Writing Sad Poems

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Details | Quatrain |
"Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought." - Percy Shelley


Do not tell me to smile
while tears run down my cheek,
just because I am melancholy
does not mean I am weak.

I cannot fake happiness
these are real tears I cry,
if they are invisible to you
I really wonder why.

They say look on the bright side
and this only makes me mad,
my emotions are not hidden
I am unafraid to be sad.

You cannot understand it
wished, prayed for it to go,
these sorrows you tried to end
yet, this is all I know.

Tears flow through my veins
not the red blood of life,
this heart sobs, it does not beat
outpouring all my cares and strife.

I am happy in sadness
not in a fake smile,
so, let my tears fall
I want to be sad for awhile.

If you hate sad poetry
than I am not for you,
I will write a "happy" poem
when I am ready to.






September 20th, 2013

Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2013




Details | Rhyme |
Triangles of half-open doors
Reveal all the truth that is hidden:
Just condoms and cans on the floor,
Black papers with verses, forbidden -
Unfinished remakes of the song,
Deprived of the right to speak loud
Of wicked intentions gone wrong -
Erasers have muffled the shout.

The only illusion-proof mind -
A poet, the voice of despair,
Sincere, the one of this kind
Throws verses far into the air
Right there, in a dirty old flat
Among once great talents, now rotten.
They all have deserved more than that,
But even their names are forgotten.

Copyright © Ria April Avalon | Year Posted 2009

Details | Rhyme |
       She laced her eyes 
closed with the ties
    of lover's binding vows

     she's flying blind
to prick your mind
    with thoughts 
   she's writing now.

She's gained conclusions
      from her flight,
and virtues from your smile,

     she felt your face
  in blinding grace,
     she glorifies your style.

    The double helix
spirals on
   to form us as it may,

    we choose another one
to be
   a place for us to stay.

The atmosphere 
    there crackles,
with lightning
    on her tongue,

    She spins around,
in sightless sound,
     and shatters..........
          deaf and dumb.

Copyright © Johnette Loefgren | Year Posted 2006




Details | Free verse |
The Ink Bottle sits, alone,
It’s only Companions,
The Feathered Pen,
The Paper Pad.

The Desk, once alive,
The Words,
No longer,
Written.

Love, abandon,
But wanting not,
The Freedom,
It has.

A Wooden Chair, dusty,
Reclines not,
For the Comfort,
Once given.

Time, a mystery gone,
With passing,
Never to be recovered,
Longing.

Days of gloom, waiting,
Shine not, The Light,
The Heart,
Once brightened.

Come back, to Me,
My words, of Joy,
Of Laughter,
Wisdom, once known.

Copyright © Kenneth Fordham | Year Posted 2008

Details | Rhyme |

A gentle heart

        So full of love

Yet no one feels

        It's worthy of

Their admiration

        Care or time

So I am left

        To barter rhyme

Matching words

        To arbitrate

The things I feel

        Be love or hate

So others fawn

        At what I pen

When deep inside

        An endless end

Crafting prose

        To coaxing sighs

While deep within ...

        A slow demise.



* SECOND PLACE in the "Contest 380" Premiere Poetry Contest, Brian Strand, Sponsor. *

Copyright © Gregory R Barden | Year Posted 2017

Details | I do not know? |

Words demand be written.
Ink begins to flow.
Sentences form.
Thoughts race.
Like raindrops down a window. 
There's a lake in my mind 
And it's always raining.
Where does the water escape?
Where can words go?
They flow through my veins,
Like blood or poison.
They sustain me
Destroy me.
Can I find a place to rest? 
Who can save me?
Am I redeemable?
The words flow to my fingers,
Like water through the veins of a rock.
I am no longer in control.
Sometimes it makes sense.
Sometimes I am crazy.
Sometimes, the words refuse to fit.
They are either territorial or 
They combine and the sentences form. 
No matter what, all I know, is that
Words demand to be written,
Ink begins to flow. 

