Best Blades Poems
I stare at my ceiling,
I start to wonder, why am I not healing?
Then it dawns on me,
The nightmare clip starts to roll.
I shake and shiver and wince at every little thing.
I'm scared to death,
What does this all mean?
I start to cry,
I feel as if I might die.
Then I grab my blade,
The tears come quicker.
My breath starts to quicken,
My grip on the blade makes my knuckles turn white.
In the mirror is where I see that my ivory skin is now blotchy and red.
I tell myself, "This may be the last time, if you finally cut deep enough."
So I try my best not to make a sound
As I sit up in bed and hold my wrist out in front of me.
I count to three,
One,
I put the blade to my wrist.
Two,
I start to add pressure.
Three,
I yank the blade across my skin,
It pierces and then I start to bleed.
I suddenly want it to stop,
But there's no going back now.
I wonder why it came to this,
I know nobody cares about me,
I know nobody is going to forget me.
Quietly I say, "I'm sorry."
But nobody is there,
No one will ever be.
I start to fade out of this world,
My addiction would finally be gone,
And so would I.
I was lost,
Lost and angry.
Suddenly, it was gone,
I woke up screaming.
The pain was oh-so real.
safe haven for poets once existed
till destructive forces came on board
those who seek just to hurt others
end up harming themselves
several such people have inflicted pain here
though no one would call them “writers”
juvenile antics and hateful comments
are their only legacies
through profanity and threats
digging holes to poetry’s Armageddon
alienating those who won’t strike back
or resort to petty, personal attacks
they say, "You're the most despised among the soup clan"
spew lava-like proclamations
hold grudges for years when they don't place
in a contest where only quality work won
evil doers adopt numerous aliases
to favorite each of their own poems
but poets can easily identify them
as their “attempts” at poems all sound the same
if one who can’t write, gives you a contest win
what is it you have really won
their friendship? No, they don’t have friends
do you compare your poetry to theirs
who wants to share on such a site
where mean-spirited people call the shots
other places enforce rules to promote civility
let your conscience guide you to these sites
August 18, 2014
Good Sense Of Humour Blunts The Sharp Blades Of Reality Poetry
Contest //Sponsored by: Natasha L. Scragg
Contest Judged: 8/30/2025 4:27:00 AM
( 2nd Place )
Written: August 5, 2025
When life threw me a curveball,
I stumbled—then chuckled mid-fall.
Lumped knees, not pride, I wore like bent,
because sneering is something I've seen.
In chemo rooms and vestibules,
I frenzied dry jokes on aseptic walls.
Doctors simpered, nurses would beam—
a punch-line where the fear had been.
When agony thumped hard and sleep grew thin,
I let the silly light writhe in.
A meme, a whirl , a silly song—
made aching days feel less so long.
No, humour incurable or patch,
But it's the ally, not made to part.
It doesn't silence, hurt or truth,
but let me smirk with my aching tooth.
So here's my laugh, though life gushes beneath,
it's how I rise, not how I lament!
Humor plays a special role
In this world of woe.
Laughter's serum for the soul,
As all fun lovers know.
Robust guffaws brighten days.
Insides shake, and hot tears flow.
Think of all the many ways
You could cheer those feeling low.
Oh, yes, that time has surely come-
the winter of our years;
try keeping busy, having fun
and hang out with our peers.
On senior bus trips, off we go,
the highlight of our day.
But walkers and those footed canes
sure do get in our way.
Like ducklings waddle cross the floor
to meet the guide in pairs,
we follow him or her around
and pray there are no stairs.
And soon it's time to see the show
and thought we had our place
to sit next to our special friends,
then find there is no space!
'Cause we got lost along the way-
when leaving the restroom!
Now in the dark, get seated near-
some gal with strong perfume!
And soon the time has surely come-
the curtains rise with cheers.
So tired of saying 'who' and 'what'-
stuff hearing aids in ears.
Oh yes, those days have surely come-
the winter of our time;
just keep on going, with a smile-
pretend it's summertime!
Blades of grass quiver
Pearl dewdrops drip like tears
A snake in the grass
the blades of the third eye open electric
sleep sits and runs for death
a coffin writes a promise with rich, ruddy dirt
a poet sinks in his eyes and coughs
winds ride the cold shout of crippled prayers
a wolf flows in distant sands
howling white moon
Harsh is life’s reality.
Each trial we endure is a sword of steel
that pierces the jagged edges
of our imperfect souls.
We cannot escape
the occasional slashes from life’s rapier
that fall upon us when times are hard,
but neither can we get through life
living with sorrow and angst
without a relief valve.
Even in the midst of great tragedies,
humans have found ways
to cope with stress.
I cannot equate my own tragedies
with those endured by prisoners
of concentration camps or anybody else
enslaved by abuse or torture.
For the most of us, however,
we have the spontaneity of humor
to lessen our heavy loads:
the absurdities coming sometimes
from the mouths of children or the foolish;
the funny little blunders we see
that cause us to laugh out loud;
a beautiful day of sunshine changing
to one of rain, causing us to chuckle
for trusting the weather channel.
