Best Burnt Out Poems
You built me up made, made me trust you.
But now you’re the nightmare that plays even in the direct ray of light.
You make me fight not to call you because you are like a fire who made me burn so bright
Your glowing Tyz – yeh nothing to do with me but the little fire I let inside
At first nothing but a bit of warmth to find comfort in
But you find everyone noticing the light
You say it's meaningless but can't hide the smile - just some comfort in the cold gloomy nights
Really the fire is burning through everything inside
As you feel the heat beginning to fade all you can do is beg it to stay
I thought I wasn’t this kind of girl
Praying every day it finds something new to latch on
I thought I was more than some burnt up coal – hoping for some yellow ambers to become alight
The fire finds something new to latch on
As it always does
But I always thought it’d be another part of me
A chapter in our us
But maybe I am just summed up as dust
Since the fire left
I’ve tried so hard to burn
Flipping page to page
Lifting weights on weights
Going from candle to match
But you’re the only one who will ever let me burn so bright
But comfort in the cold isn’t easy when you're burnt to dust
Any little wind now has the power to rupture these ever so fragile pieces of dust
Like burnt-out logs on ice-cold firedogs nudge,
emotions crumble at tentative touch.
In Iambic Pentameter: Stressed syllables are in bold.
current girlfriend problems
the dead one is far better
than the live one
if it were'nt for lying lips
i think i could do better
but one of those lies
just happen to be
i love you
The Hearts burnt out
with dying falls and cold, bone chilling winters.
(Love is gone for the fall and winter)
Just me, I stay alone
who walks the slushed streets and I sleep in the dirt grimmed gutters.
The hearts burnt out, but still a hint of love lingers
in the cold evenings of the winter falls.
The cold December nights are always the loneliest time
for a man to live alone in the dirty gutters of the ghettos.
And as the loyalists come marching down the cobblestone streets,
every heart with turn and fear.
The ones that do not go far, shall parish in eternal hell.
For the hearts are burnt out,
like the lamplights on the night of Kristallnacht.
The Jews of Malta, create fornication
and the hearts of the prostitutes hide with bruses and broken blood vessels,
on their faces and hands,
and they will hurry away to the dark shadows of lone alleyways
with hearts skipping beats, and hearts slowly burning out.
Who snuffed out my writing spark?
It used to burn so bright,
Now notebooks, lay forgotten
All, tucked out of sight.
Where did the emotion go?
My urgent need to vent,
Now, when I crawl in bed at night
My mind is simply spent.
Shining like a burnout sun
The sun gets dimmer every time I wake up.
I wish I could turn the brightness off all together
If I was selfish I wouldn’t care
I’d take my pills until the day was gone.
Truthfully Somedays I’d rather be alone than here all together
Pretty crappy thing to say I know.
But what’s the point.
I get tired of the trying
I wish I didn’t have people who gave a crap
I wish I could push them away and it be easy
Honestly though the sun will still keep shining
And I’ll keep waking up.
Waiting for the sunset.
The monologue of burnt out subjects
==========================
The monologue of wind
has stopped its hum a while
admiring nothingness
of this vale; there are stumps
of trees where verdant
has once been scalded by
a famished forest flame.
She sees the red flickers
of light at the mute nights
and choke them with pillows.
The spots of burnt fears
seeded her awake eyes.
The monologue of wind
isn’t really its own;
it is what my shouts
has become, some lame drones.
Of course the death of trees
has long been predicted;
the way people has said
that our spell will end
and she will depart me
there, in the forest
when the fire will
begin from a corner…
In the vale, wind passes, hissing;
I am nowhere like those trees.
=© 2009 - All Rights Reserved Kushal Poddar
Algebra makes me feel stupid.
Equations and inequalities,
algebra makes me feel stupid.
I could have an A in the grade book, but that doesn't mean that I understand.
lost in class, barely turned that in on time.
Algebra makes me feel stupid.
So I drift into my own world.
But at least in my world, I'm not alone.
Algebra makes me feel stupid,
it's not my teacher's fault, but my own.
The problem is, I run on academic validation, more so than food or water,
so I sink.
pretend- and make them think
make them think I know what I am doing,
but I am on the brink.
the brink of failure.
