Best Psychological Poems | Poetry
Below are the all-time best Psychological poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of psychological poems written by PoetrySoup members
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New Psychological Poems
Don't stop! The most popular and best Psychological poems are below this new poems list.
Climates of Psychological Health
by Dillenbeck, Gerald
by wisdom, uriel
by Harrison, Chikere
by Palumbo, Vincent
by Agtani, Dalila
Psychological sleep of the world's hypnotist
by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
Game of Life, Psychological attack of the midlife
by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
Psychological grudge of sex and diamonds
by Nelson, Troy Jeremy
View all new Psychological Poems
The Best Psychological Poems
I See You...
Wanderer, wanderer, lost in the haze
void of direction, succumb to the craze.
Give ear to my madness, so deftly designed;
deception de-jour: aimed to muddle your mind.
Hocus and pocus no need for free thought,
erase your opinions, your conscious to rot.
As sugar and soda your smile decay,
a hoax and swindle, then off on your way.
Smoke and a mirror, please don’t look too close.
The truth makes one banal; drugs for the morose.
Illusion can conjure emotions untapped
a quick misdirection, now I’ve got you trapped.
You think you arrived here, quite all on your own
you’re one of a billion, another sad clone…
I’ve stolen the treasure that once made you free
brainwashed you to thinking all’s as it should be.
Gobbledygook and hyperbolized drivel
platitudes, platitudes, mentally shrivel;
accept what I tell you, and not an ounce more,
wanderer, wanderer, you’re lost evermore.
Copyright © The Grahamburglar | Year Posted 2015
open your doors
close all the windows
sleeping's such a bore
suffocate it with pillows
psh, i'm not hellbent
shut your mouth
it's called character development
WOOPS. broke routine again
and the poem's gone south.
made myself out to be the bad guy
so they wouldn't feel as sad when i die
so many damn times you told me
all those uplifting words regarding my significance
did i ever stop to listen?
now look at all this tension
i am the patient
you're the asylum
this heart rate is hesitant
unless you revive them
i'm the addiction and
you are the needle
i'm the mutilation
you're the scars that will heal
i am the stash
and you're the supplier
i am the match and
you are the fire
you are the truth
and i am the dare
you are the daydream
i'm the nightmare
i am the cigarette
you are the lighter
i am the pirouette
you're the choreographer
we all are so sad
we've both lost our thrill
that's just too bad but
we both know the drill
made myself out to be the bad guy
so i wouldn't feel as sad when i die
Copyright © Agony Aiane | Year Posted 2016
Sarah’s Story - Mental Illness
Sarah, the “Crazy Lady,” was a familiar sight,
roaming the streets any time of day or night.
Her foul body odor announced her presence,
as she paraded around in her filthy, smelly garments.
Walking barefoot regardless of the weather,
in her state of mind, she couldn’t do better.
Children teased and made fun of Sarah,
reciting ridiculing ditties, adding to the drama.
Behind her a lively entourage would follow,
taunting and calling her names creating a sideshow.
They howled with childish laughter,
as Sarah hurled angry profanities after.
An avid collector of all kinds of trash,
she transformed her abode into a garbage stash.
Sarah’s odd behavior made her fair game,
to unkind people who had no mercy or shame.
While many folks turned a blind eye,
young boys threw rocks and other missile,
at the roof and windows of the shack she occupied.
Behind bushes, they would scamper away to hide,
as Sarah furiously dashed outside,
brandishing a machete, cudgel, or broom,
screaming out curses, damnation, and doom.
Like a cancer, her mental illness had devoured her brain,
and before long, she was officially "certified insane."
Most agreed it was for her own benefit,
and for the good of society to be rid of this "misfit."
But even though she was locked away in an institution,
no psychiatric treatment could cure her mental condition.
When Sarah finally died, she was unloved and alone;
her passing was hardly noticed, and she was mourned by none.
Note: This piece was inspired by a true account. While we have made great strides in the study of mental illness and understanding it, unfortunately negative attitudes and beliefs toward people who have mental health conditions are still common. Thus, as a society, we still have a long way to go to improve our attitudes and to show more caring and compassion for those who suffer from various types of mental illness.
