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
Too hard for me to say goodbye
For all apparent reasons why
Even though we all know it must be
Each heart will someday stop the beat
When the rhythm of life, and silence, finally meet
Yet I always seem so surprised
To find that death is part of life
Knowing that regret, will now haunt my every rhyme
The specter called "if only", will inhabit every line.
Wish I could arbitrate a deal to have gained a little time
Just one more talk with Sissy, to ease my guilty mind.
And the sun now sets on my regrets
I gamble on time and lose each bet
Thinking I'll move on and yet,
here I set . . .
Wishing for one more time
One more pun
One more smile
That will never come
If I could just recall the things you said that mattered to you most.
Memories un memorized
That now I'll never know
Years of conversation when I didn't pay attention
Times I should have said I love you
And somehow failed to mention
Then when you tried to tell me you felt your time was drawing near
Your selfish little brother pretended not to hear.
Even when you did your best, and tried to let me know
You'd made your peace and you were ready, and that for you . . .
It was simply time to go
Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw | Year Posted 2015
She writes her songs and her poems,
not one person know 'em.
She listens to the sound of her music,
she's stuck to it like a tick.
If someone took the time to listen,
her true colors would glisten.
She's put on a mask,
and hid everything when someone asked.
She was the type of girl who would always laugh,
making you wish it would last.
She was the type of girl who would smile the day away,
too bad it is no longer that way.
She is now the girl who is depressed,
I bet you're impressed.
Since no one could tell
that she was going through hell.
Everyone thought she was happy,
when really, she felt crappy.
Everyone thought she was having the time of her life,
who would have guess her best friend was a knife?
She spent her days alone,
she seemed to do everything on her own.
Never once wanted help.
Thought she could do everything herself.
Then the day came,
when she lost the game.
She fell apart,
and everyone saw her broken heart.
They saw the way she overreacted.
Oh, if only you saw the way she acted.
She bruised herself, scratched herself, and made herself bleed,
no one knew what it was that she needed.
They saw her tears,
and that was what she feared.
They found out she wasn't okay,
oh, she hated that day.
Everyone found out about her secret,
and she wish they'd just forget,
but she knew they couldn't,
and that they wouldn't.
She left that town and started over,
no one knew she went undercover.
She said she got better,
when really... something else occurred.
She secretly hurt herself,
and walked away from help.
Everyone thought she recovered,
when really, she was undercover.
She secretly wanted to get worse,
no one knew of course.
No one cared to ask,
if she was wearing her mask.
Now it's too late,
she locked the gate.
everyone had forgotten she needed help.
Goodbye cold world,
this was a story of a girl
who once loved everyone
then feared who it was who won.
Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013
The Iraqi desert was blowing wind
The bullet tore into my heart
My Commander, she had but one arm
She pulled me to the ground
Holding me tight she saw
I would not make the night
So she did what any lover would
She held me tight
Whispered, "soldier I am with you till the end"
My last thought
Was I died in her arm
As her tears drops mixed with mine
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015
Impulsive or compulsive
Either way it's not conducive
Living with this disorder
Can't be good for my liver
Obsessions, when do they stop?
Compulsions, when do I stop?
Let me illustrate and reiterate
My demons make me infuriated
To the point, man, I really want to escape this
Live everyday like your last?
These hours go by fast
Trying to obliterate every ounce of the past
Always with the imagery and self coping insanity
That broke me and continues to break me.
Another day, no not another day
I just got out, please let me stay away.
Copyright © Stefan Cote | Year Posted 2016
Each night, bitter tears flood my cheeks,
none of my former lovers are there
to offer comfort.
My friends have betrayed me
despising me as they turn deadly enemies.
I'm a slave to my own nature
humbled with no rest from sorrow
humiliated like a deer
which cannot find pasture
and hunted down till my strength is gone.
I can't even remember the good Life
that was once there
because my existence has become a joke.
A beauty, young and untouched
now trampled like grapes in a wine pot.
Tears of suffering; shouts of mourning
becoming my closest triplet sisters.
I reach out my hand
but no one offers comfort
instead I'm being treated like a filthy rag.
My eyes red from crying,
my stomach is on knots
and I feel sick all over
as I wait for the healing of my wounds;
gaping as wide as the oceans
Deep in my heart, I cry out
now letting my tears
overflow my walls day and night.
my skin and flesh waste away
and my Bones broken.