Copyright © Brynn Rose | Year Posted 2016

Details | Rhyme |
Ana
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.
Killed herself,
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

Details | Light Poetry |
50 shades of therapy
50 shades of restraining orders
50 shades of rejection
50 shades of addiction
50 shades of suicide
50 shades of rainy days
50 shades of cloudy ways
50 shades of jazz and blues
50 shades of painful memories
50 shades of wartime wounds
50 shades of political doom
50 shades of curtains and drapes
50 shades of a lovers disgrace
50 shades of cereal box tops
50 shades of graveyard graves
50 shades of wistful thoughts
50 shades of pure silk white
50 shades of legal fights
50 shades of everyday light
50 shades of tasteful delights
50 shades of pure sheer fright
50 shades of milking cow
50 shades of milking an idea
50 shades of comical prose
50 shades of sunglasses
X 2
Cause I am tired

50 shades of age

Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2015

Details | Ballad |
Don’t send me more 
Of your tragic poems
My dear 
Covered in blood
Of your monthly flood
Of tears

Don’t send me more 
Of your angry poems
My dear
Carved with the knife
Of your molten spite
And fears

I’m just a peddler 
With a cart
Bringing discount words
To hearts
Broken hearts across the land
Woman left without her man
Broken hearts throughout the world
Anguished boy and crying girl

Your poetry’s too heavy, dear
For me to read, for me to bear
Your poetry’s too heavy, dear
For me to get from here to there

Don’t send me more
Of your bitter poems
My sweet
Forged in the fire
Of your endless ire
And grief

Don’t send me more 
Of your hopeless poems
My sweet
Ripped from the womb
Of the lonely room
You keep

I’m just a peddler 
With a cart
Bringing discount words
To hearts
Broken hearts across the land
Woman left without her man
Broken hearts throughout the world
Anguished boy and crying girl

Your poetry’s too heavy, dear
For me to read, for me to bear
Your poetry’s too heavy, dear
For me to get from here to there

(You see that shadow on the road
Trudging ‘neath its heavy load
A heart weighed down by sands of time
And your poems only make him cry
And he won’t add them to the pile
So he can walk another mile)

(And he won’t add them
To the pile
So he can walk 
Another mile)

Too heavy, dear 
Too heavy, dear
For me to read 
For me to bear

(They make him sad
Make him cry
Beat him down
Deep inside)

Too heavy, dear
Too heavy, dear
For me to read
For me to bear

They make me sad
Make me cry
Feel as though 
I want to die

(And he won’t add them
To the pile
So he can walk 
Another mile)

Too heavy, dear
Too heavy, dear
For me to read
For me to bear

(A heart weighed down 
By sands of time
And your poems 
Only make him cry)

Too heavy, dear
Too heavy, dear
For me to read
For me to bear


Copyright © Catman Cohen | Year Posted 2011

Details | Elegy |
Up into the sky 
he soared 
like an Angel

With us 
down here-- 
at Soupland, watching him as he soared 
like an Angel;

So gentle… 
and brave 
he was,
a strong love he had, sharing it till the end, yet

His breath
could not resist the resounding call 
of Heaven 
and he left, 

Leaving us his poetry, for 
when great storms come in, his laughter 
will dry our tears like rain.


--

for Tom Bell, a great poet who taught us all-- 
to laugh and to smile…to learn… and to give.    

Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago | Year Posted 2008

Details | Blank verse |
Here’s what I’m thinking now 
at the end of the world: 

There are no atheists in foxholes— 
no theists in politics. 
If knowledge is power, 
and power corrupts, 
then why did I bother reading you, Cicero? 

Does it matter that I didn't’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

There’s a poetry reading tonight 
whence I’I'll chide other poets 
who don’t sit alone. 
I won’t bring up death 
but I might have to breathe, 
even into a mike 
and mouth lines to get a snap or a boo 
maybe even a wince or two. 