Contest: Mental Illness
Sponsor: Nathan D.
Copyright © Pandita Sanchez | Year Posted 2015
Do not look to me with questioning eyes
For i do not possess the answers you seek
i cannot taste the bitter sweetness on your tongue,
or smell the withered flowers along your path
My heart beats with less rythm than your blues
i am unable to stumble through your dark corridors,
for you are poet undiscovered
Your answers are hidden deep within an apathetic pen
For you hide behind a painted closed window
Pushing too little
Not aware of your own relevance
Solitarily, feeling sorry for yourself
When instead, pity could be your party
Yes it is true, the world celebrates sad clowns
But you do not let laughter mix with your grey sky tears
i myself, see images of you poured out on limitless pages
Until your words have substance
Becoming living and breathing beings
I wish you to reveal to us your cherished children
Birth them to a forgiving unforgiven world
Risk the grasping hands of rejection
True courage will reveal your annoited pen
bleed in rainbowed splendor
Instead, days will become years
Yesterday will slide into tomorrow
All the while the world would be less
A shadow of what it could have been
In a place of unawareness
Oblivious to its own lacking
Bathed in deprivation
Of a missing
A tiny little letter
will grow into a word
Several strung together a stanza
Several stanzas a poem
An honest to goodnes poem
Then we will all be witnesses
To the emergence
The screaming or quiet entrance
The proverbial birth
of a singular voice
of a wide eyed dreamer
Then you will feel that collective sigh
as other broken dreamers applaud you
For on that day
If only you possess the courage
all will know
That you truly are
and always have been
For Tyshawn Knight's "Words of Wisdom" contest
Re edited version.
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2015
One dismal night in Autumn’s chill
With thunder, deafening and shrill --
I, in my chamber, dark and damp
Lay restlessly near flick’ring lamp
Heard scratching just behind the curtain
‘twas but a tree branch, I was certain
Still half-asleep in fitful slumber
‘midst crashing sounds of shaking thunder
With blanket pulled to hide my head
All nestled down into my bed --
Yet even still, could not be drowned,
That horrid, scratching-scratching sound
Tossing -- tossing to and fro
My heavy pillow I did throw
As if to stop that scratching sound
That made my head begin to pound!
But yet the noise continued still --
Such scratching, scratching, on the sill
Reluctantly I left my bed
And headed toward the thing of dread --
Flung back the curtains with disdain
Threw open window to the rain --
Thus welcoming a feline beast
If only so the scratching ceased!
Conceding shelter for the night
I lay back down and cut the light
Relinquished slowly to my dreams --
Awakened suddenly to screams!
They were my own, these anguished cries!
That feline clawing at my eyes!
Scratching, scratching at my head --
Tearing me, my flesh to shred --
My screaming didn’t scare it off
It looked at me as if to scoff
My bed became my grave, it seemed --
‘till I awakened from my dream …
Its eyes -- they bore into my soul
I grabbed it up with just one goal --
The force at which I threw that beast
Against the wall -- the scratching ceased
Then threw its body out the door
To haunt me, haunt me nevermore!