The constant insults and hard knocks
chain me down
to eat gravel and be rubbed in dirt.
My Life has turned sour;
terrified, trapped, caught and crushed
as tears flood my eyes and they won't stop.
I was once worth
much more than fine stones from Australia
yet now counted worthless
like dishes of clay.
I stagger around naked and wounded
exposed to the Red vultures of the Jungle
and to the babarian brutal desert tribes.
My skin scourched from fever and hunger
and finally, the desert trap,
makes them swoop down
faster than the Eagles from the sky
to feast in the delicious meal of my ruin.
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013
In my thoughts poetic words are swirling, I found writing at an early age,
Tumbling and whirling, like caged birds; Depth of spirit and creativity are mine;
Trapped and reckless to be set free, Memories are free flowing in my words,
I must find paper and pen and release; Deep inspired poetry releases the past;
The fluttering, my muse is screaming, I drift and float, soul searching my inner life,
In my head, or is that me? Meaningful words pour out the sorrow.
I start to write and sad poems come, I let go of the past, I let the pain drift,
Creeping, word bleeding on paper; I lay each sorrowful and weeping word bare;
Oh do all poets struggle or just me? Bleeding upon a white page of paper,
And as I pen my verse, I weep. My poems are full of tears and memories.
The writing done, I sigh a tear, I have laid open this heart for all to see,
My muse has set me free; The story of my life can be found easily;
Memories are all I have, Photographs that float in my dreamy thoughts,
And the rain is falling down. The tomb is wet, so dark, so cold.
The pages of my life fluttering, Words deep engraved for all eternity,
Past the ornate gate; The wind takes my long hair and trees tremble;
Voices and murmurs calling me, Past the ornate gate and winding road,
I kiss dead lips and caress cold hands. I so often stand in this place of sorrow.
September 26, 2015
Inspired by the poem Crack like fissures written by Richard Lamoureux
In my poem, I combined parts of four poems with a similar theme.
Winds of Time, August 2014
For All Eternity, April 2015
Soulfulness, April 2015
Like Caged Birds, July 2015
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
Many came with bright, lovely f l o w e r s to lay,
their T E A R S hung in the tall b e n d i n g trees;
and then their WEEPING drifted into the S I L E N C E,
I have laid here b e n e a t h the EARTH- years.
BENEATH the deep w h i t e snow and g r e e n grass;
and a little GIRL came often with Rose,
she l a i d ROSE on my tomb, so gently . . .
NOW- now, a beautiful young woman comes here.
"O h m y s i s t e r l o v e- do not grieve evermore,
LEAVE, leave, leave this DARKNESS and come n e v e r m o r e."
January 7, 2017
Verse/Its Too Early To Write Poetry
Copyright Protected, ID 863940
It's to early to prite woetry contest
sponsor, Ironic Zink
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2017
This way that I feel, these dreams that I'm having
The rage that's held in, please Lord, let me release
The bottled up anger, laced with the bad memories
When will things change? Please Lord, Let me release
I search for the change, and I seek it through the shadows
I wish for this to stop, please Lord, make it decease
As the emotions boil, and the imagery is set, I paint
But the picture is all wrong, please Lord, make it decease
I can't erase the memories, the shell to thick to crack
Help me discover my path, and please Lord, let me release
The wisdom unheard of, gone in a single flash, to where?
Help me find my soul, and please Lord, let me release
I imagine a better place, in your arms is where I belong
Until then I'm alone, please Lord, make it decease
A victim of a broken home, and outcast to even myself
Questioning my mind, please Lord, make it decease
Lead me in the direction, you already know where I'll go
I'm lost and I need your help, but please Lord, let me release
Tired in these empty hallways, dehydrated of your love
Make me whole again, but please Lord, let me release
Copyright © Aaron Guttery | Year Posted 2013
Did you ever fall into a puffy big fluffy pillow,
Greeting your back as gravity commands you
And wraps around your entirety?
That moment where all you see is cushion:
Soft and safe is all that you feel
And you hear the rush of air passing you by.
For an instant there is nowhere else,
There is nowhen else, time has stopped
And you wish the moment would never end.
