Copies Poems | Examples

a letter to my editor

a letter to my editor
I have tried to get more cash to spend
on introducing me to a bigger audience
I contacted many of my readers on X and asked for
A contribution sent to Hillshire will not come
amiss so far nothing.
I could have asked the man himself, but I will not
He suffers from the insecurity that rich people 
People who suffer from that, we like them for the money
I happen to like Elon Musk because he struggles
with a deep-seated shyness like my brother did
So his life is not that easy
So, therefore, just print the en book and send
a couple of copies to me, I shall be nothing more
than mulch in the acre of poetry

Fated Love

They grew up together 
But they never spoke
And never seen each other
Fate had her plans, though
Setting them up to meet
When they did it, it was in the library
Between the dust-covered shelves
Each wanted a particular book
Written by an author no one knows
And a title no one ever read
Two copies were dying on the shelf
Two copies, which got those two people talking
They smiled and shared a kiss before they left
They will never forget that book
Because it changed their lives
Precisely as Fate hoped it would

© Poem – III/VIII/MMXXV
LRET

The Mirror Copies

The mirror copies—
life responds. 

Inside a mirror you are frozen. 

A stasis oasis.

As if you’ve entered a black hole—
and God took a screenshot. 

Paused,

at the last real still frame.

Everything else…A timeless story.

There is something sacred about a mirror world.

And it’s that you remember the light before it was refracted. 

Because that echo—

the silent director to your story—
it’s all you’ve really got.

So, reflect it. And it should bounce back. 

This is a mirror world after all.

smoke

The Wardrobe 

I opened the wardrobe door 
There they hang, suits and trousers
worn so long, looking pale
copies of my figure
This can't go on, in a fit of self-anger 
I gave my old clothes to the Salvation Army
Too much textile is a burden  
In a suitable shop, I bought a pair of jeans 
and a matching jacket
Feeling adventurous, I walked out looking
For a mule, horses are too tall, began
Exploring the landscape of dreams

Shadowplay

A shadow walks where light won’t go,
It knows your pace, your highs, your low.
It copies truth, it mimics lies,
Then slips away as daylight dies.

It never sleeps, it doesn’t speak—
Yet trails you close, quiet and sleek.
You’ll never touch it, never quite—
But still, it haunts the edge of light.

An Author To Their Work

An Author To Their Work
By Antuan Simmons
The author to their work.
Is like a man or woman to their family.
The pen and pencil is the son they guide to do right.
Guiding to write that first draft.
The keys to the computer is that spouse.
You spend quality time with.
Every punch to the fingers to computer keys.
Is a punch to create that storyline.
The late-night meals and sleepless nights
Is like caring for a daughter.
You miss sleep and but eat in the morning hours.
To fill in the beginning, in between, and end of your book.
Those words on paper is like giving birth.
Because you are putting a creation of literature together.
That comes from the bones, skin, heart, thoughts, and thinking of your mind.
Every formulated image in the story comes from the spirit within you.
The book is your family.
Because sometimes you spend more time creating a literary masterpiece story.
Then you do with your own actual family.
You eat, travel, drive, text, and talk with copies of your beloved book.

Whence con clues on

Monalisa is smiling there, mounted on the wall, 
eternally to be understood and felt along
I saw many digital mimicry,of this, many carbon copies, 
but never the original subtlety of a song
That never meant to belittle you, the one who works in a subway 
to earn with six inches,or even a footlong 
I never knew if facebook portal could allow her to rank the smiley 
of our sibling photoshoot, fading for so long.
Many years flew by, to revere the painting, but never the original lifeline, to let down the trickling warmth, 
rolling down, winning the gravity of a sunday and unsung.
Did I ever tell you, the sunlit sun has a way to reflect upon
The pupils of the bright eyes, my morning chant, and often one muse, lifelong? 

whence con clues on, about intellectual depth and wrong!

Weary Is My Mind

Weary Is My Mind

I promise, I swear, I will never, I will always
That blaring sentiment of a pattering ghost that I detest
Among the empty hollowing of her mouth and eyelids
There lies darkness deep and unending that I fell into once, 

never again.

Baffled and naked, afraid and convinced I was nearing my hearse
She runs screaming, yelping in madness as her body falls dead
Once I thought I knew, but as fate would incline
The truth would be only a weapon and shield–vulnerable. . .

never again.

