Best Identity Poems | Poetry
Below are the all-time best Identity poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of identity poems written by PoetrySoup members
Search for Identity poems, articles about Identity poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Identity poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.
New Identity Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Identity poems are below this new poems list.
by Toney, Mark
by SHAH, HARDIK
Don't Hide Your True Identity
by davis, robin
Acceptance of identity
by wade, fauxcroft
by K K, Paul
by Robinson Jr., Freddie
by Bissell, Nicole
Overlooking our Identity
by Coon, Charles
The case of lost identity
by Raghava, Venkatesh
by Wolf, Gershon
View all new Identity Poems
The Best Identity Poems
Listen to poem:
Like A Girl
I play like a girl, I hit like a girl
You say I throw like a girl,
And, when I run -- I run like a girl!
All that plus more, enjoy this one size fits all
Who and what I want comes from being strong
Classy and fabulous,
THIS is my song!
I've been told, cut to size
The world dark and gray, when life becomes an insult
Take heed when I speak my mind,
I am tough, outstanding and beautiful!
Move ahead --- say it twice, I smell nice
A taste of Cool Water and Justice Perfume
I have a non-stop multitask fixation
Like a woman, everything about me is hidden
Magic and alluring the only joy in sexuality you'll need
I'm empowering this moment!
Endorsing Myself, with a certain sorta mystique
I deliver an independent will,
don't ever underestimate my physique
I am a caregiver, a female who won't give up the fight
I remain firm and believe all women have equal rights
I walk and talk Like A girl
wearing heels Breaking the sound of Annabel
Like, Mona's unforgettable smile,
I stand tall Like Miss Liberty
I am, Betsy Ross, America's #1 designer
Harriet, who escaped slaver-y
Like Theresa and Mary, I'm here to give change
I am, Hilary overwhelmed with determination
A leader -- A Goddess, I burn like Joan
---Cleopatra in the room
---Calamity Jane's wild side
Emelia's, won't give up heart
I am Anne, with a secret hidden spot
Susan B, with the right to vote
Emily who writes deep and pretty
The sound In your eyes aren't listening!
You imagine I am weak -- not strong enough -- brave enough,
You call me different and difficult!
Still, you want my warmth -- my love -- my attention
I am not less, I am more
I am a woman -- I frown -- I cry -- I hurt and yell at the universe
Nevertheless, I make a difference
Like a girl, I smile
A smile never seen or felt before, both defined and undefined
Your heart will ask and implore for more
Like a girl, I'll drive you wild, looking pretty "You're In Love!"
My Self confidence comes from who I am deep inside
Everything I've become follows the makeup on my face
Bare and nude, I am the Madonna flowering the mood
At the end of every day, I have one other thing to say
The Next Time You ask me to cook and clean
Because you think, I belong in the kitchen
You better believe I'm doing it my way
LIKE A GIRL
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2015
~Alice Sweet Alice~
Everyday -- Holding Hands
Sunday Dress -- Pink Ribbons
*Alice And I*
How can they say she did not exist?
This Sweet Girl I Named Alice
The way she looks at me
-Her eyes tender green
A body figure I can't describe
Together we played hide and seek
We swung in ways no one could see
This girl with pretty red curls
Who enjoys the sound of pouring rain.
Together we slept under the same breeze
We carved our names on the same tree
Side by Side it Read Alice & I!
She whispered the day I fell off my bike
Alice Sweet Alice loves the way I look in red!
Every day I face the mirror
Alice puts her left hand on my right
We share the same identical scars,
Under the right and left palm.
The way she held my hand
Healed the scrapes in every fall
Beating from the bullies, she screams!
Again, Alice, whispers--- "Kill Them All!"
No one ever said a word,
When she stood by my side
Alice knew me in ways no one else did
She knew my eyes -When they cried!
Now I can't sleep,
Since, Alice has fallen back into the abyss
Forever conscious in a self-hug
--- this is no dream, it is real!
The rage inside, burns.
It took place the day she left!
This Girl Named Alice spoke of darkness,
When I hear the sound of pouring rain
I stare at the shadows on the wall
Nothing feels the same,
I allow myself to soak in a darkness where it began.