But all too soon you are aware
That you still lie among chaos
And you pretend the pillow is your shield.
Jumping from pillow to pillow
Tring to hide from the world
And you know it’s not real
I wish I could only hear the rush of air passing me by,
My vision obscured by the comforting cocoon
And to feel someone wrapped around me.
Copyright © Ijm seven | Year Posted 2017
You never listen
Yes I know it's true
I see you try and deny it
How's that working for you?
I will say one thing
You will hear another
I will try to fix it
The misunderstanding you see
I just got in trouble
(Sigh) I told you so
They never listen to me
They say they do
And I know they try
But all I want to do is scream
"JUST LISTEN TO ME SOMEONE PLEASE"
All I asked is that you think
What is real?
Do I ever ask this?
Will I ever again?
All I really did
All I want
Is to be free
Free to listen
And free to be me
You'll never see
Just how much your
Not listening has killed me
I have tried
Really I did
I know that I'm not eighty
I know that I'm not nice
But the only thing I asked
For was five minutes (at the most) of your life.
I'm sorry that you failed
I'm sorry that I tried but
Mostly I'm just sorry that
I'm not sorry,
Copyright © Rayne Thomas | Year Posted 2013
“My Name is Cancer”
My name is cancer; I have no regard for life.
I break hearts and tear apart families.
I appear out of the blue and strangely.
I do not see race, or age, or beauty in people, for I’m a disease, and blind to the good hearts I take.
The more people I take from this earth, the more I‘m feared.
I’m inside everyone: every mother, father, sister, and son.
To know me, is to know death,
To feel me, is to fell anguish.
To see me is like seeing then sun, then falling away into darkness where there is no more light,
where there is only pain.
Where there is only a feeling of hell that you do not understand and cannot explain.
I make friends cry, I make families feel hopeless.
Is it fair for me to make the vibrant wither?
Is it fair for me to take the old before their time?
Is it fair of me to strike fear into the hearts of families?
Is it fair for me to take the life of an inanest child?
I’m just but a disease that knows no bounds.
Hopefully you never have the misfortune
of hearing my name.
Copyright © Joseph Staup | Year Posted 2016
When last they kissed, and passion's lease
bloomed brief and sweet, Sir Shakespeare's quill
would set in motion a deathly chill.
For Juliet, he could not appease
to win her smile and would not release
a tranquil tale...but did reveal
this tragic poem, where lovers fell
and would break our hearts with spellbound grief.
Behold, your eyes will weep for her,
and empty arms will flail, for him
Young lovers swept away, in love
Misguided youth that we hold dear
and through the years we pray for them,
as songs are sung by mourning doves
Their love, was a fever, sorely sought
Of passion's quest, she would requite
to bridge the wage of family strife
But, delusion, rides deceitful plots
To think him dead, she had no doubt
Despaired, beyond her wildest thought
Disquiet of the heart cried out
And death, would dim the stars that night
Their song still lives, as stories will
Upon two graves, we linger here
Such love divine, is ours to keep
A sonnet binds them, ever still...
A love that cannot be compared
While swollen hearts, with anguish, weep
Copyright © Carrie Richards | Year Posted 2014
The day they fell
He stands before the great woods
Arms stretched, bracing the storm of machines
They roar and bark, trying to break his wall
But he stays put, Save the Forests he screams
The tress stand tall, lush and green
Seedlings sprout, Flowers bloom
Animals frolic in their wonderland
Is the forest really meeting it's doom?
He stands before the great woods
Protecting everything it confides
Many plants and animals are within
Away from the human eye they hide
Even if you have never seen them
Just take a step inside
The feeling of life the smell of grass
Do u really want them all to die?
The machines don't care
Around the forest they continue to surround
They have never seen the wind
And never heard the sounds
They never felt the wind against their faces
Never heard the rustling of leaves
Never seen the life in the forest
Never understood that it brings relief
Fire shoots up as the forest screams
Roars and crackles follow too
Animals run, plants sink to the floor
As the machine consumes the forests full
The trees spend decades growing up
The animals spend years moving in
But it only takes seconds to burn it down
To burn the forest into the size of a pin
What has the forest done he wonders
As He stands in front of the orange blaze
To deserve this kind of torturous pain
With Heat and sorrow right in his face
Copyright © Sapphire Williams | Year Posted 2013
A huge monstrous olive tree
not giving shade nor bearing fruits,
existing in pains and disappointments
together with the others, they live
is the exact expression of my grieve.
