Best Relatable Poems
Dead Love - Poem
Like the sunshine going missing in the shadow,
So is my love.
The darkest green in the meadow,
First blooming like flowers in spring,
Then buried like the loved ones in a funereal.
But my feelings are like secrets,
Never dared to be told,
Because of all the power they hold.
So I am left to suffer alone,
To fight the lion,
Or was my mind playing tricks?
Was this feeling an illusion,
Made by my brain,
I come to a conclusion;
Never did I know how real romantic love felt.
How it is to held.
Asking the flowers,
Does he love me?
Or does he love me not?
Something I don’t have to waste my time on.
He is long gone,
Doting on another,
Whose name is not mine.
- Emily Knoll
It's obvious, heroes are pretty easy to write
it's not hard to make a good guy that will fight for his rights
villains are the ones that take more consideration
they take more skill and wit to write malicious indignation
a hero is sturdy, just, good, demanding
a villain has to be broken but still standing
Sure heroes get the girl, decide the villain’s fate too
but let's be honest it’s the villains we relate to
There's a voice inside my head;
I've tried to shut her,
over and over again.
She speaks my language,
but I don't want to understand
her painful words that make me feel just average.
She says she knows what's best for me
but she's nothing more than a liar,
because she's just a voice inside my brain.
I'm sick of her talking,
because everywhere I go,
she keeps on her painful talking.
Maybe I should ignore her,
because this is hurting hard inside my chest:
but how will I do this, if she's inside myself?
I feel her under my skin,
she's now a part of me;
I whish it didn't exist.
She judges my moves,
my decisions and my ideas,
even my own damn words.
Now I've talked with her,
she has spoken with me,
she has confessed.
Her, ladies and gentlemen,
is what they call:
to overthink.
I may host a contest? For the most politically correct here
On the theme of playing monopoly, with fake money
Is that legal btw ? I'm sure there will be some interesting
Entrys.'
Place all comments in the box below.'
I keep everything inside
I don't know if I trust people enough
To say what I really need to
To say what has to be said
To say what I really mean
Maybe I need to let go
Maybe I need to keep my life shut away
In the whole inside my heart
In the mess that is my brain
Keep them in
Don't let them know
The secrets I have inside of me
The terrifying demons that haunt my thoughts
Cant be released
To the public
Where my life of torment would begin
Can't let them know my secrets
I can't let them know
Collective nouns, what do you mean?
Let me present-
A gaggle of geese,
A moose and some meese,
A tuft of grass,
And a band of thieves,
A fleet of ships,
And a flock of sheep
A flock of sheep?
Well, if the goose is geese,
geese are a gaggle,
moose is meese,
So, why is it not a shoop and a sheep?
ENGLISH! I think I might even sue!
I will take you to the BENCH of judges,
There we will resume!
You make a porridge of words
In your cauldron of 'sense',
Whilst you horridly cackle!
Your words need to be observed
Under a great big lens!
I have anxiety
I can't sit quietly
Inside my brain
Cause part of it is fried
And part of me has died
I said "I'm fine" I lied
I am in pain
My heart is cold.
“Time is the healer of hearts” so I’ve been told.
With arms crossed, and an open heart. The story unfolds.
Before me lies a ditch, one that I lie in.
‘Biggest blessing or biggest lesson?’
The ditch I cry in.
‘Biggest blessing or biggest lesson?’
The ditch I confide in.
‘Biggest blessing or biggest lesson?’
The ditch I thrive in.
I’m a felon in life, yet the key lays right beside me.
Full of peace.
Yet bulimic for disaster.
My problems are dreadful and tiresome, yet I’m the crafter.
The ditch still lies.
This time it’s in front of my eyes.
It’s deep and vast like my problems.
And in the ditch I tumble, over and over.
I might need a shoulder.
One to cry on.
One to lean on.
One to lie on.
But the bottom of ditch is comforting.
Because when you begin to climb, your heart is still suffering.
Beating to break the chains that can’t be seen.
Beating to get through days you feel you can’t complete.
Yet your mind is abducted.
Abused by thoughts you think are corrupted.
But the ditch begins to widen, you swim in the soil but it’s your problems you truly confide in.
“Biggest blessing or biggest lesson?.”
It’s all a lie, your problems that deplete you will never see the light.
So big, yet never touch the sky.
You find comfort in every cry.
Every tear that plops, the redder your eyes are, the more you can’t stop.
A cry for help or a simple mock.
Your life isn’t a joke, yet the problems don’t stop.
Casting shadows that haunt you from within.
With every forceful tear you begin to sin.
You want your life to end but you don’t want to give in.
As this might be the “Biggest blessing or biggest lesson.” You are ever given.
You were a weed that grew in my garden
Your throws grew, climbing up slowly-
Sharp enough, you penetrate my rose.
You took away everything that was pure and beautiful.
You swallowed my garden whole.
Now all that grows here is false beauty-
An emptiness created-
A barren land and a layer of dust reminding me of once was.
Intensifying the pain of dying innocence.
