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Best Poems Written by Nicholas Hazelwood

Below are the all-time best Nicholas Hazelwood poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Nicholas Hazelwood Poem

Reviving the Senses Through Punctured Eardrums

What is it to hear a poem?
Ears ajar.
Eyes focused.
Mouth shut.
I struggle to listen when such words cut open
my head and try to make a nest out of my brain.
I DO NOT WISH TO HEAR A POEM!
My body jolts under these straps of limitation,
tightened by my ability to hear.
Why must one be limited to hear a poem?
I cast out stones towards those who care to listen.
Why don’t we be the poem?
Climb inside the mouth of a poem and 
understand it’s true voice.
Be the pen kicking fiercely at the paper, 
leaving behind marks of genius and creativity.
Rip open the heart of a poem and suck its
blood dry.
Feel a poem.
Be a poem.
Live a poem.
See words rise from the paper,
as they dance between the strings
of your heart.
Grab a hand of the message and twirl 
it around your mind and smother its
meaning with praise.
Curl up inside the dot of an ‘i’.
Slide across an ‘l’ and mold it into a ‘t’.
Travel across an empty plain were stubborn
boulders cry.
Attack black and white ideas with shades
of blue and green.
Drive a sword through their hearts and leave
them dead to what is known.
Fight a poem.
Hurt a poem.
Heal a poem.
Turn the waste of sound into
vibrant waves of belief and inspiration.
Let yourself be swept away by
imagination and surrealism.
Find your soul inside of a poem and 
claim it as your own.
Bring down the fortress of structure and
make its remains into martyrs of lost cause.
Open the doors of a poem and remodel
what’s inside.
NO! I do not want to hear a poem!
It sends pain through my soul to see the 
voice of a poem silenced by the ignorant
dangers of sound.
Help yourself and plug your ears.
Visualize the words through serene images of
beauty cultured by unmatchable craft.
See a poem.
Grab a poem.
Know a poem.
Be influenced by a poem.
Learn a poem and all of its meanings.
Threaten a poem.
Scare a poem.
Stab a poem.
Teach it how to live amongst a world of vultures, 
hungry for mistakes and misinterpretations.
Guide a poem into a building filled
with a million little fingers.
Like a poem.
Be touched by a poem.
Love a poem.
Show the world your insides.
Show them the words to your poem.

Details | Nicholas Hazelwood Poem

Addiction's Folly

A grenade was placed inside my head to suspend me from my hobby.
The smoke did rise and choke my friends as I exited from the lobby.
A wicked shadow my path did cast that long lost working day,
it’s a shame I had to go insane and lead my peers astray.
Men did come to restrain my progress as I ripped apart their flesh,
what kind of force can stop a man who’s mind is made of mesh?
Within my mind I seek an answer to help reduce the strains,
it’s a shame, however, how I had to feast upon their brains.
I know not were to take my sorrow in such a lonely case,
perhaps I’ll have to find my mind and delay it’s quickened pace.
I am lost inside this endless world of multiple fixations,
but why the hell am I the one trapped in Cocaine’s stations.
There is no answer from above or anyone down below,
I can’t believe I cannot have just one last flake of snow.
My throat has dried to words my ears must cradle and then eat,
I cannot stand or even move, were the hell are both my feet?
Here I am to pay for all my addiction has destroyed,
it feels as if my skin does crawl as anger is deployed. 
I have slept with time and pondered long, finding a direction,
My heart is scared and bruised about, but only from reflection.
I cannot fix this broken basket I once called my mind,
I’ll never reach normality again; I’ll always be behind.
How could such a decent life be killed away by spite,
I stop and ask myself again but all I see is white.
The walls suck me in as I shiver from withdrawal,
my bones start to crack and itch as rejection starts to sprawl.
I have learned my lesson deep and wide to never use again,
but now I have to face the fact that I once did begin.

Details | Nicholas Hazelwood Poem

Through the Walls of Hopelessness

There is such a chill.
I’d make use of my flesh
as a heart warmer if only
it hadn’t withered to naught.
Bone protrusions meddle with
the rags of skin that remain
to drape about them.
I feel shame board off
the windows peering into
my mind.
What does one do with their rejected help?
Where does one go to hide from the
monsters of hopelessness?
Care tries to focus beyond the boards
into the depths of my answerless pupils.
I hear pain meagerly challenge the
question deep within my heart, gingerly
prodding at the loose cloth that remains 
of my physique.
When did arrogance overpower the
affect of compassion?
Tears collect around my eclipsed eyes,
drowning out faith, drowning out liberty.
My eyelashes swing profusely at the pools
of sadness, but needles of ignorance 
sew them to my brow with threads of pessimism.
I try to watch through the sorrow.
How can such barbaric norms exist amongst
one’s mind?
Slander poisons the air my lungs rely on,
dirtying the words that exit my mouth.
I feel my throat close.
Slander is poisoning my air.
My throat is tight.
Slander.
Tight.
As my eyelids become heavy I have but
one thing left, the fold of serenity in my brain.
Poisoning slander.
Throat closed.
Serenity.
I feel the air carving prejudices into my voice box.
I restrict.
Choke.
Restrict.
Choke.
The only segregation I allow is between my mind and the slander.
The choking is done.
I am done.
Serenity prevails and
I am done. 
I am done, but serenity prevails.