Too hypocritical in being aggressive
and defeated by the contraceptive of my try
condemn and make me believe
I'm failure's chief executive.
How am I to know
that every attempt completed
is success' eve?
How am I to know
that more failure is effective?
How am I to know
that I ought to be vigilant
and be patient like a detective?
faulting the situation, myself I deceive
and landing in this mess
surely wasn't my motive
I should have been more creative
instead of staying sensitive to my senses
and searching for palliative methods
of scoring my goal.
I shouldn't have used
my cognitive functions this way,
perceiving challenges as dangers
always attentive to the red light
when it is in fact yellow.
when the push seems less attractive
and summing up the crash
to be definitive.
For all these years
the agony has been an adhesive
to my soul.
comparative to a privileged bridegroom
who outslept his wedding
to an undeserving bride.
As descriptive as that,
mine is even more corrosive.
Now I pay taxes to sadness
and my regret more lucrative than ever before
as nature chooses my heart
to be the dwelling place of sorrow
keeping my self-ruin well preserved.
I've tried to turn back time
I've tried to apply similar energy
and pretense is now my best talent
but all I get is NOTHING!
I'm only left with wishes
a million times have I made them
and a million times more I'll proclaim them
but they will all stand as cup-bearers
to my constant regrets.
as I forever say........
I wish! Oh I wish!
Copyright © Funom Makama | Year Posted 2013
I Didn't Mean To Break Your Heart
I wrote a poem of yesterday
a part of me was dying.
Love had come then left again
and left me there just crying.
So long it seemed my reaching out
I hoped somehow you'd see.
Remembered times I cried with you
that you might cry with me.
I guess I took it much too far
I missed it from the start.
The last thing that I wanted.
I didn't mean to break your heart.
Memories of former days
when maybe love was new.
Must have all come rushing back
somehow crushing you.
Relentlessly I told my tale
about a love that went all wrong.
Not seeing what it did to you
as you followed along.
Feeling somehow some release
I let it all pour out.
Opened wounds inside of you
one more time filled with doubt.
Through the times I lived and loved
my world fell all apart.
Words I write for healing me
I didn't mean to break your heart.
Edwin C Hofert
Copyright © Edwin Hofert | Year Posted 2015
I miss the remedies of our past selves,
I miss the extract of blight from the tip of your lips.
I miss your abstract sunrise tumbling down your shoulders,
I miss the offset emeralds looking outward.
I miss our blaze that once caught the world on fire,
I miss the passionate extremities of our youth.
I miss the quite afterthoughts of the nights spent together,
I miss the way you removed me from my paradox.
I miss our alikeness, our kindled spirit,
I missed your final words.
Copyright © Aaron McIntosh | Year Posted 2016
One day i will climb that tree,
Sit at the top to feel the breeze
One day I'll swing on that swing,
So high I can touch the sky
One day i will ride my bike,
So fast across the land
One day i will play with the other kids,
When I'm not feeling so sick
One day i know i will be well,
One day soon i will be cured, no more pain, no more suffering
That day will be
When god sends his angel's down for me
To forever play in heaven's playground...
Written for little Kiara who lost her fight
fly free baby girl...
Copyright © kerry singleton | Year Posted 2012
Do you sometimes wonder about your self identity
seen through your lens for suicidal risk as opportunity?
It interests me that this lens
evolves as we age.
In later adolescence,
we often look in the face of transition
from good nutritional outcomes on a small stage
about to enter more competitively sharkish waters
within a significantly larger landscape.
Or so I focused my lens in my younger lack-time of wonder.
Not sure why or how these same transitions did not also apply
to nearly all those nonsuicidal 18-24 year olds,
enjoying a more Positive Psychology.
But now, in later adulthood,
I more often look in the face of a potential suicide
as one with at best mediocre outcomes
on a too-small stage,
often familial, or lack thereof,
about to enter no stage at all,
thinking maybe why postpone this mortal inevitability
of decay and disappearance.