My hair of red is not the same
These cuts are all that remain
The only clue in which Alice, was here!
Holding on to stainless blade, I sleep
ALICE SWEET ALICE!
Please call my name!
Why do they whisper?
Why are they saying she never held a breath?
I know she is real, she's exist
Why else would I let her cut my wrist?
This Sweet Girl
"I YELL FOR ALICE!"
Finally, visits again ---
But, who is to believe?
For everyone says
Alice lives inside my head.
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
Whisper's of October
Whispers in this soup bowl
20 minutes after its muse explodes,
Daylight remains nothing more than a dream
Warding off the howling sound in mid-September's stream
Casting a line about a ginger light,
found in the depths of everything
Engaging from the sitting twilight, numb, tranquilized
Exposing and expressing the emotions found within
An attic lost in the Ancient sky ---awaits
A poetic hand is formed ---reaching out
A hissing whisper out of the darkness,
Listen-in, the echoes of October are calling
A halo, that reconciles a mysterious monarch moon
A mono grip in which summons a mysterious voice
of sweet serenity
Poets posting poems along the midnight page
Each poet can compose a poem and mimic free fallen verses,
One might call it a creative craving curse,
Webmaster's whose words speak for themselves
They feel, and spills the will of idolized ink,
Blind-handed, splitting day from night
Warm whispers, needing no food to consume
Migraines of ink, feeding the soul
Burning Pages, overused pens
They've forgotten the pretty flowers
Living like lions, who never comes out of their dens
Murmuring and devouring, the enigmas of the unknown
Eyes behind a sieve, close tighter than before,
They hide nothing-
A world created from every sky-scrape the wall
Wanting to belong, a trick -or- treat*er in disguise
No friends, everything is pretend
These poets can’t be described, can't be believed
They are the best in what they do
For all you know this poet might be me,
This poet might be you
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2014
Cut down to any size,
Crumble, crop me wrong
Pull the insulation from my heart.
Never will I be "A Paper Doll!"
Thank you for calling me a "Friend!"
Thank you for wasting my "time!"
Enjoy the WALLPAPER display
Layers and layers of lifeless brick
KEEPS EVERYTHING OUT!
Emotional poster boards of doubt
Envious fiberglass green never seen
Yuletide Carols warped around my energy
Merry and full of acrylic sh!t-
Hand full of putty maintains the makeup on my face
Arts and crafts display my inner fancy grace
Heavy installed Sheetrock so easily replaced
Tough paint chips away silently through the night
Rigid boards transform into fragile crystal light
The greatest illusion blinding reality
Smooth Tiger Skin, texture of orange simple peel
Beautiful mud swirl, L'Oreal.
Gypsum soft enough you want to touch
Dark walls of a thousand words
A plasterboard of discordant grey notes
Blots and clots of ink, enslave my skin
Colorless drywall, resilient to your charms
Printed designs of cleverly decorated lipstick
Morbid shadows underneath the ceiling veil
A double coat of Pacific Waterproof Blue-
Printing bags from -- YESTERDAY!
Plastered wounds of cement dry and roughens along the edge
A human-made barrier, not even God comes in.
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2013
My reflection is vague, perception unclear.
My mind is like a shattered mirror
That devises a veneer fashioned of my fears.
I'm seized inside this illusory disguise
That's only feeding me a mouth full of lies.
Oh, how I hunger to be recognized…
Actuality stays hidden behind the scenes:
What my eyes perceive is make believe.
Trickeries are fitted in deceiving sleeves.
I'm incapable of comprehending the genuine me.
By Anne Currin
Copyright © Anne Currin | Year Posted 2012
Insanity or Death
Life begins with insanity~~
~Your soul is kicking and screaming,
Ready to exit with the touch of human hands.
Insanity rides on a gallant stallion ready to pant.
Hides in the mind, mourning its captive soul.
Ready to breach over holding its breath.
Projecting in and out without a guide.
Bites away at the feast, enchants for freedom.
From the lips……….....
Taking length against a world of dilemmas,
Contrasting to a never happy end.
The epidermis cover every wall of insanity.
To live, to eat, and to suffocate it determination without air.
Dramatically hallucination against its will of no wells.