Just maybe I’I'll talk about love 
and how following your heart is like following a dog— 
it only leads to vittles and (female dogs). 
But how many times have I used that line 
since the story I wrote about you, 
a witty and sexy and fictional you? 
Most likely I’I'll read something tonight about you. 

I won’t recite it from memory 
because I don’t think about you that much anymore, 
not even when I search for my socks in your drawer 
or when I put on the scratchy sweaters you give me, 
horizontally striped to bring out my eyes? 

I don’t remember your eyes 
except they are blue. 
And I don’t remember you, 
not even when I smell cucumber and apple, 
not even when I sleep on my side of the bed 
or when you walk through the door 
happy to see me; 
even then I don’t remember you. 
Does it matter that I don’t love you? 
Would it have mattered if I did? 

How about a few one-liners 
for the end of days?— 

Depression is self-awareness, 
which you’d know if you were; 
I need Ritalin to listen to you, 
Lithium to hug you, 
Viagra to feel you, 
and Valium to sleep. 

All you need 
is me standing there, waiting at home 
with turns of phrase and word plays 
telling you about why I hate Ayn Rand 
but want to buy as much as I can 
and how I love celebrity gossip 
and detest poetry slams 
and find rhyming trite 
except when I am. 

Hypocrites can still be right, 
which you do understand 
because you nod at my nonsense 
about fighting the man. 

But now, at the end of all things— 
I’m speechless and witless and pointlessly well-read, 
and you’re just sitting there, smiling 
asking me to pass the bread.

Copyright © Nick Hertzog | Year Posted 2010

Details | Free verse |
A soul weeps in flesh for the pain I left behind.
 I am sorry for the pain,the tears, I left for you to bear. 
These healing words I send with a bumble bee to heal a bleeding rose. 
These napkin like words I pray can wipe your tears and snotty nose.
 I was young and naive,I cherished my pride instead of your heart . 
There the coldest winter did start. 
If it makes you happy I disposed of the mistress. 
Who faded in long lost memory of shadowed kisses.
 No,no,no I am sorry for writing that,
its a poets bold habit of honesty,
but in writing this I thought i should be honest and honest I shall be.I apologize for leaving your emotions suppressed,unknown and ostracized. 
Yes, I know the ocean swollen with your tears,the angels descended on a bloody battle field to  hear your cry.I hope you can summons them again and reconsider the report to the almighty farther. 
If I could write this apology in the eye of the sky I would,for my remorse to be seen , a once foolish human being .Your heart I didn't mean to decay. I apologize for the lies, cries,for making you eat sadly all those ice creams and soggy apple pies,from absorbing tears fallen from yours eyes. Left to wonder in the vastness of the universe alone. I am sorry also sorry for the smudged ink and some of the lines. I cried along with them, imaging your painful times.


Yours truly Elliott Bowe 
To:Simone Descartes

Copyright © Elliott Bowe THe DrUnKeN POeT | Year Posted 2012

Details | Cowboy |
On dark hillside
A lone cowherd
Wrapped in his blanket,
Gazed up at the sky,
Dreamed into the night.
A wisp of crescent moon,
A sky full of stars,
In his thought
He was asking:
Does my small fire shine up to the stars?

Copyright © NWANDO OBIANYOR | Year Posted 2007

Details | Rhyme |
Writing with a pin,
I know it is wrong.
Writing with a pin,
Blood is being drawn.

Writing with a pin,
My skin's burning and searing.
Writing with a pin,
It's wrong, but it has a satisfying feeling.

Copyright © BRITTANY MOON | Year Posted 2010

Details | Rhyme |
Curse To Rehearse

I am a writer. An artist.
I’d like to say I’m a poets,
But I don't really know it,
And I definitely cannot show it,
Because I haven't gotten it right.
I am cursed with a thirst
To rehearse, verse by verse
Until I can tell myself it’s decent.
Words flow like water from the tip of my pen
And even though I may read it over and over again,
I usually like what I write.
But of course you don't, Or at least that's what my mind tells me to think
I am plagued with a curse
To rehearse my work, verse by verse,
To question whether  my art is better or worse
Than what I believe it to be.
My words thrive in an imaginary universe
Where every verse is dispersed and dispersed
Until everyone knows what I am saying.
Outside of that dream
There is always a theme
Of doubt and defeat
Where my wants seem to take the back seat
And all I hear is my pounding heartbeat.
Maybe I can write, but I may never know,
Nor will I let my work show,
Because I am still stuck with the curse
To rehearse, verse by verse.
But even if you tell me I can write,
I will never believe you.