Thus bringing peace to follow fast --
Yet peace like this will never last
For every night, I toss and turn
My head, it spins - my ears, they burn
For every night, upon the sill --
I hear the scratching-scratching still
Copyright © Becca Teagan | Year Posted 2017
My precious chimney swift
Has named you so mundane
Tethered to the slightest pause
Amid your life upon the wing
Describing you as drab
And flying like a bat
While within me
Your beauty burns
And I thank you so for that
For from my human complications
The conditions of my sin
You do so delightfully
Copyright © Maureen McGreavy | Year Posted 2017
Before the abyss, I had it all
Letting go of all I see
My friend, I hope our time won't end
It took a short time for you to notice
Without knowing who I am
We talked, we became friends
Connecting the dots, missing every line
Connect them and figure me out
Randomly it comes your way
Underneath a never known chemistry
Ask me to stay and I may
Grinding your teeth into my way
Cut out my eyes, and store them up
A tongueless mouth, nothing to say
Maybe by tomorrow you will forget
Losing myself in my own conversation
Hiding behind my one big regret
Don't know, Don't care
You had me open up
A book I closed, knowledge lost
No need to see
A mystery called deception
What I am cannot be seen with the naked eye
Along came you using your *ucked* up perception
The ability you miss use
making sense of this connection
A process you carry with your own patterns
You asked, you listened, without making assumptions
A taste to take off my shoulders,
To release an error locked in my Asylum
I myself am enjoying the insights about him
He's got me convince, using his perception
Copyright © SKAT A | Year Posted 2010
Why do people, want to cause
Other people pain
Where is the Love
That will break the chain
Someone says something
Then it's tit-for-tat
I've played this before
We all know the score
Now who's up at bat
I think it's time, for us to play
The self healing game
Before there's no one, left
Around to blame
One that's more thoughtful
And much less insane
Let's reach for the Sun
And help everyone
Come out of the rain
All we have, is this fleeting chance
To get this right
No time for jealousies
No time to fight
Don't say, that you're sorry
Don't seek to forgive
Just start here today
And throw it away
And learn how to live
Copyright © Jerry T Curtis | Year Posted 2014
What is life?
Euphonies, cacophonies and chromosomal anomalies
intertangled destinies and illusive methodologies
Occurring in obscure dimensionless time
Millenniums fertilized to create the sublime
Perceived by ideations so pure it would seem
To exist beyond mind and to all in between.
Lingering as lore to an all distant past
There is no redo, there is no redraft.
The questions, the answers so rightly proclaimed
are composed and transported by thoughts still unnamed.
In limited struggle, the moments unspent
Become the result of a living lament.
In what and wherefore and why and with whom
we unwrap our existence in this paradoxical womb
Can we find meaning, a clear sign that we see
inclusive to all, this existential decree.
From naught made of all and conceived in a star,
we landed on earth, neither near nor afar
For reasons unknown and telegnosis unclear,
These salient projections are all jockeyed by fear
We stand in the way of unknowing surmise
And find the world is still much a surprise.
A quest overwhelming in distressed sanity
For answers not known play havoc to vanity.
To end these remarks with a questionable phrase
all becomes known in 'one of these days.'
From the moment of birth to when we die, life presents us with dilemmas and questions that amuse, titillate and confuse us. As we get older, we realize that what we thought we knew was all pure conjecture. This poem is meant to reflect the myriad of disjointed thoughts that have run through my mind throughout the years. The "why me?" and "what is my purpose in life?" questions usually are met with ambiguity and incoherence.
Many of us are beleaguered with these conceits and although some find solace in religion, for people like me it becomes an existential never ending struggle.
Copyright © Allan Koven | Year Posted 2013
And when will the tides turn against confident indifference?!
When will humanity cease
To throw cats against curiosity’s silver coated dagger
Another played out song
Another dramatic lyric
Shifting embellished overtones
With deteriorating tact
They spit posthumous awakenings
As divinity laced smiles, wither under a convoluted moon
Shedding retina waterfalls
Pretentious anger becomes Aphrodite mediocrity
Wisdom, they never “put out”
Become self-important struts within olive tinted reckonings
Stirring hornets’ nest
They dream for better days
While double-knotting gang colored bandanas
On eagle’s achromatic foreheads
Another Woody Woodpecker band-aid pulled from condescending hypocrisies
And when will the tides turn against pilot light’s mal-intent?
When will the flinty sheep
Stop wondering how these charring, orange fires began
Forgetting the 115 octane gasoline can
They hold quietly in their hands
©Drake J. Eszes
Copyright © Drake Eszes | Year Posted 2013
line count and word number are equal in this selection....