Algebra makes me feel stupid.
once gifted, now barely scraping by.
once impressive
what makes me impressive?
certainly not my ability to solve complex algebraic expressions.
is it my ability to fake it?
to only raise my hand when I know the answer?
Is it too late?
is it too late to know the answers?
too late to say I don't understand and ask questions?
Algebra makes me feel stupid.
once excelling in school, now regular.
Tryst with nano was like burning in hell.
Headless body of truth,
turning into invisible particles
flaunts an absent God.
The mist envelops a rag picker –
sleeping on the payment.
Hunger fresh grown will be served,
when sun rises.
Indelible ink an yellow pages
bearing the burden of unborn grief
inherits this globe, the ashes
of burnt out words.
SATISH VERMA
Happiness seems far from reach
It used to be something kept near
Lonliness has cast its darkened shadow upon me
The warmth of love no longer has a place
What has happened to make this flee from me?
Is it karma...or curse? Maybe something worse...
My heart ices over a little more each day
Why has my love's furnace grown dim?
It no longer kindles the passion for life,
only making it bearable
Once there was overflowing happiness
that burst from my heart's cup, only to be
replaced by gradual dust
Inside I'm screaming for attention or some
kind of affection, when the mirror only shows
a hardened stature
To the world: I'm moved and warm
Inside: I'm still and rigid
The wick from my candle is still lit
but how long until it dies out?
No one saw him come or go,
he just appeared
jerking around - a mute puppet on fire.
His strings must have been thin
too thin to hold a flame
or maybe like his eyes, they were fire resistant.
Some said he had been a great person,
a man who had tried too little,
but obviously was always above the heads
of the casual onlooker.
Some claimed that he had reached too high,
a reach that he could not sustain -
had ignited a jerky flame.
Women likened him to passed lovers
ones now much disparaged on social media.
'He can’t dance, never could; look
even now, being only a pair of eyes
dangling on two strings, yet still
he can’t dance; anyway
not the way we want him to'.
Eventually, as a solar flare will flame out,
or as an unpublished poem will,
if disparaged too long on social media
he went bossa nova.
No one saw him dance away
his fiery eyeballs and strings
burning now sight unseen.
There once was a gifted child,
Through all their lifetime they smiled,
But a bump in the night,
Came as a fright,
And now they are all but wild.
Snapped like a stick, all has sprung away,
The bottled up visions just start to sway.
Each person enters through the exit door,
But they don't know what is in store.
The unsettling feeling as ghosts glide by,
Blood stains the wall where the bodies lie.
Scrunched up fists, fight versus flee,
Gloves stretched on with a smile of glee.
Clothes stained with a contained, red feeling,
Mad man eyes that will send you reeling.
Burnt out, with scribbles on paper and life,
Thinking it will eliminate the thought of knives.
Old mistakes remain, though future still waits,
Many stains, unable to rid of my old traits.
Explore a big world, and microscopic sights,
But now it's time to see the bright lights.
Open one last memory from long ago,
All the bad ones, but good ones in tow.
Together again, I hope, after the demolition,
The day I belonged in myself after the transition.
Do NOT hurry me,
I keep it simple, stupid...
I know this sucks.
You never saw past the glory days of 17.
Because you got sad and thought it a better idea
to hang yourself from the ceiling fan
instead of replacing its burnt-out bulbs.
Bright idea.
Dimming the light of all the candles
whose hearts and souls were trying
to add light to your dark and dismal life.
You were selfish to drop out.
You were selfish to quit.
And
now that you're gone, I can't help but look up
at the light shining down on me from your ceiling fan.
I changed the bulbs.
So why is everything still so dark?
And how do I go about life when my only friend snuffed out my candlelight spark?
Could you come back home, please?
I can't do this without you.
And I might go insane if I have to sit and stare between the cracks in your ceiling blades any longer.
Maybe I'll snap them off,
cut my wrists,
and join you.
Wait,
even though I'm depressed,
I know there are people in my life
that still need me.
That's something I could never get
through
your thick
ing
skull.
Selfish.