Copyright © s. grace | Year Posted 2016

Details | Free verse |
I wrote a pretty love song
filled with lullabies
and starry eyes
and fingers intertwined.

Drunk with love
and forgetting my name
nothings the same
and my hearts all aflutter.

Memories of sleepless nights
soft pink lips
and fingertips
cause me to lose my place

Your hand on my cheek
lips on necks
passionate sex
and embraces so dear

Such a pretty love song
filled with memories
and sweetest dreams
If only it were real.

Copyright © Brittney Rhoda-Goode | Year Posted 2008

Details | Lyric |
There’s places and faces where I’ve never been
some of them laughing and living in sin
Some of them hurting from being alone
And the places seem part of my own
The rhythm is flinging these words in my head
Against walls that refuse to be bled
Riding on nightmares through darkness and blight
Then lazily cruising in dreams
In this odessic searching
For reason for being
Nothing’s as bad as it seems
But on turning away
In my off handed way
I’m so tempted to say
Another could view it as fey






Another attempt at explaining my motives for living and writing about it

Copyright © Donald Meikle | Year Posted 2006

Details | Verse |
Spinning Webs And Sad Gray

Spinning webs hold my life in place
gems waiting from flames yet to be lit
Why would set sail to another shore?
When this one, rocks as it slowly moans
Morn's new frost never touches my toes
nor dawn's beaming rays fail to inspire

Car wreck yesterday by our home
roadside two bodies, lifeless there lay
I wondered will school be different Monday?
Now that death has touched my soul

Last year father died, and my tears I withheld
not manly to show such a display
Lessons learned at home and at life
Death, death has the final say!

R.J. Lindley
1970
Old Note. Winter's bitter cold tells me I am still alive..

New Note - First poem in my oldest surviving private journal.
I thought today may be a good day to post it , as it was written in June, one year after my father's death in 1969..

Third Note-  Funny how it doesn't even rhyme...

Copyright © Robert Lindley | Year Posted 2017

Details | Salaam |

Jab Meri Bechaini Mit Jayegi
Jab Mere Dilko Sukoon Mil Jayega
Yeh Khaalipan Mit Jayega

Do Pal Ki Chandni Ke Liye
Aj Bhi Zinda Hoon Main
Meri Khaamoshi Ke Ageh Aasmaan Bhi Khatam Ho Jayega

Kehne Ke Liye Toh Roz Marta Hoon Main
Thoda Aur Marne Ke Liye
Yeh Deewana Kal Phir Ayega

Copyright © shadab shaikh | Year Posted 2013

Details | Senryu |
Kids go down
The slide…they head toward the swings
TIME TO SCREAM!

Free time ends
Their parents want to go home
Frowns exchange 

Copyright © JW Earnings | Year Posted 2013

Details | Acrostic |
 How dare you take advantage of me like that ,
Leaving me stranded with no way to go forward or back.
   Using the friendship that we had led me to believe,
That there was trust and honor between you and me .
   How you layed me aside and left me for dead ,
You have caused these hateful thoughts inside my head.
   Never could I have done this to any man , 
I can see you have no concious so I know you can.
  There just one thing I really want to say  about this ,
It's been a long time since I have made a clinched fist .
  You have no idea how much hurt you have caused,
It won't be me you'll have to face That's up to God
   But you will regret mistaking this kindness for weakness girl,
Bad Karma will surely consume you this is my word.
   Yes you were able to catch me completely off gaurd ,
Never again because now I know who you are .
TAC

Copyright © TIMOTHY CARTER | Year Posted 2013

Details | Haiku |
Beauty of nature
Why condense it down to God?
Isn’t life enough?

