a pool of brownish waters.
Perplexed by her own reflection.
The wind tender on her hair,
Tossing it eastward.
Drying her imbrued face,
From days of sobbing,
Leaving dull lines that stretched
From her pale eyes,down her haggard lion.
She never wore a smile
As brilliant as the sun.
They only burn,her.
Reawaking her tears
From their subtle base
Beneath her eyes.
She considered them,a tragic representation of her
She decked her face with cowardice.
Never regretted,nor did she skedaddle from it,
The lies she once told herself.
They were now,dreams she woke up to,now and
Expressionless,she sat,
On cold dead grass.
They sent chills to her bones.
Her mind hovering through the empty space,
That is her her own schema.
And the world that lies beneath her bruised nose,
Covered in blood and fear,
The stench of terror,
Quite familiar to her.
They were like marks on her back.
They stayed with you for a life time.
Misery was something she owned.
They burnt in her dark brown eyes.
You could see their talons lashing restlessly,
Drawing those who cared for a scare.
The tears that flooded her garment
Jog the memory of her own consciousness,
That she still did feel something.
Something painfully passionate.
Something,realer than her fragile image.
Those tears were reminders
Reminding her,that she,can still think.
Think of events that stole
All the life she knew,
Will ever know.
She stood at the edge of destitute,
As hard as it was,
It brought her solace.
Her hopes raise at the east,
Settling west with the sun.
She seeks no remedy,
But an audience.
An audience at least.


Copyright © Prince Ekpemandu | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Gertrude -- Gertie -- Gertrude Stein

-- Re:  Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, Rue de Fleurus #27, Paris --

What would Gertrude.What Gertrude.What, Gertie?Have thought.Have thought what
thought?Thought thought driving,forward,remorselessly.Remorseless Remorse?Forward.Never reverse;no reverse.No.No remorse.Remorseless,spurning reverse,seated.High!Seated high in Auntie.Then in Godiva seated. Looming.Enormous.
Looming enormous.Unsinister presence. Certain presence.Definite.Definitely not sinister.  Positively looming;enormous in brown.Brown,in brown corduroy,driving Paris.
In Paris,through Paris.Looming high in Paris in Godiva.With Alice, quiet beside her.
Quiet; always, Alice.Alice always. And zipping, about -- coming to Rue de Fleurus 27.
Zipping to Rue de Fleurus.To 27. And Alice so able.Able Alice, each a.m. transcribing.Able Alice typing.Automatic Gertrude.Typing Gertrude.Great Gertrude.GeniusGertrude.Talking Gertrude.Genius talking.Great brown Gertrude;Gertie to Alice.
Absorbing, talking, buying art --- buying Matisse.Absorbing Matisse.Showing Matisse.Banishing Matisse.Selling Matisse,collecting Picasso.Great Gertrude -- genius Gertrude at court, holding court at Rue de Fleurus 27.And Leo.Gone Leo.No Leo at Rue de
Fleurus.Not at 27 After Leo, after Mr. Stein, after brother Leo.But there was Alice.Alice
was there Among Braques.And Cezanne.(Not Matisse.)No longer Matisse, but Picasso.And Picassos, Picassos, Picassos!And Alice; alongside, was Alice.Next to, was Alice.Alice
next Gertrude,Gertie, G. --- Gertrude, Miss Stein. Genius Gertrude Stein Quiet Alice
always.And a great Gertrude.A great brown Gertrude.A leviathan. A passing ship; a
great leviathan.Gertie, a genius.A hugeness.A shibboleth.But to Alice, just Gertie.

Copyright © Leo Larry Amadore | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

school house rock

rosie r red
a girls name,who was wacked in the head
a.violets r blue
she was a girl too
they liked each other and didnt know what to do
because somebody used their line in a poetry rhyme
it gets hit all the time
they just dont know what to do
if you like me then i like you

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2008

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Okay so just to remind you

Okay so just to remind you, you are absolutely amazing. You make my day every day. I have a smile on my face constantly. You are the first thing I think about when I wake up & the last thing I think about before I go to sleep. I’m defiantly lucky to have such an incredible girlfriend like you. You are the biggest sweetheart, ever. I adore everything about you. I will do everything in my power to keep you in my life. I want you & only you. You’re beautiful inside & out. I fall more & more for you every day. & I’m so in love with your voice, it’s the cutest thing ever! Stay sweet baby. You’re one in a million.

Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |


A noble story one that ought to be our good host laughed and swore the games begun. Come match the knights tale if you can sir monk. To bellow arms and blood and bones he swore. A noble one I'll pay off the knights tale lets do this right. You tell yours by and by either I'll speak or go on my own way. Everyone listen but first i will propound that i am drunk i know it by my sound. For I'll tell a golden legend and a lie. Forget your ignorant drunken bawdiness it is a sin and great foolishness. Tell us of other things you'll find to lack i see you are angry with my tale but why. cuz you are a fool your head is overpowered by the wine. If you are not enjoying yourselves then cut off my head but as i drink my wine and ale. Whoever won't accept what i decide will pay for everything we spend along the ride. So hold up your hand if you accept my speech reflect a little and don't hold me to blame if you choose wrong don't lay it on my head. And both of them had bawdy tales to tell theirs no sense making earnest out of game.

Copyright © craig schaber | Year Posted 2011

Details | Prose Poetry | |

the Rain

  The Rain tried to find its way into the very depth of the souls, sneering at the gloomy faces of people who were walking through water. Unexpectedly a sudden clear laugh of a boy who jumped into a puddle mocked all His aspirations. 

  With an increased force the Rain turned into a wall of water pushing the pedestrians into the open doors of the shops, blocking the traffic and confusing the air controllers at an airport nearby. 

  Seizing for a moment almost absolute power over the world, the Rain suddenly felt bored and first burst out into numerous crossing lines, then calmed down and throwing the last blast of wind with water drops at the running boy, He sighed in despair and having banged few open windows He disappeared, staying for a moment in thick eye-lashes of a girl who was adjusting her make up.

Copyright © Serge Belinsky | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Christmas 2005 in Iraq with MiTT 2-2-2

One or two of us
Were home on leave;
For the rest of us,
Christmas came by mail.

Our callsign: Gunslingers.
Our Military Transition Team
Was embedded with 
The "Triple Deuce" Iraqi Infantry,

For a year our home
Was LSA Diamondback
Mosul, Nineveh province,
In northern Iraq

A Team member's wife
Gave us all Santa hats.
I have an old photo
Of us standing on top
Of an old Iraqi bunker,
Bearing pistols, rifles,
And those Santa hats.

My wife sent a small
Plastic Christmas tree,
Which was decorated 
In the Gunslingers' office.

My mom sent a warm quilt.
When you're acclimatized
To wearing battle armor
In the high 90s and 100s,
80-something feels cold!

I remember the nights--
Dark, but full of stars,
With Orion's belt
On the horizon.

Soldiers made bonfires
In the oddest places:
By a concrete shelter,
Or in classified burn pits.

Once exiting my office,
I saw a fire in the sky.
Soldiers were on top of a bunker
Drinking near-beer, singing.

Another night, I stood 
Just outside of the light
Looking at some troops,
And the chiaroscuro image.

I went back to my "choo",
And penciled the scene.
To complete the masterpiece,
I inserted myself
Roasting marshmallos.

I went back to visit them,
Showed them the drawing,
Then completed the picture
By searing a marshmallow.

Christmas was what we made of it.

Copyright © Mark J. Halliday | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

PleasureThe melody gradually filters

The melody gradually filters
Through my being 
Filling my soul with joy
I go with it savouring, anticipating
It’s genius – no other thoughts enter
Just floating with the melody
Surprised by some discords they startle me
Prepare me for the majesty of sound to come

Copyright © Liz Walsh | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Tickets are not easy to get at the Royal Circle. 
A lady does not wish to get a seat by currying favor; 
the flavor will eventually turn rancid and ruin her day. 
The scent of expensive perfume pervades the warm air.
A packed house of coiffed women in evening frown
and men who wear success like a badge; she is here alone 

in full regalia: pinned-up auburn hair, porcelain skin 
in a buttoned-up dress.  White opera gloves, her nod to 
convention.  Several eyebrows raise when she comes 
unescorted. There is not much legroom and it cramps her style, 
yet, she bears the discomfort one hundred feet above the ground. 
She doesn’t get to see clearly the emotions on the actor’s face. 

The rest of humanity looks like buzzing bees and butterflies 
hiding gossiping lips on pale faces behind colorful fluttering fans. 
She assumes the look; men have no monopoly on the stoic face. 
An evening out unescorted teaches her the world will always 
judge not just the melodrama she is watching onstage. 
There is more to life than The Salon; a woman has a choice. 