"Make It Count"
by: Eric L. Boddie
Come to play
But if you say
Oh no baby, not today
Do you think he would stay
Or would he go so far away
In search of another lover he could lay
Doing everything associated with rolling in that infamous hay
And if push came to shove, maybe he would pay
To relieve all the stress stemming from your hips' distant sway
Because something must give, there are more than fifty shades of gray
That's common knowledge to the freaks and all those upon which they prey
And once you learn them all, I promise your lover will never ever stray
But if you miss just a single one, then you may experience that dreadful day
Where you lose it all so try to find True Love and remember to always Pray
Copyright © eric boddie | Year Posted 2015
The jury was unanimous
Twelve cried out justice
It was just before the changing hour
The hanging planned for quarter past midnight or so
The moon was full, the shining light exposing deaths dance
The grim reaper was ready, one more for his collection
I was ready for this moment
Ready to face my freedom and my death
Long ago, a mirror shattered into twelve pieces
Twelve faces who said I have to go
Twelve past the midnight hour
Sacred ghosts haunting twilight hours
Whiskey filling the soul soon to be departed
The hangman at the ready with a somber face
For his duties he did not so much embrace
This evening he knew the hanging would take all effort
Of spirit and determination
To send this one of to his eternal damnation
He was shivering and I sensed in fear
As I stared at him solemnly in the mirror
We both eye to eye knew this day would come
The hangman and me, conscious of the sum
So the note was neatly written
The whiskey bottle all alone, empty on the floor
I stood bravely or maybe cowardly
Upon the wooden chair
The rope I wrapped around I my neck
As the hangman in the mirror was in despair
I patted him on the back and said no worries my friend
This, you see is the end of it all
All that we ever both wished or dreamed
A week or two later
They found the hangman
A rope around his neck
Staring blanking in the mirror
A note on the bedside table
Told this story as you hear
A man with a broken heart
Hanged because of his own mutilated reflection
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2016
Some say you're not quite whole,
But I know better, Angel Child.
You live in a place all your own,
Free, unhinged, sometimes wild.
In precious moments you let me in
And I am stunned by what I see.
Purple trees and butterfly bees
And things I thought couldn't be.
You tell me of other wonders
In a voice so sweet I nearly weep—
Of Daisy Lou, a lizard that's blue,
And of mice that sing you to sleep.
Then abruptly your voice changes
And your look seems far away.
I have become a stranger to you;
You have said all you want to say.
I understand the pattern too well;
You have gone where I can't go.
You dwell there often, Angel Child,
It's where you're wholly whole.
Copyright © Paul Schneiter | Year Posted 2014
The girl is an ultra-modern scholar,
Belongs with an upper-middle class family.
Looking very nice, smart, gets angry suddenly.
She reads M.A in English at Presidency University.
She is assimilating to the ideas of Shakespeare,
Shelley, Keats, Neruda, Byron...
Fluently speaks English, loves cricket.
Shoulders are shaken by expression.
She cries alone, laughs with everyone....
The girl is very good.
The boy is a post-modern educated son of a lower-middle class family.
He studies M.A in Bengali at Calcutta University.
He is assimilating to the routes of Vaishnab literature,
Ideas of Bharatchandra, Rabindranath Tagore, Nazrul, Jibanananda...
Writes poems, sings song, loves football.
He walks on the high-street and observes people.
He laughs alone, listens to everyone...
The boy is very good.
They are attracted by the opposite personality!
The girl wants that her lover will be a modern man.
The boy thinks that his lover will become as the mind of his.
They are changing silently
Love goes to another address...
SANDIP GOSWAMI, INDIA
Copyright © Sandip Goswami | Year Posted 2014
Zanthoxylum shrubs with clustered yellow flowers,
Yolks of eggs and yellow jackets make her want to scream.
Xanthophobia ensnares her. It is sickening
Wakening to an aureate dawn’s bright rays.
Vehemently she shakes!
Ubiquitous are sunny days; she much prefers the clouds.
They keep her safe from light and her anxiety at bay.
Secluded in her rose pink room, she stays inside,
Rarely venturing outside except at eventide.
Quick is she to greet fast-falling snow.
Pedestrians abandon streets. Then she likes to go
Out to see the colored world buried in tranquility,
Nauseated she becomes just seeing people eat
Macaroni’s yellowish cheese, all things buttery,
Lemon cakes, bananas, mustard. It is a feat
Keeping herself calm. Sometimes she panics.