Copyright © Dan Keir | Year Posted 2013

Details | Tetractys |
   Soup
       log in
           feel the rush
                    of poetry
                           smiles to laughter…friends…words that brighten day

                                                                          Shucks, system error, page takes forever
                                                                       upside down U
                                                                 is my mouth
                                                             no dice…
                                                        sighs 







---nikko :)
for Michael's Smiles and frowns contest ;)

07222011224a230
...ok, ok addict logging out-- in a bit,,,hahahaha

Copyright © kabuteng P.iNk k. | Year Posted 2011

Details | Rhyme |
When are you coming home, son? I miss your smile, you've been gone for quite some time now we haven't talked for a while. When are you coming home, son? How are things, all right? I still have that picture you gave me I look at it every day and night. When are you coming home, son? I know this war's been hard on you, I still remember the day you left I said, I loved you. When are you coming home, son? I see the plane landing there, but it's a coffin draped with the flag 'tis something I can not bare. When are you coming home, son? I remember days gone past, I now stand, looking over your gravestone you were taken from me, your life went fast. Copyright © Cynthia Jones Nov.17/2005 Being a Canadian, writing this bothered me. Thinking about the American troops in Iraq and the Canadian troops in Afghanistan. When will our governments finally see what they are doing is wrong and send our troops home?

Copyright © Cynthia Jones | Year Posted 2015

Details | Rhyme |
She has so much pain inside of her,
she doesn't know how to address it.
So she turns the pain into anger,
after she explodes, she becomes quiet.

She goes up to her room, upset.
Why does the world hate her so?
She thinks to herself, “That’s it!”
But in reality, it isn't though.

She lies on her bed,
Pulls out her book and reads.
As she turns the pages, she loses her head,
In her mind, she thinks “This is what I need.”

A place to escape the world,
Somewhere she can run.
For it seems everyone hates this girl,
And nothing she does is fun.

She plays her cello 
And loses herself in the music
She does this when she feels low
Then she plays the song of her pick

She listens to the beat she makes,
Trying to make it sound perfect,
But oh, she keeps making mistakes,
She thinks that she will never get it.

She leaves the cello alone
And watches her shows
She then grabs her phone
And tells her best friend the show as it goes.

She leaves the TV on, 
Then she enters her laptop.
She stays on till dawn,
She just can’t seem to stop.

She loves the idea of leaving the real world
And entering an imaginary one.
That’s the story of the girl,
Who is never done.

Copyright © Ana Jusino | Year Posted 2013

Details | Prose Poetry |
All men (the loser boyfriends/husbands) think that it's their right to be physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward their female companions (girlfriends/wives), well they're wrong. Most guys are always beating their girlfriends/wives up every single day just because they didn't make their men dinner, do chores around the house, or whatever. It seems that these womanizing losers are way better than their women. Actually, they're not; they're idiots. Controlling these women and being physically, mentally, and verbally abusive toward them don't make these Neanderthals men; they're like childish cowards. All guys think that they're the only breadwinners in their families and the women aren't. But guess what--they're not; some of them don't have jobs. And does anyone knows what gets on my nerves? Men always cheating on their girlfriends/wives with other women, getting them pregnant, and not taking care of the children they already have. And those controlling, abusive men, they're always telling their female spouses/lovers what to do, what to eat, where to look, and who to talk to. I mean, who are these womanizing losers to judge other men and to boss these women around? I mean, who does that? Everybody doesn't even know why they'd bother spending the rest of their lives with those abusive idiots. This whole saying by these controlling abusive men have been getting on everybody's nerves and my nerves, as well: "You're-not-to-speak-unless-spoken-to," this "You're-not-to-talk-to-your-family" ordeal, this whole "You're-not-to-have-guy-friends," and this whole "You need me! You're nothing without me! You have no money! You have no friends! Everything's in my name: the house, the cars, clothes, everything I own! You're useless! You're worthless! I own you for life! And you will respect me!" Where I come from, the rest of us nicer guys, we treat our women with the respect they rightfully deserve. The last time I checked, the mothers have raised their sons to treat women and other people with respect, but they now know where they've gone wrong with those womanizing clowns. My suggestion for the women is for them to leave their abusive husbands/boyfriends before it's too late because if they don't, they'll end up in the hospital or the morgue. To be honest, these women, they never should've met, let alone dated or married those abusive men to begin with. And if these abusive men think that they can control those women forever, they've got another coming.