After:  Theater by Mary Cassatte 1879

For Debbie Guzzi's Ten Pictures, Ten Poems, Ten Days - Painting 6 
Kim Patrice Nunez
13 January 2016

* Published by Ekphrastic: Writing and Art on Art and Writing

Copyright © KP Nunez | Year Posted 2016

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The Flautist

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ THE FLAUTIST  ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 THE FLAUTIST fluently flaunted her flute- Music flew faultlessly through the airwaves, flying fluidly above the noise of the blustering city                                                    
THE flautist created a calm fragrance, who's flavor of creativity fell-well onto your soul creating a soul stirring calmness across the city. 
She played her flute clean into the night vehemently, over the feverish chaos – 
And the people in the park and in the city could hear clearly as they walked in rhythmic tunes/ She flaunted her music like sweet low hanging fruit, Her music dangled beautiful and singly. She alone, Solo-ed notes of delightful serenity-  
  The flautist moved the masses to a state of bliss; Like free kisses flying in the wind landing on ears conquering and engaging spirits, conquering pandemonium with her flute, she blew her flute... SHE BLEW HER FLUTE, and we marched and listened obediently. She blew her flute and we marched magnificently to her concert.

Copyright © Vicki Acquah | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Close enough

Closer to the clouds 
Soaring through the soft misty flocks of vapour
Touching the overstretched never ending horizons
Closer to the clouds
Reaching for the elusive galaxy scattered with stars

Outside my window, birds perched on window panes
Breathing the hopes of life
Burying their worries, letting them go
Soaring away the pains of yesterday
The distance reassures me of the longer road I have
Waiting working of what might come
Relieving the old alleys
Streets that left me hanging, roaming 
Stranded with loneliness

Break from the fast pace of life
Dive into total surrender
Break from our shallow life filled with plans
The never ending ambitious dreams
Capturing each moment, not giving any a miss

The small sentiments
The simple notions
The innocent thoughts 
And the crazy bedlams
Thrive, we will.

Copyright © Eli Mahirah | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Paint the Permanent

I stand before the canvas of my life
with the arsenal of brushes I've been armed with
choosing the paints with which I'll work

My will is to paint the permanent
No watercolors that can wash
My strokes will stain the canvas true

In my art studio my brushes fire
Salvos of sultry reds
Volleys of vivacious violets

But I don't always paint alone
Others there are that share the studio
And though our canvases won't always hang together
A small army of artists are we

Who paint our lives with care
For all the world to see
The hues we use only we may choose
Brazen and bold, subtle, or stark
Soldiers of our arts
Aiming and striking and painting our hearts out
Until we die
And go to the Gallery

But as for me
I stand before the canvas of my life
And the brush is in my hand

Copyright © Brandi Elizabeth Brown | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

CHANGED MY Underwear,------- and My Name

change my name 
fairly often, I suppose

change my clothes 
area codes
and Imma' damn gypsy, ya' see

keep it fresh ta' death
speck of blood
ketchup on my attire

got more rhymes 
than I got grey hairs
that's an effing lot
because i got my share

digg a 
hot-fire piece of passionate verse
those are 
rare to find

if  only poets would 
unleash the fury 
instead of 
holding back
what's really 
on their mind...

I must say...
the library, 
the internet, 
the etc. etc...
would be a less stinky place...
AND, maybe 
I'd keep my name, and sever ties with 
underwear's elastic,
and just go 
APE-Spit Spastic!~

Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Riding in the Rain

Rode over to visit a friend today, she paints with colors in the most lovelest of ways. no 
charcoal or water with color, just oils on a canvas. she allows me to watch. word-less i stay 
for hours sitting in a point she turns to say,what color should this be? look at the 
color of what you wish to paint,this is the color of it should be.she coolly turns away.
so a sun-shine rain begins it's windy spray upon this paint-able summers day.we cover the 
canvas in a most coveted shelter we dash.
so i mount my bike from which i came cycling home,riding in the rain.
return i will another day,perhaps it won't rain,upon this other day...

Copyright © gary bechter | Year Posted 2010

Details | Prose Poetry | |

In Fall

In fall, Boomer Halloweens produce orange and black memories.
     Will I ever outgrow treat-laden bags and glowing pumpkins? 
Van Gogh's flaming hand draws crowds in the Blue Ridge;
     he paints the trees, but God does the skies.
The slanting sunlight creeps up my back, 
     its lengthening rays whispering “snow.”
Manic animals off their meds gather food.
     Stashes forgotten, they must follow winter's diet.
Sleep comes early to me now, in fall.

