Confessional Poems - Poems about Confessional

Streetlight dander. Jawbone asphalt. Blink razors carve her iris script. Rib stars ovulate in feral grates, mechanical tongue juts a bloodline breath. Keystroke ruin writes in collapse, a waveform lodged in sternum glass. Lipsticked rodeo—a gash in faded denim Banana-knuckled hands torch filterless ghosts. Tree-call through copper root systems. Wire-pluck storm, vapor chews the stock market Cancer caught in molar hush, brined in citrine static. She opens...

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I I look at trees and think about their births. I can say to myself by looking at a leaf, “You are an oak,” or, “You are a Chinese pistache.” For this I feel proud, And this quirk is one that gives me a sense of joy, And the trees appreciate this; they listen. II...

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A I CONFESSION not my own work...

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Opportunity presented itself I closed my eyes Learning seemed hard I closed my eyes I pushed open a door to my new start I closed my eyes Nothing worked out I closed my eyes Facing my reality I closed my eyes Losing the worth for which I strived Every waking moment my heart cried However hard I tried I couldn't close my...

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In Paris, society people unironically dress for dinner, go to cocktail parties (where the hostess has an obvious drinking problem), dine with Catholic Bishops, industrialists, politicians and occasional celebrities (usually for charity) in places dripping with atmosphere. I met this famous actor once (July 2019, pre-covid, I was 15), at one of these summer parties in...

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Through shadowed trails beneath the moon’s cold stare. Its Amber gaze: a burden hard to bear. This feathered prize found peace in my gut No slumber dreamt; no answer could I get. Eurasian owl with orbs of liquid flame My every stride a prideful, haunting...

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I emerged / born with a silver pen in hand …and a tempest raging within. Words writhe, a serpent's coil …tightening their grip A soul adrift in a sea of …self-made iniquity. I buried my daddy …in the black shoe …by the Yew tree Yes, I, the beekeeper’s daughter …bearing the weight of hexagonal cells A hive of memories …buzzing with secrets. The bell jar shattered...

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I carve little pieces of my heart Put them on display Hoping I suppose for what? Validation of self Acceptable despite the obscenity Of my repeated requests for attention These pieces so crudely carved at times Were hidden, encased Take effort to free and take form I'm not a sculptur Why do I put myself on display Whilst I hide behind the scenes I hear nasty...

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As a confessional portrait poet I see myself through my own lens Getting really into 'if I feel it, show it' Risk appearing a right misery to poet friends If I carefully conducted a survey Ignoring any anomalous score What would be contained in resulting communiqué Perhaps it's true I am a chore But if I scour the current ad hoc data Analyse the...

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Confessional Poetry It is a hard thing to write down. Much less, The things that you do. To influence a life that's not yours. What did he want? He only wanted her to get her. Not even a priest especially a priest Wants to go to heaven a virgin. But in the past I did . Anyway mine didn't, so does the boy or girl...

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You can feel them move through streets Emblazoned with sirens' primary colors, A swatch of fjord's colonial flagship hues Left to slap in the wind of reorderd forms Until sheared into confetti strips. Scripts Writ into a code are but partial prophecy. The DA wants to press on with felony Charges, I push the 19-gauge needle in & the accompanying rush...

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The Handwriting of the Marionette David J Walker The confessional was Paper-thin cursive in ink A life of sin laid out in as few lines As were memorable in a Second person narrative The ventriloquist's voice opened The service with a far-off prayer In another language of tongues Which only the faithful could bare As the maître de la marionette Guided her signed confession Utopia...

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Confession by Michael R. Burch What shall I say to you, to confess, words? Words that can never express anything close to what I feel? For words that seem tangible, real, when I think them become vaguely surreal when I put ink to them. And words that I thought that I knew, like "love" and "devotion" never ring true. While "passion" sounds strangely like the latest fashion or...

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Past psychological development describes zigzagging mama's yoyo casually, aye publicize, (asper mein kampf) personal woe unpleasant memories indelibly etched, jagged, scar outlined like ticktacktoe solitary games invariable resultant draw between every “x” and each "o" metaphorical of course for this poetic, formerly non opportunistic generic Joe Schmoe, hoof hound cathartic airing emotionally rocky terrain, whereby floe tips of icebergs with poetry I tool examining, excavating, extracting, et cetera hoe ping...

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CONFESSIONAL I confess to an addiction If I’m honest, no it’s two On the scale of dire affliction They don’t count for much ado So I’ll say it, take the risk While confessional I’m tackling It is salt and vinegar crisps With a large side of pork crackling...

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