Details | Nicholas Hazelwood Poem

The Artistry of Sentiment

I could speak of the meaning of love and make its vitals food for words but that 
would tarnish its real meaning. I’m not in my own world anymore. I’m in a world 
of combination and care. Her words engulf me into an abyss of mystic nature 
and leave me pewter to a hammer of lust. Her body sways with willow-like agility, 
nurturing the air with a smooth melody sung by her hips. Vibrant waves of 
happiness seep into my pours as her smile pulsates flashing beams of joy 
toward me. Her eyes as delicate as glass, display an asymmetrical balance 
between elegance and enchantment. A vine she is, inside my body, spreading 
her angular roots throughout my soul, synthesizing melancholy into passion. I 
have grown weary of sorrow and it’s multiple followers. There is a new light and 
a new reality were sunsets burn into lovers eyes and crickets sing ballads for 
liberated affection.

Details | Nicholas Hazelwood Poem

Casualty of Carelessness

I splash my ideas onto a canvas of creation.
Creativity seems to run off of the painting
as I try to rush perfection.
I feel the stress of procrastination
placing its weight on my chest.
Drops of craftsmanship fall from the edges,
being destroyed by the harsh impact with the ground.
Stress turns to regret as time 
escapes me more and more.
Pressures of failure squeeze my head
and puncture my thoughts.
I cannot handle the weight anymore.
Stress crushes the easel of my mind,
causing it to collapse.
The contents of my brain burst
from the severity of the fall.
Everything has failed.
I have failed.
My mind has failed.
I try to scoop what I can save back
into my skull but,
it all seeps back out through the cracks.
I watch as all I have worked for drains 
out of my head into the mouths of
stress and pressure.
I run my fingers across my scalp and
feel the cracks close up,
leaving my abilities to die.
I stop feeling the cracks.
My fingers slip in between chunks of my hair
and cling to it.
I widen my eyes as I attempt to pull
my hair out my head.
Pain shoots throughout my body,
stinging my retinas and burning my head.
I stop feeling the cracks 
because all I can feel is the pain.
I want to give up.
Give up on creation.
Give up on trying.
Give up on pulling my hair.
But all I can feel is the pain stinging,
burning, and laughing at me.
I watch as I float away from my mind.
I watch it get consumed by monsters.
I stop pulling my hair and
fall back to my mind.
Pain still boils my heart as I
watch my mind get consumed.
Tears attempt to sooth my pain but
dry up short of the source.
I reach for the tears but only get failure.
I reach again.
Failure.
I reach again.
Nothing.
My tears soon turn into sadness as
failure accompanies my procrastination.
I want to kill failure but
it’s too strong.
I kick at it.
It breaks my legs.
I swing at it.
It bites off my fingers.
I feed it conventions.
It vomits them all over what I have left.
I give up and scream for mercy.
Failure laughs.
Stress pulls my hair.
Pressure breaks my bones.
I try and try and try but failure 
eats my soul.

Details | Nicholas Hazelwood Poem

Ode To Victims

Impressions and confessions are a dangerous deal, after a slap across the face 
and an ice-cold meal. Johnny was a sick little lonely sad boy, his mom pulled his 
hair and his dad broke his toys. Johnny would cry and kick and scream, until the 
night came to him with a painful, bad dream. His tears evaporated up into his 
brain making the light turn to dark and the membrane insane. A complimentary 
platter of cannonball dreams, melting the matter to vomit and the vomit to 
screams. Johnny did die a painful sad death and his parents showed sorrow 
with conveyors of meth. A dove he was in an over looking tree, in search of 
nutrition and a place to be. He took all the beatings and rose after each shove, 
but why couldn't this child experience some love? Sanity? Insanity? Brothers of 
battered and bitter scars, attempt to reconcile through the murky, old stars. A 
show has begun amongst razorblade tongues, with gasoline drinks and tunes 
over sung. Time is short and the show must continue, so lets tighten our belts 
and feast upon sinew. Snow falls and cows turn blue, now if only I was sane this 
dream may be true. I question my ability to think and produce, my minds in the 
gutter, wrapped in sanity's noose. So lets furnish our glasses up to the rim, for 
sanity has lost, since his brother butchered him. Victims’ run the show and savor 
purloined blood, while they mimic its flow with a statue of mud. They scream at 
the laughter that bellows from their lungs, like the roofing mans calling on a 
ladder lacking rungs. It's the victims’ turn for a voice and a say in it all, it's the 
victims’ turn for a scream, before they die from the fall. Burning down houses and 
stealing rich blood, it's the perps turn to fall into the depths of dense mud.