Until it realizes it can drink without water.
No further needs a slumber.
The mind-bends and unfolds to ordinary jolts,
When left to human consummation.
Insincerely bidding and cutting to die in the sleep.
Is how it pleads!
Graves where dreams have no meaning.
Caves where goodness can be redeemed.
A temple of misguided fortune.
All respect lost to this infection,
The patients’ weight distracted from an antidote.
The madness begins too finds admiration-
That makes catastrophe go on and on.
The psychosis of the mind and mockeries of them will never be gone
Dictating in everything wrong,
Layers of cramped bricks, level the isolation.
Death drags its feet off into this infinite helix world.
A source of light breeding out of darkness.
"Sanity is no friend of mine!"
Insanity is earth herself,
Where there is life, there is a reason,
Where there is reason, there is madness,
Where there is madness, there you are,
Lost in darkness................
~Your soul is kicking and screaming
Life ends with death~~
(first I feared life, now I fear death)
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A | Year Posted 2012
Underneath all the layers
Of reason and understanding
In passion's pleasure bed of red
Paroxysms of pleasure
Emanate from my core
Searing the shroud
Flames of fantasy's feast burn
Yearning I yearn and lie in wait
In my ambuscade
with the relish to ravish ravaging
Conceived in the throes of passion
My conception is my perception of life
Woven into my being
I’m prisoner to pleasure monomania
Obsession of desire hysteria
My cacoethes: gratification gratified
Thus, I scintillate sparks
Riding on my satin flares
They captivate your stare
You see me
Feeling the heat of sultry flame
You want to play scorch torch game
So your reach out to touch
Mere kindling in my blazing wake
You quake as I slake your florid fantasy awake
Convulsing in temptation’s torment
You combust to lust
Consummating till consumed
Eliciting my passion flower bloom
In opulent oriental room
Gratification’s glory gained
Having tasted my reign
Revived your leave
My image I’ve seared
On your flesh and mind
Branded, you’ll find
Your way back to me
Slave to my passion's decree
You’ll come to me
And I retreat
Enshrouded once more
In virgin layers
of reason and understanding
Biding my time
when sensuality sublime
to bloom in her red flame
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2015
Insanity has its own wellspring and demise.
There is no better place to hide than between coils
of convoluted grey-white matter which can't recoil.
Mind has no leering lips to scorn or show surprise
as ungoverned, the ancient demon-dancers rise.
The traitorous bits, which cut with Brutus’ red fang,
have no regard for the womb from which they sprang.
They seek dominion; they care not for your cries.
Crazed, their freedom paid for on the rack, how they sang
of anything, of windigos’, and warriors winged
of fresh flesh beneath a gibbous moon's harangue,
where those in sanity beneath their blankets cringed.
Night terrors sweat the sheets of the weak, as fear sprang,
a ripened, musky-scent arose from those unhinged.
A ripened, musky-scent arose from those unhinged
cloaked in mirrored, morose, magic; the mind a foil,
the heart, the soul, the sunny days, caste down, embroiled;
destined to languish convulsed in the depth of coil.
Brightness, so dimmed, is lost within a rancid soil,
left to meet horned demons all but unarmed, alone,
no company except the mirrored self-entombed,
no bliss state, no ripening sweetness to uncoil
a compost heap of bitter memories, atone ...
atone, little mother, well-used wife, wander now,
seeking ever seeking, yet finding no one home,
insanity wakened, waits, patiently endows ...
empty days and nights, the infrequent sound of om,
cuddling the traitorous bits, shooing brighter dreams roused.
Cuddling the traitorous bits, shooing brighter dreams roused,
the teeth of dogged night rise-up, they breed turmoil.
Deep within the sleeping mind of men, sorrows roil.
Abandonment, disloyalty, hatred espoused,
all shriek to the traitor, the night arouses.
Niggardly night, loath to lose ground within the dome
of blanched white, gray matter, within this skull of bone,
delights in the sorrowful detail night houses.
Insanity licks raw the salted wound entombed, owned.
"What could we be?" the ego cries to he or she.
"What would we be?" the windigo screams but, “alone.”
On, on, they chatter in the carapace, they breed,
spreading dark matter, for they've no chaperone,
no friend to stay the brutal cousins, so mislead.