Jaundiced skin can do her in.
In many cases, she turns to Xanex.
Hideous to her is this disease,
Growing, never slowing. Even therapy
Fails to help. Whatever can she do?
Emotionally frazzled, living with unease when
Dandelions, daisies or ducks come into view.
Corn, baby chicks, and girls that she has seen
Bleached a brilliant bombshell blonde so bold!
All of it - florescent dreams - are nightmares laced in gold.
For the First Ever ZYX Contest sponsored by John Lawless
Copyright © Andrea Dietrich | Year Posted 2015
He fills his syringe with poisoned words
pulling the letters one by one from his rusted spoon
They rise up through the needle in perfect order
"Disgusting" "failure" "worthless" "loser"
There in the cylinder they mix together
until they are a perfect black ink
Although he no longer sees the words
their meanings are not lost on him
As he injects them into his arm
he feels the blackness
Ink travels slowly up his arm towards his heart
At first he enjoys the burning sensation
as capital letters make way for the smaller ones
In the moment he's convinced they are lies
When they reach his heart
he becomes a true believer
By choosing to be less than he is
he occupies his excuses
The I can'ts and never coulds
The poor me's
All the reasons
he's not good enough
The words stack one on top of the other
until his heart is filled with empty
Somehow this comforts him
He holds tightly to
It's not my fault
It's just the way it is
His is a waking dreamless slumber
only lies seem believable
So he injects another word
Then a question
"Why do others have all the luck?"
Someone who cares
Takes a silver spoon
Fills it up with better words
Feeds him nourishing words
Smart, tenacious, kind and happy
He starts with small sips
one letter at a time
in front of him a golden bowl
filled to the brim with phrases
"You are Lovable"
"Anything is possible"
"Your opinion is important"
At first he is convinced they are lies
Until they reach his gut
Until he becomes a true believer
Taking everything to heart
Satiating his empty
Now he can see beyond what he thought was impossible
His actions speak louder then words
His life is not a wasted gift
From this day forward
He's living his life to the fullest!
Inspired by Jai Bankson's poem "The Habit" check it out!
Copyright © Richard Lamoureux | Year Posted 2016
Physically unable to deal with all this stress
a clinical Psychiatrist said that I am depressed
No shat Sherlock you are such a genius
10 years of college for this uneducated guess
Yah you're just an Idiot with an ego to caress
Pockets full of pens and eyeglasses to impress
Yes we all notice the impeccable way you dress
Armani styled striped suit all ironed and pressed
It looks quite expensive only the best for the best
No I don't want to do your magic ink blotter test
You act as if by the Almighty you are blessed
Just like the Preacher trying to get us to confess
So how do I know this won't end up in my arrest
I guess I'll just have to remove you in the end more or less
Now who is the one that's stressed???...
Copyright © Brian Davey | Year Posted 2016
How do you change a lie into the truth?
Alchemy, dear children ...
this is how it's done, using unverifiable proof
First, you take a sick, dirty lie,
and doctor it up as truth
Whitewash and scrub it clean,
then jet power it with unsubstantiated verbal steam
That should make the lie thoroughly sanitized
Then play a continuous sound byte loop,
uncorroborated and fact-free
Present the fake news with a five-star salute,
then say secrecy is the true path to liberty
This rings eerily like New Age alchemy,
bell-tolling Faustian chemistry
If that ain't a manufactured alternate reality,
then somebody is lying to us obviously
How do you do this, change a lie into the truth?
