I wish that you could read these
Like other people do
But you don't know these poems exist
You haven't any clue
See Andres has a penname
Who writes quite differently
Unlike the poems Andres writes
He writes cathartically
He keeps these poems from your eyes
So you won't have to know
How much sometimes he's hurting
But cannot tell you so
His longing gets expressed in rhymes
In ways you can't know of
What happened though was not a crime
He simply fell in love
Poetry can be a critical liaison when words are fashioned,
that do not please the beholder's eyes.
I'm a poet without a pen, weaving woes on a digital canvas.
Forgive my rhyme-less heart, I've sinned in murky metaphors,
lost in my own sea of thoughts, with 3am rants and riddles,
composed in sleepless synonyms from this insomniac mind.
But if it wasn't for poetry, would I have felt his love and deep compassion?
For within his sonnets, I've found my poetic savior,
cathartically soothing these inner demons.
He is now my muse, my reason to rise and write, becoming the lyrical antidote,
prompting my fingers to type beyond just tainted thoughts,
showing me a reality that tastes sweeter than the fruitiest cocktail.
If it wasn't for poetry, I wouldn't have known,
that there's more to this life than diamonds and gold.
I'm now an accidental poet beautifying pain with colors stolen,
from sunsets and moonrise, across his faultless skies.
What do you do when a poem’s not funny?
What do you do when it hits a raw nerve?
What do you do when it’s not warm and sunny?
What do you do when life’s thrown it a curve?
What, when the feelings are less than enraptured?
What, when the poet wails life’s been unfair?
What, when it bleeds from a heart that is fractured?
What, when the voice is in depths of despair?
Hidden behind, there are pained people hurting;
Hidden behind, things are not all quite right.
Hidden behind, deeper issues they’re skirting;
Hidden behind, they cathartically write.
What’s the appropriate word to encourage?
Give the despondent the “nice job” spondee?
When we were young and we had a miscarriage,
Everyone left us adrift in pain's sea.
Community is just a collection of people
Connected enough to express words of care.
Intention here: never to urge, press, or wheedle.
Just to reach out, signal I know you’re there.
Unfettered
Afternoon
Ocean breeze
Slowly blows
Through the trees,
Hieroglyphic
Spanish wind
Serenely goes
And leaves me
Salt air dry,
Ozone high,
Catholically,
Cathartically,
Light headed.
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.