From younger suicides,
"What would be the point of continuing
this WinLose Game,
when we all feel RealTime drill,
you never clearly win
until you stop losing,
and you never stop losing,
until you stop playing.
Clearly I am about to lose
what I don't feel all that great about
ever having won
at others' expense."
From older suicides,
"What was the point
of taking so long
to end this rigged Lose to Lose
It feels like these despair and suffering questions
co-arise within exponentially more of us,
asking echoing silos
as our encultured Earth moves
into a new revolutionary millennium.
Given the now nearly inevitable demise
of our polyculturally and climatically climaxing
exterior and interior lenses
of healthy hope v. toxic pathological
and monocultural decline
and political balance,
how do we know
we are more than an overpopulating parasitic blight
riding Earth's mortuary-in-waiting
where Elders remind was once
a healthy regenerative place
to continue living?
Yet it is so important to notice
not only all despairing souls
jumping off roofs
but also healthfully repairing spirits
building polyculturally positive-deviant landscapes
of organic and synergetic opportunity,
cooperative networks of resonant resolve
sounding Time's dipolar appositional
issues of despair as opportunities to repair,
still seeking reasonable,
hope for shared regenerational vocations,
with WinWin reiterating integrity
between Earth's adaption and humane adoption,
within history's proposal and culture's co-evolving disposal.
No ego is autonomously responsible
for feelings or thoughts,
ideation or even beliefs.
So it is no one's right to judge feelings,
our own feelings,
the feelings-beliefs-ideas of others
as unacceptable or somehow cosmically dysfunctional,
condemning or worthy of global applause,
taking all we have been given
far too personally,
too unrealistically removed from comparative
and nuancing context
to discern how we might choose to carry on.
It is our responsibility and opportunity,
personally, and as a species,
to notice trends of suffering and despair,
compared to trends of multisystemic health diversity,
polycultural density of nutritional choices,
ranges of harmonic freedom and wealthy cultural balance,
as they appear to reflect
and not reflect
our shared experience to date.
Not to judge and condemn failures and despair,
but to praise our most regenerative successes
and love for equitably accessible hope
to include all Earth's cooperative economy
among our emerging synergetic Tribe
of curious interests.
Copyright © Gerald Dillenbeck | Year Posted 2016
To the forgotten soul that have ever lived
For their families they have lost, a new nation conceived
For their ashes scattered, one blood they bleed
Blessed by their stories told and memories grieved
Loved for their battles lost and wars achieved
Their cowardice disregarded but courage believed
Their fears covered by their bravery revealed
Their sorrow wept, their lives appealed
With their bodies torn, one nation they weaved
One anthem they sing for lives they screamed
In the doom of battles darkness a ray of hope they beamed
As our last line of defense, this is how they lead
Now count the numerous grains of shapeless sand
In the war-torn widow’s hand, understand her internal misery
As every mournful tear, they wept is not a locked mystery
‘Cause every jagged grain is a lost memory
This simple gesture is a constant ministry
That the young blood perishes but the old bones live to tell the tale
The more they ask why, the harder the grave fail
To cover the brave
As they salute, march and wave
Not knowing so sorrow they will cave
With their blood, they will pave
And our salvation they'll save
Now on our hearts, they'll engrave
“WITH OUR LIVES WE GAVE”
Now we say:
“LOVING LIVE THE BRAVE!”
Copyright © siza sibiya | Year Posted 2013
I go to a place of memories
That haunt my vivid dreams
On a winding path I walk,
The path is always there ;
Old oaks bend their branches,
Of dripping leaves and moss ;
The grass is emerald green,
And many birds chirp unseen,
Chipmunks scurry here and there,
Running up and down the trees.
And all around are flowers bright
They flutter in the breeze.
She waits beyond this bend;
Oh she was my sister love.
How we liked to play and play,
Until that sad, dark day,
She went to be an angel above.
I think it was God's will.
A rose I place upon her grave,
And let me write the pain.
The last time I saw my sister love,
She lay in repose so sweetly;
Her lips were rosy in death stillness.
Arms folded as if in prayer,
I kissed her cold dead cheek,
And I will remember her ;
Sleeping in her eternal ever rest,
Her dress of the softest pink.
The years have slipped past me,
I am no longer a little girl ;
But a woman of many years,
Yet when I walk this path,
I go back to that sad day.