No friend to stay the brutal cousins so mislead,
so in darkness, fear and hatred spread on fertile soil.
Yet, self-hatred shields its sharpened claws, as day uncoils
filling the breach with bright creations, dark concedes,
and dims the room while manic laughter recedes.
A sunrise bows through prism-glass and colors swell
a lighter laughter comes, newborn to dwell.
Hands that once drew only blood, now tune bent reeds
of green, blades of springtime grass within the dell;
where larks sing and long lost lovers dare to reunite,
no mention made of darkness or the depth of hell,
for sanity has cast a lighter stage this night.
Daybreak suspends the demon-dance upon the fell,
now, fairies prance in pastures high, and verse delights.
Now, fairies prance in meadows high, and verse delights
her fancy takes a softer turn at his behest,
with buttercups, in a Fairy Ring, they coalesce,
and shine the golden glow beneath a chin of white.
With the talent of a troubadour, love does strum
upon desire's strings the raging beast is culled
as coy love songs and sweet lullabies emerge from
the hidden depths of mind where sanity is mulled.
With the talent of a troubadour love does strum
upon strings of desire the fearful beasts are culled
as coy love songs and sweet lullabies emerge from
the stygian depth where her frail sanity is mulled.
How long will harmony dance to love's blissful hum
Will dark's whine wake, disturb, insanity so lulled?
Will dark's whine wake, disturb, insanity so lulled?
A scent of jasmine fills the air with swarming gnats.
Her covered ears belay the sound of feral cats
yet, huddled in his sheltering arms, her pain is dulled.
Dulled, but not waylaid, raging, she becomes unglued
She starts to rock, to whimper, and then, cry out- loud
begging for the dev'lish tide to leave, as he vowed,
renting strands of flaxen hair from her small skull.
Torn, he watches as she fades within a shroud,
a witless waif, bedeviled by the harvest moon.
He had to leave; he could not stay beneath this cloud
ever waiting for this, her omnipresent doom.
His love had its limits and yet, he was not proud,
Oh, he could not stay and watch her be consumed.
Oh no, he could not stay and watch her be consumed,
to have his pleasant memories of ardor's bloom
be marred by images of her so poorly groomed.
No, never would he stay to see her be consumed.
One morn he left, his sum was not what she'd presumed.
And, she sat in the rocker by the door unfazed,
her bowed lips o'er cast and her eyes o'er glazed,
alive, but not, her nascent sanity entombed.
Death had come, death of the mind, his metal now assayed
he ran from old memories, as each thought enticed.
Their first tryst 'neath jasmine vines vanished in a haze.
Was love's reward, a sweet repast, mania's disguise?
Would true love have held the course where sanity betrayed,
insanity has its own wellspring, and demise.
First Published Five Poetry Magazine 2014
Copyright © Debbie Guzzi | Year Posted 2015
Listen to poem:
an impression of the world
stands before me
Left is right, and right is wrong,
and the mirror reflects a melancholy song.
i the mirror
the babbling brook,
the rippled river
whose images tell harmless lies.
who was once held in the
weak, shivering, hands of a life nearing its end
on broken, crushed bones, crumbs
one thousand shards
the jaded moments of my life.
an unintended semblance in the raging waters
crashing against the killing rocks of the rushing falls.
never utter the curse
"it can't get any worse"
the serpent swallows the swollen cow,
swallowed - the farmer's wife,
swallowed - her son,
swallowed - the thorny toad,
the black widow spider devours them all!
i the empty frame
the bits and bites of carpenter ants.
a perverse facade
what should of been
NEVER utter the curse
"it can't get any worse"
will bring me peace,
will deliver me,
burn my body whole
dig me a deep hole
throw me void of soul
the waters of the screaming ocean
who herself dies a slow painful death.
Dec 20 2015
with a major contribution by
Copyright © Maurice Yvonne | Year Posted 2015
The raptor and the peacock hence,
Sit pensive on a rambling fence.
The first, inclined to be the host,
Jumped down to claim the nearest post.
The pea averse to snubs or quailing
Moves closer on the weathered railing.
Both immersed in trailing thoughts
Mused on nigh, and what was naught.