Copyright © Brashard Bursey | Year Posted 2012

Details | Free verse |
Roses in the garden,

Roses in the world,

Barrened roses,

Roses impearled,

But now roses curled...

 

Peach roses show modesty,

Peach roses show gratitude,

However, they are often insincere...

 

Yellow roses seem to care,

Yellow roses show friendship,

However, they are often joyless and jealous...

 

Pink roses communicate sweetness,

Pink roses radiate elegance,

However, they are often unthankful...

 

Orange roses have desire,

Orange roses show their pride,

However, they are often impassive...

 

Purple roses are majestic,

Purple roses express love at first sight,

However, they are often repulsed and unenchanted...

 

Green roses are harmonious,

Green roses carry hope,

However, they are often unpeaceful...

 

Blue roses like dreaming,

Blue roses are imaginative,

Blue roses desire to know the unknown,

Blue roses are mysterious,

However, they are often elusive and unattainable...

 

Red roses are emotional,

Red roses are devotional,

Red roses are respectful,

However, they are often remorseful, sorrowful and mistaken...

 

Gold roses are occassional,

Gold roses like memories,

Gold roses are preserved,

However, they are often misinterpreted and confused...

 

White roses are pure,

White roses have innocence,

White roses are spiritual,

White roses carry secrecy,

However, they are often arrogant...

 

Silver roses are rare,

Silver roses like to grow,

Silver roses convert fantasy into reality,

However, they are often lost and uneasy,

But they seem unpredictable and mystical...

 

Black roses are mysterious,

Black roses are rebirth,

However, they often remain elusive,

They often symbolize death and loss,

But they are unpredictable and silent,

Though, they are often harmed...

 

Roses in  the garden,

Roses in the world,

Barrened roses,

But now roses swirled and twirled...

 

Although, now peach roses are lying,

Yellow roses turning jealous and browned,

Pink roses being unsweet and unthankful,

Orange roses being impulsive and compulsive,

Purple roses being repulsed and revulsed,

Green roses losing hope and harmony,

Blue roses being undiscovered and lost,

Red roses being regretful and voided,

Gold roses bewildered and confused,

White roses losing purity and innocence,

Silver roses turning black and unused,

And black roses silenced and unborn...

 

All there is to see are roses vanishing,

Roses burning,

Roses trembling,

Roses surviving,

Roses aching,

Roses battling,

Roses crying,

Roses suffering,

Roses drowning,

Roses drying,

Roses fading,

Roses trying,

Roses wiltering...

 

All there is to feel are roses withering,

In a bed of bleeding roses...

Copyright © Ruben Alejandro Hernandez Diaz | Year Posted 2013

Details | Tanka |
	
	
	Tanka 12
	
	
	dark skies fuel  
	my melancholy mood 
	winter’s cold rain  
	dampens down my writing mind
	deadens my ways with words
	
	
	
	
	

Copyright © Jack Jordan | Year Posted 2013

Details | Romanticism |
A sweet flower's funeral
displayed in the cold months
of snowy weather and bone chilling shivers.
A sweet flower burned away, dried up;
buried six feet under.

Oh, my sweet flower,
how you once bloomed with no remorse,
like a madman blooming with beauty
and a glorious halo over your head
shinned with such power and blinding glory.