Copyright © Mary Oliver Rotman | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |

spell bound

there is only one woman
in the whole wide world
one thing that matters
this certian girl
and she fills my mind
both days and nights
her loveliness is my delight
a loveliness i can not requite
so quiet lies my tongue
that would confess so much
about desire for a simple touch
heartless to tell anyone
about this crush
especially her, i love her that much
better to live with a dream
than deal with rejection
secrets are kept for my protection
painfull are the places
we learn this lesson
spending the most of our lives
hiddng from rejection
a man begins to wonder
what is this thing that has me bound
why is her name a wonderful sound
why am i the only one that
watches her the way that i do
i thought i had the answer 
but i do not have a clue
hopeing that she'd notice that i never
denighed her any request
and that she would stay longer
and that was my only test
start a conversation
maybe start a kind of relation.
why do i see her imperfection 
as the most beautiful thing i have searched
and count it as the only worth
that held me bound to the earth
that kept me sound to sanity
and insanity where my minds
looks for moments that we share
looking for opportunity to dare
and hope that you have a snare
to entangle me somewhere
where my imagination
has went wild.

Copyright © john loving iii | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

I can face Tomorrow

It just cracked
SPelted in two 
Deep on my wall
And left a vacuum 

It just broke
Felt on my path
Close my destiny door
And left a roadblock

It finally drop
Right on my last strength 
I push it over me
Now I can face tomorrow 


Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |

White Dot

                                                  Frog playing violin
                                             Perforated Ceiling Washer
                                           White Dot Wassily Kandinsky

                                            ©Rajat Kanti Chakrabarty
                                                 16 December 2014

Notes:White Dot was painted in 1923 while Kandinsky was a professor at the Bauhaus. He combined various shades of white which are thought to imply possibilities in life and bold curving shapes of black which portray the antithesis, death. Interspersed are varying shades of red, blue and yellow. 

The circle was the perfect shape to Kandinsky and he felt it was "the synthesis of the greatest oppositions". He believed it led to the 4th dimension and was seen throughout many of his works of art during this period. The black circle with the white dot draws the viewer's eye to the upper right of the canvas with an intensity that is broken by the "squiggled" black line that bisects the canvas on the diagonal. The triangles as well as other shapes appear throughout the piece broken by diagonal black lines. Not only do layered planes of color give this two-dimensional painting depth but tonal variations of color on a given shape lends a three dimensional feel as well. 

Kandinsky's connection to music is felt as the riot of colors and various shapes can be compared to the arrangement of musical notes. The combination of angles and curved lines as well as bold color and shaded forms imbue the painting with energy and one could expect to hear a symphony resonating off the canvas.

Copyright © RAJAT KANTI CHAKRABARTY | Year Posted 2014

Details | Prose Poetry | |

Oprah Winfrey

The day broke peacefully in Kosciusko, Mississippi
The morning came with gladness over the city
Flowers smile at the morning breeze refreshing
Her birth did not attract television attention
She came in disguise with a local identity
January 29, 1954, planet earth recorded her name
But history had no intention of identifying with her

She wore handmade potatoes dresses
She was mocked amongst her peers
She tasted her tears at an early age
She struggled to defeat the battles hindering her future
She mounted on the wings of a university scholarship
Landed at Tennessee State University
Then, history began to notice something peculiar about Oprah

Speech and performing arts is the vehicle
She drove to get at her high places
She ignored all the bus stops along the highway of life
She appreciate her grandma’s concrete foundation
She acknowledge her father disciplinary impact
She boarded success flight with assurance
And history began to trace her everywhere

She is the world most philanthropic celebrity
She established Oprah Angel Network for the underprivileged
She established Oprah Winfrey leadership Academic 
She is the first to receive the Bob Hope award
She is the world most influential woman
And history welcomes her in his book 

She settled with the Oprah Winfrey show
Her impact is felt all over the world
She has the right words for every situation
She ask the right questions to expose the whole truth
She embraces the hottest stories in the world
She always satisfy the desires of her viewers
History announces her sun that keep shinning on every color and every generation

Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |


I will aim for the sun
I will struggle to reside in the sky
I will face the toughest storms
I will stand firm when the wind blows

I will focus on the light from above
I will open my dark places to be lighten
I will forget the mistakes of my past
I will rely on the light that shines forever

I will plant new trees for the sun is available
I will weed out the intruder from my soil
I will clean my farm for speedy germination
I will smile as my sun watches me harvest each day.

Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |


 I’m better because,
 I’m positive
 I build the right frame of mind
 I dream big
 I’m a believer
 I’m benevolent
 I’m bold

 I’m like the rainbow.