The Pea fans its tail in public splendor
Cramped raptor prefers an opposing gender.
He clasps a plume of gleaming thread
To implant it on his own stark head.
On and on, a grueling day
Feathers plucked; cold work at play.
Peafowl’s once featured feathered shafts
Now forlornly bare and subject to draft.
The predacious bird, a cocky thief
Snidely at par, to a native chief.
Clips of sun reveal a shadowy bane
The unlikely pair cast as one and the same
Copyright © Michelle Mac Donald | Year Posted 2016
I often sit for long periods of time
hoping the perfect beginning will come to me.
To write a poem that starts with a pristine Capital
leaving readers with great expectations.
But after much torment, with not a fleck of gold in sight,
it's comes to my attention
that much like life, How it Began
isn't half as important as How it Finishes,
(And neither as important
as How it Is in the Present)
That's how it was, in any case,
when the landlord dropped the news
that sunny Idahoan morn;
It was a time for a change, they all said in unison:
my sister, my brother, my mother ---
And like the sweetest melancholy, I couldn't help but agree,
For I knew no matter where I went
I'd always have poetry ...
(but now it seems she has alluded me)
Through 2,500 miles and 9 states;
through a million and a half brand new things
... and yet
Inspiration refuses to sing.
As I sit here in suspense
for that metaphorical gravy train,
wondering when the words
will start flowing again.
Will it be like it was before,
when it comes to me?
Ears perked to the extreme
with expectations of a symphony?
When it comes to me ...
Will they laugh? Will they cry?
Will my words come across
like softest lullaby?
Because sometimes our muse just up and leaves,
we wonder why.
But no my most cherished friends,
we mustn't cry,
for it's been a great adventure,
has it not?
Remember the words of Dr. Seuss:
Don't be sad that it's over,
Smile that it happened.
Though words were once putty in my hands
I now take in the beauty that encompasses me,
content to just let it sit,
without the need to express it ...
But don't be fooled, Dearest Reader,
for I have the highest hope
that stars will dance,
leaves will fly,
birds will sing,
WHEN it comes to me.
But will you believe me when I say
I've watched the stars fall and flicker
between the leaves
a hand's breadth from my fingertips?
(go on and take a sip
the magic's free)
That I've breathed in the air,
as if it were honeysuckle blooming in the sky
just for me.
Oh and how I wish you could see
beyond the words of this page,
for it's beyond a tragedy
that all I have to give is this poem.
You know I'd offer you my eyes
for you to see the things I'm seeing.
(put your hand on my chest,
can you feel it beating?)
Like the petals of a rose
she holds me close:
the place where the bright rubicund clay
makes way for my Armstrongian footprints
---just one small step
then comes the leap---
My arms spread wide
hoping for discovery,
but preparing for catastrophe ...
And believe me when I say
I couldn't dream of sleep,
for when it comes to me
the minstrels will weep,
the prisoners'll be set free ...
as emotions become ablaze
in new and surprising ways.
For there's a lily pad pond,
just outside my backdoor ....
that's begging for a tale to be penned.
There's a place called Mount Alto
sitting just like a storybook
outside the backdoor, my friends,
whilst I sit here
listening to the cicadas sing
in Valley Soprano,
reminding me that everything
is but a poem-in-waiting:
The rolling green hills
bearing witness of mountain familiarity;
the black butterflies
the berry blossoms of May.
Everything is so new here ...
far beyond anything I could ever say.
And I hope I can do it justice,
to paint a picture in your head,
with every ounce of the things I've said ...
you won't be able to tell the difference
when it comes to me)
Copyright © Timothy Hicks | Year Posted 2016
“Home is a Burning Flame”
Align yourself with the belief that HOME will come to you in the end
You can see yourself in her eyes, but you are not there
She must follow her own flame
Barefoot over broken glass and rusty nails
Tender Moorings is your Heart
One day she will understand her revolving door journey
Until that time arise
Keep the burning fire alive
The warmth it emanates
She will carry to be brave.
Is a Burning Flame.
For my Mother 18/9 d. I see you, I hear you.
For my Daughter 18/9 b. Do you see me, do you hear me?