Oh my sweet flower how you have gone now,
resting in peace in the land of paradise.
Oh, my heart it is weak when I see your face,
of once beautiful smiles and warm embraces.
I can hear your crying out to be free.

Snowing and bone chilling cold ripes at my soul
and feelings of sorrow rage through my blood,
boiling my hatred to the world, for losing your
sweet and ever glorious beauty.

What I would give away, if I could be with you
one last night, one last night together
to hold you in my arms, to smell your sweet perfume
that brings back sweet memories of you and I.
What I would do to be with you,
such romance travels through my heart in the highways
of my veins in my body, love is all throughout me,
and my heart breaks when pictures of you start to collect dust.

My love for you, my sweet flower,
is still ingering through the air,
as I travel and look upon a tombstone
which shows your beautiful name.

Come to me my dear flower,
when spring comes,
come to me my dear, sweet flower.
And bloom once again,
twice as large as last year,
and ten times more beautiful then last year.
Come to me in the first months of spring
in my dreams, so I could sit and talk with you.
I miss you already,
and my heart crys,
my eyes flood with tears of sorrow.
I miss our love we shared.
Long walks,
cosy talks,
warm cuddling embraces
and beautiful displayed in a picture frame.
Now I hear the tapping of raindrops on my window pane.
That is all that keeps me company,
that and the rose you gave to me
and a picture of you and me.
Love is endless, even when blue eyed Death comes to visit
and play a game of chess with us,
we all play our game, my love.
I shall go tonight
in my sleepy slumber
and dream of you in the times of our height in our love for each other.
My lost love, you are gone, resting in paradise,
but never forgotten my sweet flower.

-10/6/2013-

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013

Details | Romanticism |
Feel me standing there
on the draw bridge
that stands stubburn and erect
over the rushing waters blown by the wind
back and forth.
I listened to the crows
posted on gargoils designed
of eightenth century Gothic architecture
singing their death songs,
when the sun is setting in the far.

The voices of women passing
startle me with a feeling of sorrow
I can't breathe, I am dying.
Feel me, can you feel me rot away?
Slowly but surely rot away
as time passes with ease,
and taxi cabs take smiling, intoxicated faces
to wayward cafes, oh how they screech to a halting stop
and wave to me to get in.

"No thank you, I'd rather walk." I say to the smiling faces
highly intoxicated with the thought of the birds and the bees
rattling around in their empty minds.
Then they drive off, into the city lights and turn a darkened corner.
I look at the rushing water
and feel myself rot away
slowly but surely rot away.

Can you feel me?
Can you hear me?
Can you see me?
Feel my heart thump with slow paces
that manage to keep up with fast melodies.
Of songs that play in your mind
only the ones that make you sigh
and think those one days in Spring time
as you walked over the draw bridge
and paid no mind to the water underneth.
I hear no more talk of you and me, I hear no more talk
of the good old times we all shared.
Time has passed, as I take my last breathe
and hold my chest and shead a tear.
Feel me, can you?
If you can, put your hand to my weak heart 
and feel it thump away with every second wasted
on useless items.
Now, see me a man of one time greatness
reflect his life with a reflection in the water below.
How I sigh and cry and breath heavely,
as I feel myself rot away.

The voices of woman pass me by.
Tomorrow is a new day,
for the smiling faces in taxi cabs will go home
and soak their raging hangovers with cool, wet rags.
As I still stand on the draw bridge singing with the crows,
feeling myself rot away.

Can you feel me without you, rotting away?
I surely can feel myself rot.
Such a heavy word, "rot"
So vulgare, yet a great description of me,
without you.

I pull out a shawl you once wore and I kiss it.
As the wind gusts and the sun rises and my shadow
comes to meet me, the wind shall take my last memory
of you away.
And I shall weep no more.
Then what will I do? Shall I walk the streets
and think of you.
Yes you, still rambling all throughout my head
like a lose screw.
Can you feel me? Feel me rot away
feel me think about you, and all your works.
Can you feel me?

Copyright © Chris Boskovski | Year Posted 2013