Yet there you stand, so radiant and bright-
Captivating a lover’s eye
Now you grow in so many different gardens,
Waiting for your next victim to be planted.
he said its not all men,
but whilst that is true,
why would you pick this precise moment to make it about you,
it's not all men,
but it's almost always someone we know,
every woman has something she can contribute to the horror show,
whether that's crossing the street because there's a man behind us,
or sitting with a jacket over your legs on the bus,
it's not all men,
but it's enough men,
that's why we feel scared,
that's why we walk onto the street prepared,
checklist in hand,
ensure I can grab everything on command,
pocket knife,
check,
pepper spray,
check,
keys between fingers,
check,
oh, and I mustn't forget to walk with purpose,
never show off the way that I'm nervous,
oh, and I mustn't forget to cover up,
because after all I don't everyone to erupt,
what were you wearing?
is there really a right answer,
should we really be comparing,
comparing my clothes to the disaster,
the disaster the society is in,
but after all it's not all men,
but then again,
not all snakes are venomous but it's hard to tell which ones are,
so you're cautious around them all to avoid leaving a scar
Step one
Smile like stitches not for joy
Just tight enough to hold you in
The kind of smile that never aches
But keeps your mouth from spilling
Step two
Speak after everyone has left
Let words fall where no one looks
Your voice belongs to empty rooms
Where no one asks or stays too long
Step three
Move quiet through morning fog
Become the blur behind the glass
The kind of shape no one recalls
But swears they almost noticed
Step four
Fold your hopes into small things
Crumple them like worn receipts
Hide them inside library books
Where no one cares to turn the page
Step five
When no one says your name aloud
Don’t correct or say it again
Let silence swallow the letters
Like they were never yours
Step six
Forget the weight of your footsteps
The way your shadow used to fall
Not vanished, just uncarried
Like dust that left the frame
Step seven
Smile until your jaw remembers
Not joy, just something practiced
It’s not about being okay
Only about being seen
Step eight
Start leaving before you’re missed
Let time erase you in pieces
Not vanished, just rewritten
Like a sentence no one finished
Step nine
Forget the sound of your voice
Let it blur behind the glass
Not erased but left behind
Like fog that doesn’t return
Step ten
Smile again,
Not because you’re okay
But because the mask
Fits better than your face.
Racing, racing, racing…
Begins when the covers engulf me
In the lunar blackness
Where small sounds groan
Oh I’ve bested you, my friend!
Wait, that argument was four days ago
Fear, is death
For he who fails to
Act on ambition
Out of fear, dies
An inch with each waning
The Marble Faun
How did Faulkner conjure such
A picturesque title?
But what does it mean?
Racing, racing, racing…
Few hundred bucks is obsolete
In the grand scheme of it all
NF said it marvelously
Most important
Things in life to me
Are things I know I
Can’t buy
Racing, racing, racing…
An hour bleeds
Simpletons surround
Intelligent conversation does not
NF again
I’m not in the mood,
To have a conversation
And talk about a bunch of
Things I don’t feel amazed with
What do you want out of this life?
What are your true and deepest desires?
Seems like I’m the only one
Asking these questions
Few friends, maybe
Most caught up in trivial matters
Let’s go change worlds
Brick by brick
Racing, racin…ra…
In case I never write another poem again,
here's what I've been thinking
I've had a rough time wrestling
with the rigid grooves inside
my red hard, head -
heading nowhere really,
getting no place clearly,
drearily coming to a head -
where spine meets brain
and runs its creviced terrain
it spent too many hours of my life
building.
Beautiful though, isn't it?
All of it keeping life running -
lungs breathing,
heart beating,
cells feeding
on the energy it never wastes.
Wasteful to waste such a masterful design
isn't it?
A little tasteless.
Wouldn't it be
tragic
to leave this life behind -
an existence no mind can hide,
but mine cannot imagine,
stuck in the sulci canyons
I created nine years ago.
We don't talk about nine years ago,
me and my sulking sulci posse,
not about the days
when he-who-shall-not-be-named
sent the grim reaper out to play with my heart.
Yeah, let that sit in for a second.
Every heart knows what that feels like.
Guess mine couldn't take the strike,
the jab,
the stab in the back
to a heart ripe with frozen spite,
full of incredible credible lies
despite all the wisdom
rightful guided advice could bring
my psyche took a dive,
right into the fragmented canyons
where this all started.
Pardon my honesty.
I suppose all this confused pain
inside of me needs somewhere to go -
a home if you will -
somewhere to belong.
Isn't that what we all want,
after all?
I’d be mad at the world
If you suddenly decided to write your story with a rope
Tied to a ceiling
Or a razor
Glided against your pulse
No one goes out without a story
And your story wasn't perfect
No one's is
But you couldn't write some things in your story
And in your story someone else altered it
To hurt you
So
Some pages are torn and wrinkled
I don't think you can mend all the pages
You can't fully straighten a crumpled paper ball
But you can smooth it out
And try as best as you can to fix it
There will always be scars
Trust me
But scars are healed wounds
And you can alter the future of your story
Always
And scars can fade over time
Or till they leave a tiny mark
Therefore
If your story got too long
And too dark
I wouldn't remember how you went out
Because I'd be too angry at the world
But I'd remember your mark.
-D.B
At
the bottom
of every corner store
and coffee shop mug,
there is a collection of
teardrops and coffee-stains.
Waiting
to be gathered
so they can write
their stories in indelible
ink.