"I am my mother's daughter."
1. Paradise Circus
Copyright © Leanne Lovejoy-Burton | Year Posted 2018
A fire blazes behind the veil
This veil I wear
is not made of cloth
for no fabric could withstand
the incendiary passion
no man's hand
would dare cover me
yet here I am
swathed in these layers...
folds of security
just to be like the rest
not a subject of discussion
or the brunt of derision
with meanings misconstrued
by the crass and the rude...
I finger the veil
its threads: religious doctrine
its dye: denial
its paisley patterns: protocol
with actions inactive
I stand: quiet, demure, serene
but my thoughts burning, unseen
and behind the veil
passion flares through my eyes
the only indication
that I'm alive
I pass you by
I pass you by
you...frivolous in your freedom
you...unappreciative of accpetance
I pass you by
and yet, inwardly I smile
warmed by inner flames
emanating from my core
I know…so much more
potential this woman has in store
for this I know
when the time has come
when I'm ready
it will fall away
by my own hand
and you will see the sight
the walking, breathing delight
of the unveiled woman
calmly, gracefully, purposefully
passing you by....
This is not meant to be offense to anyone from the Islamic faith. The veil has symbolic meaning.
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2018
Has the convenience of technology
inoculated us from reality?
Do androids dream of electric sheep?
I pray the code my soul to keep?
Does your universe live within 4G
Or megapixel infinity?
Which memory lies within
The one that was
Or the one that's been
Or how much gig how much ram?
Which reality is true?
Or cyber you?
Or cyber brief?
Who is the real identity thief?
Hours spent glaring into the screen
Choosing an alternate username.
Status updates and trending tweets
Fill your mind and rob your sleep.
Clever hashtags and Instagram
Will shape your image and gain more friends.
Is the you you've shaped in cyberspace
The same you I'd see face to face?
We hide behind our computer screens
And criticize with brutal ease.
Is buying souls of men you see
And robbing the ability to dream real dreams.
I want to conquer something real
That I can grab that I can feel.
I want to touch life and hold on tight
I want to unblock true friends
And "like" real sights.
I want conversation face to face
In real world time
In a real world place.
Copyright © Kelly Crenshaw | Year Posted 2014
The Perfect Friend ©
Today I found a friend
Who knew everything I felt
She knew my weakness
And the problems I’ve been dealt.
She understood my wonders
And listened to my dreams,
She listened to how I felt about life and love
And knew what it all means.
Not once did she interrupt me
Or tell me I was wrong
She understood what I was going through
And promised she'd stay long.
I reached out to this friend,
To show her that I care
To pull her close and let her know
How much I need her there.
I went to hold her hand
To pull her a bit nearer
And I realized this perfect friend I found
Was nothing but a mirror
Written by Shannen Wrass
Copyright © 1995 Shannen Wrass. All Rights Reserved
Copyright © Shannen Wrass | Year Posted 2013
Somewhere someplace not far away a couple lied together.
No talk about the future no talk about forever.
They had lovers of their own their lovers were not there.
It's best if kept a secret the love that they would share.
Lost in loves great passion covered in each others sweat.
They're going to have a baby but they don't know it yet.
In nine months the baby born a secret softly cries.
So much still for him to learn of life conceived in lies.
Often he just played alone it seemed it was his way.
Then one day the secret was sent outside to play.
He grew strong like others did he gave it all his best.
Without one clue he never knew the truth beat in his chest.
Overwhelmed again and again the sadness he can't shake.
The devil whispered in his ear “You are a mistake”.
Still he tried through tears he cried to somehow rise above.
Getting lost time and again in his search for love.
When the walls came crashing down his whole world fell apart.
Welcome to the world of secrets and to your broken heart.
Shattered like a piece of glass his dreams fell to the ground.
Somewhere up near heaven even angels heard the sound.
Tears poured from his heart and soul through both day and night.
Searching for some healing in words that he would write.
Broken in so many ways all he meant for good.
Forever somehow secret where some misunderstood.
Now he walks in shadows seeking shelter from the rain.
Don't you dare look in his eyes you'll get lost inside his pain.
Like the secret long ago he spends his time alone.
It seems being by himself is now his comfort zone.