There are
no sinking feelings
 or retrogresses

Copyright © JAMES B. MORRIS JR | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

The lone star of Africa

A new deal was signed
Plantations workers laid down their tools
Freedom songs were sang everywhere
The birth of our liberty emerged

Our heritage we vow to defend
The root of our liberty we sure to protect
Upholding the lone star we will never desert
Its banner over Liberia we shout in victory

A Symbol of the first flag of Africa
Flying over the land and over the sea
Age to age we will never fail
Season in seasons we will fulfill the cause of our liberty

The lone star forever, the lone star forever 
Shinning brighter like a golden flame
The wings of our foes are broken
And we are marching forward to never fall again

Midst low ‘ring skies and thunder storms
The star of liberty waves high in the sky
The sweat of every plantation worker is worthy
 Liberia flag repainted with peace
Shinning forever over all the continents of the earth

Copyright © Olivia Nimley | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry | |


First a simple lunch –
soup, salad, rolls and dessert
(and wine if we choose).
Then the book.*
We become critics when we read.
That's half the fun of it.
The other half is the pleasure of the word.
Prose can be poetry.

Our preferences are as diverse as our personalities.
What I like, you don't, and vice versa.
No book appeals to everyone,
just as no work of art is universally appreciated.	

This particular book drew various reactions –
first "enjoyment" and then disappointment.
We agreed that the images were vivid
and the metaphors enlightening,	
but the story dragged a bit.

The tragedy's resolution, 
arriving at the tale's end, was anticlimactic .
Why had the author waited so long
to get the accused off the hook.

The ample evidence could have been revealed sooner, much sooner,
saving us from suffering endless descriptive passages.	
Clearly, dangling was the writer's intent.
No one appreciated being dangled.

We wanted the case resolved posthaste,
with fewer stalling tactics.
"Get on with it,"
seemed the general opinion.

Critics should be aware 
(alas, we sometimes are not),	
criticism is infinitely easier than creation.
Creation is inspiration 
mixed with plain hard work.

Authors, like all artists,
have their way with us.		
We're simply along for the ride. 
As critics we agreed –
a fine journey: long and well worth it.  

"Snow Falling on Cedars" by David Guterson

Copyright © Gay Stuntzner | Year Posted 2015

Details | Prose Poetry | |


If there is a child in Kolahun, Lofa County who can’t read- that matters to me.

If there is a senior citizen somewhere who can’t get a pension after many years of dedicated service- that makes my life poorer.

If a decent brother is accused of rape and is being rounded up without a benefit of an Attorney or due process- that threatens my civil liberty.

If a native Liberian is down sided for an elite- that overshadows my equal right clause in the constitution.

If a high school graduate cannot be honor with a job, but the only option left is to hawk on the streets to earn a hard living- I wonder what society is being created for the young generation.   

Copyright © JAMES B. MORRIS JR | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |

bring back blacksmiths

wists,kittle bit.see it.we writ the fit humble bit.

Copyright © chris bowen | Year Posted 2007

Details | Prose Poetry | |


Count your friends
When it’s dark and gloomy
When the clouds are gray and smoky
When the storms are heavier than normal- count your friends.

Count your friends
When depression has taken over you
When your back is numb and your demeanor has fallen
When the light on your path has gone off and you’re left with no way out- count your friends.

Count you friends 
When your image has fail
When your personality no longer matters
 Not when the money is like waters.

Count your friends
When you have nothing to offer
 Not when it is surplus to dish out.

Know me today, not tomorrow
Know me when I’m poor, not when I’m rich
Cause there is no second chance for selfish friends.

Copyright © JAMES B. MORRIS JR | Year Posted 2012

Details | Prose Poetry | |


You said you got my back
But when i turn around i see no one
You promised to make me special
But am feeling so cheap,damn am on special
You thought you love me perhaps 
But now am drinking a litre per-herbs 
Shit felt like you stabbing my heart and now it disturbs
The blood flow now my heart is leaking
So i thought i should just write a poem
So ama transport the food myself cause iam my own tube phloem
Neglected my friends and family so it was only just us two
Even got your name on my skin in a form of a tattoo
Die for you? oh yes i would have done that too
Am gone now
Wont even turn back
I'm scared of wrong turns
You watched me as the sun-burns
My forehead,heavy stuff on my mind shit feels like i have four heads
I guess i slept like a log and i just woke up in the fire place
You expected me to fold myself in half like a brief-case
I was going to brief you about the case 
But now i finally stood up
Hold myself together mybe am bio
Five fingers in the air including the palm,bye yooo

Copyright © Tom D Le Poet Lukhuleni | Year Posted 2014