Alchemy, dear children ...
this is how it's done, using fabricated proof
Next, you take a package,
and deliver it to the people,
with a Trojan horse message inside
But the people don't know it's harmful,
because they labeled it with a lie
See, that's the beauty of deception,
they don't call a lie a lie
Instead they choose another word,
as they place the pirate patch over their eye
Misleading, false claims
Choose whichever words you will,
a lie is a lie is a lie still
Changing a word won't make a falsehood real
Taste the propaganda spoiled sauerkraut;
as alternative facts are trotted out,
and disinformation is bandied about
Know that immoral alchemy is being performed
by high wizards of the dark arts
Frankenstein experiments in need of more body parts
Don't be bewitched by lying craft,
don't get (con)fused by this manipulative graft
into a cancerous body politic
Changing a lie into the truth
is the ultimate alchemist trick
Copyright © Freddie Robinson Jr. | Year Posted 2017
The wound inflicted, you will never see,
for it lies in the recess of my mind
Internal is the bleeding; let it be!
You try, but peace of mind you can not find
Who is the God you worship? Speak His name!
I want to know; does he condone this pain?
Is He the one who let you maim and shame,
and will he bless you for your proffered bane?
I wonder how you can to slumber yield
Does not your deed weigh heavy on your heart?
The things you've said and done are not concealed
Your conscience surely pleads amends to start
The wound inflicted you will never see
But there is One who sees inside of me
Copyright © Eileen Manassian | Year Posted 2016
I never cease to ponder at the turmoil in my life
Though I feel my soul is peaceful it is manifest in strife
While the strife is all internal 'neath a self content facade
Turmoil rises in the absence of at-one-ment with my God
Is it merely my perception? Am I resisting taking heed?
Should this life be one of resting, or is it strife I need?
It should be a simple matter to find the purpose of this life
Is it growth I need from striving or is it rest I need from strife?
Is it focused introspection, is it altruistic love?
Is it spiritual reflection, or is it all of the above?
For sure it’s more than economic, yet while that’s necessary too
Is it our souls’ evolution that makes it all worthwhile to do.
I can see no point in living just to pass another day
I must have something more worth giving, than just to pay my way.
It would be so much the simpler if a man could know for sure
What his purpose is for living, his evolvement to procure.
Will my purpose well within me? Could a vision not appear?
And suggest a clear direction to pursue while I am here.
I’m so tired of treading water, putting time in ‘till I die
There must be something more constructive waiting for me by and by
I have fancied other options but none have succored to my taste
Yet to continue what I’m doing simply put, seems like a waste
So it seems the only option is to carry on and wait
And resolve that when I’m called on I will not hesitate
I have learned of soul eternal, on an endless ageless quest
Taking various forms and bodies, each to serve its purpose best
With each lifetime experience and with every lesson learned
It’s one step closer to perfection that the growing soul has earned
For it’s purpose is advancement, and to not be left behind
In it’s struggle for ascension to God, the universal mind
I have friends who understand me, superficially at least
I have others who are certain I have succumbed to the beast.
I have family who despise me as a traitor to the faith
Very quick to, criticize me and condemn me as "off base"
I have learned I must not judge them, t’would be a travesty indeed
For they are only doing what ‘ere it is that their souls need.
In the meantime, I’m impatient, that my calling has not come
It’s quite clear that I’m not ready, sufficient learning’s not been done.
The problem’s not with others, nor need they change for me
The work must all be done within me for my soul to be set free
Copyright © Vic Pister | Year Posted 2013
The light is coming and I wish you well...
Behind the running, running man the land
Lies silent, fallow, haunted by the cry
Of one lone mourning rook who flies alone
Inscribing solemn circles in the sky
There is no time to take a backward look
Just running, running, running, running blind
He leaves the flowered garlands that she wove
With ribbons bright, with summer’s love, behind
He runs with only hope in empty hands
All faint of heart, with life blood running cold
The chill of winter earth beneath his feet
All water turned to ice in frozen fold
All out of breath with minutes yet to live
He runs, through elder grove and stand of yew
Runs, seeking for the ancient Solstice door
Described in tales the bards and ancients knew
‘Till suddenly he stumbles on a glade
All silent where no wild bird wheels or calls
And in the glade there stands a single stone
And on the ground a moon dark shadow falls
And there, within the shadow’s light he sees
That which before him other men have found
A stairway leading down in to the earth
A dark descending path in to the ground
No way but down now, this the only way
He gathers one last breath, and full of fear
Goes down the old and foot worn ancient steps
That lead towards the portal of the year
How dark the endless steps of winter’s stair
That shadow down, down to the Solstice door
To where, beneath the door a chink of light
Hints soft and bright across the cold stone floor
He sits upon the bottom step to rest
Reflect, and contemplate the year behind
And lo, she comes, bedecked in leaves and fruit
And dancing, dancing, through his weary mind
Forget me not, she sings; I am still here
I wait for you, for life to shift and stir
And through the keyhole and the chink there blows
A fragrant waft of birch and silver fir
Reviving, blessing, soft upon his face
The promise of new life upon her breath
Touched by her grace he weeps upon the step
For she has saved him with her love from death
Another year dies, another lives
He sits and waits; she watches from afar
And as he waits the light in darkness shifts
And creaks the ancient Solstice Door ajar…
Copyright © Gail Foster | Year Posted 2015
How long must you swallow now
to satisfy the beast
and will I ever bleed enough
for you to withdraw your teeth?