Asking nothing from no one wanting only just to give.
The only dream he still dreams is live and just let live.
A million miles on his heart and tears that he still cries.
So it is for secrets and those conceived in lies.
Edwin C Hofert
Copyright © Edwin Hofert | Year Posted 2015
( Repost )
Somehow, her eyes expand with the disobedient sky
and there, she senses urchins filling water on the lake
her feet and thighs slide up changing hues,
with receding incarnations of the moon.
She bends down gazing at images on the lake
as limbs turn into seaweeds, a mermaid in pain
changing hues in the crystal white of sky…
and the moon with slices of split mirrors burn
on wiggles of unscented tresses in water.
She dips her hands to catch the sleek tail in a plunge
knowing not a word to describe the reflection on the lake,
and witness the need to flow randomly in its
entrance through the expanse of one silver sky…
trying to recover glimpses reflected in the water.
Without point of reference to unknown images,
she vaguely remembers how transparently liquid
the changing hues of the moon become watery
like a hint of coagulated blood on a mermaid’s lake...
and the laughter of the sky drips into imaginings.
* Written for a fantasy contest that was discontinued;
its theme required entrants to describe one's mirrored
image of the self. Few comments ranged from " Nice, but I
didn't get it" to " You seemed to have overused the word
"water?" In hindsight, I asked myself," what
were you thinking? This is sloppy!"
Jerry T Curtis' This Poem S***s Contest
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2014
Sometimes we sit alone,
quiet, trying to figure
out who carried a piece
of us with them, as we try
to put ourselves together again...
Copyright © Teddy Kimathi | Year Posted 2016
Scratching their heads
They look at me
Am I a tree stump
Am I a grotesque face
Inside I am laughing
I know what I am.
Am a freak of nature
Plus the imaginative mind
Of my master
see the root of me
My ivy hair
Garland of lemons garnish my neck
I am singular
A one off piece of art
I am me ....symbolising winter.
The flash of cameras
Light my wrinkled face
Can feel the warmth of inquisition
Words float by as voices are raised
Conclusion ...no conclusion.
Giuseppe Arcimbodo painting .....Winter 1573
Penned Aug 26 2017
Artwork Contest Judged: 9/6/2017 9:32:00 PM
Copyright © Seren Roberts | Year Posted 2017
There was a time when she lit up
in the firmness of youth-- like a rose on an April
morn greeting daylight with a petal-soft kiss.
And the lively wind rustled her orange pinafore...
Oh, a time when she was young innocent .
But life's compass denies a woman
fresher years , amber hair becomes grey locks
of winter— thin as flakes where breaths
succumb to chilled murmurings of discontent;
the summer flame turning into weary longings.
Yet comes another time when the breeze
at last returns, to caress a wrinkled face
and allow her once lithesome spirit to play on,
shrieking giddily, then wailing at flowers
from nowhere: through a realm weightless
this flight back to childhood quickly dims--
those touch- and- go pleasures unknown
by her memory lost, her own name forgotten.
Poetry For The Sake Of Poetry Contest
Sponsor: john lawless 6/2/2018
Copyright © nette onclaud | Year Posted 2018
I have been put in my place many times
Told how to talk
What to think
How I need to look a certain way
Be the way I'm suppose to be
Expectations to be met
I could never be me
That place that almost drove me insane
I kept being placed there
Over and over again
Yet I had no choice but to be true to myself
I couldn't be someone else's book
Placed on a shelf, in a perfect row, not standing out
No one knowing what I'm about
I ripped out the pages
Inserted my own
Scribbled on the cover
Added my own colors
My pages screamed to be read
Hoping others would hear what I said
As time went on
I often changed my design
Desperately trying to know myself
Unsure what I would find
Never really fitting in
Confused by what I found within
Hard to know where I belong
Listening to notes from others songs
Was my way of thinking right
In a distance I could see a glimmer of light
I dreamed my dreams
I craved the light
Then one day
All the pieces clicked
I fell into place
Joy accompanied by a certain grace
Comfortable with me
I live in the moment
I can just be
I am free
I know my place
Dedicated to my Friend Armand who knows
his place and helps others discover their place.