We can do nothing more than laugh
at things like these.
To dwell on small accidents
or on silly mishaps does nobody any good.
Don’t let life’s rapier
cut you down with despair.
Stress less; laugh more, and especially
learn to laugh at yourself.
Chortle, chuckle, cackle or guffaw,
and by no means, do not always simply smile.
Find a stand-up comedy and let yourself
fall on the sword of belly laughs,
for a good sense of humor blunts
the sharp blades of reality.
His mind lay prey to mumbled threats within,
drawn to perch upon a twig-thin edge
slung between a gauze of blatant dreams.
Like some homeless bird come to make a nest,
it yanked discarded bits of skin and hair,
from bins of vain memory's hoard,
then joined to form a place where
a brain might rest and preen.
Once settled, he drank
Not from the stilled rummaging
but the distilled rum in his hand
and sang discordant notes that clanged
above the cough of fractured words.
“The mind is myth. And so am I."
Vexatious destroyer of my soul behold what has been done
Timeless and eternal I cycle through endless days of woe
Into the shadows of chaos I go - seeking, searching and lost
Swiftly your knife slices cleanly in, into my flesh so weak
That blade of kindness cuts to the core
Digging, delving and sore
What’s there to find? Nothing but air -
a hole in need of repair
Such a tattered soul as mine today can hardly take it in
Grasping for hands lovingly sent ethereal mists enshroud
Pain and anguish tear through my being, for what does this portend?
Loss, abandonment, deeper sorrow - punishment for my sin
One more kind word will slay me
As ribbons of flesh lay scattered
Scattered in this world of pain
I need, and hate, and yearn, and cry
A total wreck am I
Tears escape unbidden as endless cycles resume
blades of grass rip
passed the hunters gun they slip….
fifteen in the clip
the flowers droop
but refuse to die
from the heat
like tanned fields
subsumed in the struggle
to survive to keep
the flow of transpiration
like the trodden
blades of grass
pushing upward
through the hole of sidewalks
to capture
the cosmic energy source
that fuels them onward
towards the victory
they seek
to be free
like we seek to be
as we continue
to travel the Jubilee road
riddled with imposing holes
and nullifying roadblocks
that cause us to stop
by the roadside
once and a while---
droop and recalculate
our sojourning strategies
to get us to the journey’s end:
in the land
of my father’s pride
for which in war—
he and his father died—
protecting the home of the brave
and the land of the free
which has thus far prohibited me
from true freedom, justice and liberty.
The funeral was well attended
Nobody came
It was sad in a way
Clashed with the dog passing away
There was a friend with a leg
When I say a leg
I actually mean two
Though he had the flu
The Priest nearly made it
But he passed too
The butcher discussed it with the baker
In the newsagents where the notice was placed
Was it his wife who put it in
Well yes, to begin
Then a black guy called Fred
Placed another, hopefully dead
Followed by Titch
Who looked quite rich
But was really his bit..
Not to detract from Simon
Frowned the butcher, calling him pieman
Though, that was simplistic
The florist cried foul
She had the contract
But just for a while
It was left to the undertaker
Wade
Who had to subcontract
When thieves stole his spade
Joe from the pub
With the maths degree
Discussed the angles
Buried under a tree
Bernadette, at the bookmakers
Had to agree
Rushing off to mass
Father Joe listened with glee
It was a trying day in the village of Dull
The pub was in mourning
There was a definite lull
But one thing was agreed
As they slowly got pissed
Rover the dog
Would surely be missed.
blades of green
rise from the brown
spreading all around
soon to be
sprinkled with yellow
all aglow
in the sunshine
wings of gossamer
flit as they hover
in the air
before landing
amid the splendour
of the brightly hued décor
painted below
spiral tubes uncoil
gently injecting
delicate centres
feasting on one's nectar
then moving on
to another
repeating the action
buzzing sounds
fill the air
striped bodies appear
treading gently on petals
sipping nectar
to convert to honey
later fed to many
blades of green
swaying gently
caressed by
a soothing breeze
invoking a refreshing
and peaceful
feeling of ease
A well-developed sense of humor is the pole that adds balance
to your steps, as you walk the tightrope of life.
Quote By William Arthur Ward
We were young and filled with responsibilities
new to town, married and in our early twenties
My husband needed surgery and I didn't drive
with two small kids I had to find a way to jive
When I got to the hospital I bought him a souvenir
one big fury ape with a grin that said, "I'm here! "
He wasn't in bed so I put the ape in bed instead
a nurse came in, she almost fell over with dread
He came out of the washroom and found it there
when it comes to humor we make quite a pair
He soon recovered and the ape came live with us
I took driving lessons, now I don't take the bus
This is a true story of how I used humor to cope
years have come and gone still I climb the slope
Using humor in a crisis can surely help my dear,
it can ease the soul and help you when you fear.