I’m fading in and out of consciousness
My lips are turning blue
but I can feel your skin begin to crawl
Tell me, what’s eating you?
What is eating you?
Copyright © Ryan Lucas | Year Posted 2016
In ghostly dreams the horse will come
And feed on my forbidden cereal
Meant for my recalcitrant healing
That filly came a-prancing stealing
O shrouded mare so misted white
Thou bleakest horse ,this blackest night
Untethered and untied
Noble creature -"NOT"- I cried
A pallid stare through tousled mane
Treads the core of my hidden pain
So obvious now for all to see
My fear complies to jellyfied fragility
Hope drifts lost in catatonic misery
As does my scream in muted agony
Nostrils flared in malarial trembling
Gasps aloud from injurious dreaming
Departing tail of comets flight
Leaves me such a prophetic sight
Copyright © Jannie Breedt | Year Posted 2017
When your world darkens
When your will gets shattered
When your fire becomes weak
when your strings get cut
When your heart gets broken
When your about to give in
Think of why you have come this far
Think of why your fire is still burning
Let it fuel you, let it ignite your soul
No matter what the world throws at you
No matter how bad you hurt, and want to give up
You must never give in and submit
Get up and take back control
Push yourself to the limits, never falter, never surrender
Pick up the pieces, get new strings, ignite yourself
Make the darkness fear your will of fire, for you pain is temporary
The darkness will burn, it will weaken
Your will of fire will guide you and others out of the dark and into a new dawn
Copyright © Unknown Unknown | Year Posted 2016
Two Silly Fools (at the coffee shop)
The shop was full
Only one seat to spare
Excuse me sirs, can I have a chair?
Why yes they said, smiles filled the air
They happened to be poets the same as me
Politely I asked, may I read a verse of thee?
They both rather meekly said
"If you really insist"
One said to me in such a small whisper
My poetry is not at all very good
As much as I wish it could and should
The other chimed in, is the same with me
I stared in surprise
Have I just met two of the dumbest fools?
I exclaimed in a manner rather short and abrupt
"You are the greatest fools I ever did see"
Rather shocked, they pushed back their chairs
I shouted sit; I am not done with my airs
You two fools better be quiet and listen
Cause I will say this but once, so I have written
Your poetry is of the highest caliber you see
You have the flow and the creative imagery
Darren and Rick need I say more?
Your hearts bleed poetry, is deep in your pores
Your poetry wakens the spirit in us all
If you want more you sure have some gall
Now writing as this, I wish it was me
For I look up to poets of such high degree
Now if I must tell you a truth to be told
Is me the fool, for being so bold
So now let’s sit and make if coffee for three
Of the happiest fools and great poets that be!
Notes: This was inspired by a chat I had with both Darren and White Wolf who for some bizarre and strange reason both doubted their talents and abilities as Poets. Needless to say, I gave them a word or two on getting those silly thoughts out of their heads! I find both of their poems to be diversified, well written, inspiring, contemplative and at times just plain fun to read. After all, it’s the read who is the final judge. I sincerely hope I have made them both smile!
Copyright © arthur vaso | Year Posted 2017