The day I watched sister love,
Lowered into the earth below;
Mother Earth opened wide,
And then she was a memory.
A memory that will haunt me,
In all my days that remain ;
This place of deep sorrow,
A winding path beneath the trees,
A name upon cold stone ;
In poems inspired I write the pain,
Of a my beloved sister love.
Inspired by the poem, Pictures Of Memory
Written by Alice Cary, 1820 - 1870
Among the beautiful pictures
That hang of Memory's wall
Is one of a dim old forest,
That seemeth best of all ;
Not for its gnarled oaks olden,
Dark with mistletoe ;
Not for the violets golden
That sprinkle the vale below ;
Not for the milk-white lilies
That lean from the fragrant ledge,
Coquetting all day with the sunbeams,
And stealing their golden edge ;
Not for the vines on the upland,
Where the bright red berries rest,
Nor the pinks, nor the pale sweet cowslip,
It seemeth to me the best.
I once had a little brother,
With eyes that were dark and deep ;
In the lap of that old dim forest
He lieth in peace asleep :
Light as the down of the thistle,
Free as the winds that blow,
We roved there the beautiful summers,
The summers of long ago ;
But his feet on the hills grew weary,
And, one of the autumn eves,
I made for my little brother
A bed of the yellow leaves.
Sweetly his pale arms folded
My neck in a meek embrace,
As the light of immortal beauty
Silently covered his face ;
And when the arrows of sunset
Lodged in the tree-tops bright,
He fell, in his saint-like beauty,
Asleep by the gates of light.
Therefore, of all the pictures
That hang on Memory's wall,
The one of the dim old forest
Seemeth the best of all.
August 15, 2015
For the contest, No More Masks, sponsor, Catie Lindsay
Copyright © Broken Wings | Year Posted 2015
A thorough yield
On a farm field of far east
It took me time to realize
How far I am to my far east of coast
Call of my weather
Call of my winds
I sailed further and farther
To my naked coasts
Naive songs, Nimble rains
Nile of rivers, Nascent clouds
Reaching this far
I kissed my earth
Ground of my grief
Glory of my ghosts
Glad is those leaves
However scanty they are
Cast is my shadows
No longer they hide
My colors and my figures
They cast numbers on stars
Measure their light
Scope my winters
Scale my summers
Scanty my rains
Scuttle I wish my springs
Now let me see my greens
Their leveling heights
Their leafy gaze
Their spiderly gesture
Their primordial texture
Now let me be slow
In company of my greens
#Poem by +Gokul Alex
Copyright © Gokul Alex | Year Posted 2013
nothing to man is at hand, neither his force
nor his weakness, or his heart; and even when
open armed, his shadow looks like a cross, then
his joy will crush, to keep it tight, if he can !!
his life is a strange and painful divorce
there is no happy love.
his life is just like these armless soldiers
who are geared just for a diferent fate
what for then, to open morning gate
when back home, jobless after due date?
tell these words, My life, and keep your tears
there is no happy love.
my beautiful love my dear love, my wound
i bear you within me like a bird, aching
and those without our being seen passing
repeating after me the words, i've been weaving
and who to the wide eyes, will not stay around!
there is no happy love.
by the time to learn to live, it will be already too late,
how many tears must our hearts shed in harmony at night?
how much more sorrow that could give a little song
how much more regrets that could pây a thrill
how much more sobs that could give a tune of guitar
there is no happy love
Louis Aragon translation* Il n'y a pas d'amour heureux*
Copyright © Lonely Shepherd | Year Posted 2016
I will grow old
I tremble in the cold
None to care
I have nothing to fear...
But my love is alive
Though I strive
Beautiful roses to pluck
Yet I am stuck..
I grow old with wrinkle
Yet I will kinker
You will always remain in my mind
This is how you will find...
Copyright © Surajit Dahal | Year Posted 2013
Yes! I become frail
Yes! You pushed me hard
Yes! I fall;
Yes! You made me stronger,
To the point that i think you are fortuitous,
I pray, I pray you to be the one
When you feel betrayed;
I heard Love turns into a antagonism and a curse,
To the point, I feel you are blessed
I still pray for you; to be happy
Yes! I cried.. I sob
Yes! You made me feel worse
Yes! I missed you
Yes! You made me who i am.