You my friend are a true original Happy Birthday!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2013
I’m Physically and Emotionally tired
I don’t want to be the strong one anymore
I can’t this time
I don’t know what to do Daddy
I need your help down here
I can’t get back in control of my emotions
I’m having a hard time dealing with your absence
I’m having a hard time standing by myself
I need your help Daddy
I’m broken and lost without you Daddy
I need your will to want to carry on
I need your strength to over come this
I need your strength to stay standing
Your courage to fight back again
I need your help
Please Daddy I’m at a loss
How am I suppose to do this
I need your guidance
I need you to guide me back
To whom I was before
I need your help Daddy
I need your help
Copyright © Sabrina Niday Hansel | Year Posted 2013
I am strong
You may simply disregard me
with your arrogant throng
You may treat me with disrespect
I'm still here, I am strong
Why don't you like it when I succeed?
Why can't you be happy for me?
I walk on air, confidently
so, foot loose and fancy free
Just like hope and like faith
and the sureness of birdsong
I know where I belong...
I am strong
Did you want me to be shaking
so scared and all alone?
Feeling lost and so abandoned
with nowhere to call my home?
Does my happiness distress you?
Does it make you feel upset?
That I'm at peace lovin' myself
Livin' life without regret?
You may shred me with sarcasm
You can say I don't belong
You can hate me with your jealousy
But still, like iron, I'm strong
Does my confidence disturb you?
Can you not visualize?
That my words are captivating
and the crowds they mesmerize?
From ancestral farmers sowing seed
I am strong
From hardy men of faith who believed
I am strong
I'm a true wordsmith, spinning words so true
weaving and knitting, as true poets do.
Never giving in to fear or to doubt
I am strong
I know what the love of God is about
I am strong
Building on the faith my forefathers had
I encourage the weak, make their hearts glad
John Derek Hamilton
Copyright © John Hamilton | Year Posted 2016
I THINK THEREFORE I AM
"An ounce of hypocrisy is worth
a pound of ambition" --Michael Korda
This everyone's want--
stretching an autonomy to unbuckle self-discovery
I got mites and bugs living in my head--
infesting my mind. They... daring a chance
to worm my guts and electrify my peace.
They adulterate seeking ways to emerge
from claws of doubts to grains of trust.
My veil of grace they bite and bite
devouring me 'til I set to pursue my act.
Should I repulse...
then spread my wings to fly?
or should I be a little puppet--
controlled, slave to strings attached to me?
or I'd rather choose a mask--
my gamble to earn sympathy or popularity;
my weapon sheltering my luck;
my fall or my win?
Cogito ergo sum.
I think, therefore I am.
The mites and bugs in my skull blown
from shocks infused by my firing drive.
My cavalry of Modesty, brave to rise
face the furnace of battlegrounds.
Insincerity. Malingering. Pretension
are artillaries luring hypocrisy
but love, honesty and bravery:
the bombs I defy to conquer the trades.
If God is with me, who can be against me?
Standing like a Molave
rooted evergreen, ever strong.
My face bulletproof
to those who I believe wrong.
A standing soldier ready to offer her life
to fraud and tyranny.
I refuse to be fed on standing lies.
The harpoons of verity, I battling dart,
raining towards the barbaric boxes as they...
They are my lioness roar, my freedom and my soar
piercing the pumping heart of those who eat innocence,
** I think therefore I am is said by Rene Descartes
Romans 8:31-- If God is with us, who can be against us?
O. E. Guillermo
10:43 pm, April 18, 2015
Copyright © Olive Eloisa Guillermo - Fraser | Year Posted 2015
Who can change what it is to be me?
The owl, hidden there in a night's beauty,
a beauty that most don't even try to see.
I am a deceiver in the shadows
who can show you a different light,
and open your eyes, once closed.
Come nearer. I am not known to bite;
there is nothing here to be afraid of.
Who is just your friend in the night?
In darkness, who will hear my call?
I may be wise for my age at times,
though I never claim to know it all.
My voice is heard; still I go unseen.
Tell me who is magical and mystical,
and yet, all things in between?
Owl: mystery of magic, omens, silent wisdom, vision in the night, deception
Copyright © Kelly Deschler | Year Posted 2015