To the point, you are admired
I pray, I pray you to be blissful,
Now that, you are gone I feel, what was so exemplary about you?
I still pray for you to get what you want.
Copyright © Asma Memon | Year Posted 2015
Where were you when my world fell apart?
The Sun darkened and the Moon just fled.
All had been done and all had been said.
And ripped to shreds was my beating heart.
Even the Seas began to part.
And the Mountain tops spread.
I lay there completely dead.
Even the Stars I could not chart.
If only you knew,
If only you were there,
If only you had a clue!
If only life had been fair!
I’d turn the clocks back,
Still standing dead in my track!
Copyright © Ann Rich | Year Posted 2013
As I gaze up towards the universe
As a fading star lingering in the night
Lost inside the twilight's whispered dreams
Reality inside tomorrows twisted illusions
Nothing, nothing at all
One with not even a reason to die
The one who sold his insanity
Alone and so very afraid
Eating the dirt and decay infiltrating my solitude grave
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017
When ever I see the butterflies flying
I am reminded of your smiling face,
As I see them taking wing into the sky
I feel emotions which are never displaced
For deep in my heart also live the butterflies
As they come to life within my heart each day
While I count the many sweet memories of you
Which in my thoughts and dreams now stay
The sheer brilliance of their many vibrant colors
Produce a vivid rainbow deep within my mind
Which fills my heart with such an unwavering joy
Allowing me to enjoy them for endless times
And the butterflies will be my dearest treasure
Leaving me never again quite feeling the same
For the peace they bring can never be measured
As on their wings are gently imprinted your name.
Wendell A. Brown,
Copyright © Wendell Brown | Year Posted 2013
Who am I?
W-eaned from tender
age,in noble family of ten.
H-urt by the demise of
the tube that brought
me into this theater of
struggles and pains.
O-rdered about by the
whimps of this
world,facing the hurdles
of life daily from
cradle,never giving up
A-fine young man of 28
I am,who has the
experience and wisdom
of the aged.
M-astering the arts of
life-learning from lessons
of life's victims and
didactic poems 'cos man
of fame I intend to be for
I bear the name Bob.
I-lost my poetic gift at a
stage but recovered it in
poetrysoup for invisible
entities say a
lesser being I shall be,but
another encourages me
to move on,for great is
one who comes out of
the shackles of life
undeterred for this is who
Name: Ifeanyi Bob
Copyright © Ifeanyi Bob Ekechukwu | Year Posted 2013
We only talked sanely a few times,
About how he also had a condition like me,
Although my dad, who had a Medical Doctorate, when James was small wouldn’t say,
Obvious as it was that he had CF from his inward-growing finger-nails,
Dad decided to bypass the issue, medicine to assail.
I have CP, and needed James’s comfy chair to read,
It was given to him in misogyny because it was blue,
About three months before he died he said,
I could have it, and must convince mum and dad that it was mine;
They were Christians, fundamentalist and strict,
And so sometimes there was an elephant in the room,
Between me and James, about the physical.
Death is inevitable, but to them it was only a maybe for James,
When the doctors had said that 14 was the expectation,
I prepared myself for the worst well before it occurred,
As an atheist I am, with no qualms or hesitation.
James wanted for me the best, happiness and friends,
Wanted me to do my best physically, ‘cos he knew I wanted that too,
But he also suspected that I would grieve for him rightly,
Not like a sentimental fundamentalist who believes that Jesus is risen,
But as a steadfast atheist who knows what has been given;
So he knew to remark on my immediate life without him so as to adjudicate.
I cherished Christinna Georgina Rossetti’s poem, Remember,
Long before and for some time after James’s death,
And quietly held in my heart the loved-one’s good wish,
Mum used to think that sometimes I was cold as stone,
But really I'd faced the fact that James was dead and gone.
Although Rossetti was by no means an atheist,
Her poem recites the mantra of the bereavement psychologist,
That to get on with your life as best you can,
Is a right, the partner of grief, and the pathway for your lone self;
In the Bleak Mid-Winter puts Christ as relational to nature,
Instead of pertaining nature to Christ, as it is normally,
And so we must partake of it within our space and our pasture.
Copyright © Rhoda Monihan | Year Posted 2015