The prating sound squawks as death marks before her squalid breathy voice
Her pupils' contract like a viper’s hint at prey, pouncing, and then devouring
The blood is left spattering and spurting among my grey, hollow walls
Only her wedded can clean out the muck as I have given up,

never again.

Coiling around me with her slippery scales, the precipice of my demise
The sword and the shield once though best, were only cardboard copies
My soul is shattered, and my will is blank, giving into her sweet, nectary venom
The forefront of my being is gone. . . crushed under a blanket of rue

For Weary Is My Mind

Copies On Copies

If you just stepped out for a second and looked in:
We set up in rows, and they stare
We fill our minds with recycled air
We read words that others have spun
And we think we learn, 
but truthfully were becoming undone
Copies on copies the system repeats
Stacking minds like paper sheets

Reflections Within Reflections

Sometimes I feel, as though I stand,
Trapped in the prison of my own hand.
A mirror within a mirror's gaze,
A labyrinth of eternal haze.

I turn left; I turn right—there is no door,
Only endless echoes of before.
Each step I take is shown and shown,
A thousand copies of the me I've known.

The edges blur, the glass refracts,
A kaleidoscope of sinking facts.
Am I the seeker, or am I the sought?
Fragments of dreams, or shadows of thought?

The walls are whispers, silent and cold,
Reflecting truths, I can't quite hold.
Each reflection knows me more than I,
Yet none can answer my whispered 'why?'

I pound the pane, but the sound just dies,
The maze is a web of my own disguise.
Each pathway bends, each corridor curls,
A hall of mirrors, a world of swirls.

But deep within, there's something bright,
A flicker of flame in infinite night.
Perhaps the escape lies not in the fight,
But in daring to shatter and step into light.

So, I pause, I breathe, and I let it be,
The maze transforms inside of me.
A mirror is only as real as its image pretends to be;
But true freedom begins when I no longer care.

The Dark Web

Globally synchronized system.
Hive mind, you're all tethered.
Im a conflict of interest.
Im a thorn in flesh.
Im a frustrating predicament.
Im The situation you all created.
Im an uphill battle.

Conspiracies.
Going through the rabbit hole.
And jumping through hoops.
Artifical intelligence and carbon copies.
This world so intricate.
What a conundrum.
Love is not the key.

The fundamentals of being human is dignity and respect.
You people haven't treated me with such.
Birds are cameras, no, it's the spirit.
Keep your hopes and wish on 11:11.
This white i wear is already red.
The blood i bleed is of your hands.
This is your doing.

Being Mimicked is Annoying

mimicking Lu often copies me
terribly annoying, can't she see?
If I chopped my hair, she would chop hers too
No original thought or idea for Little Lu

It gripes me that she is this way
We used to play, now I stay away
If I broke my arm, she'd be wearing a cast.
Here she comes, so I am running fast.

Favorite actors, aging

Inspired by the YouTube’s videos

I watch the aging actors’ faces
Part of my youth, of there and then
The ruthless time erases traces
To waypoint stops, us younger when

So pensive, humbling and revealing
The glory past and fame archived
Age catches up, ain’t no concealing
And none of it can be revived

Those shows - naïve, addicting, funny
Or maybe serious and sad
The days one hasn’t had much money
Yet better-looking, girl or lad

The stunning beauties, macho fellas
They shined so brightly on the screens
We watched them, feeling slightly jealous
Uncrowned princes, lords and queens

Time has no mercy, twisting faces
And gruesome copies all is left
It slowly goes through the paces
Keeps us uneasy and bereft

Why do the actors age so oddly?
Me? I’m the same as ever been
To perish thought, dismissing broadly
The glaring truth, which isn’t sin

We gaze, but what’s the image here?
Not them. It’s us, the way we were
If you’re a woman – shed a tear
If you’re a man – go feel a stir

November 2, 2024

We seek not someone like us, but someone who feels like home

We seek not someone like us, but someone who feels like home,
Someone with whom we can sit in silence, feeling the warmth of their presence,
Someone whose imperfections fit with ours,
With whom we can laugh, be ourselves, and make life shine.
We are not looking for copies of our own faces, but for a heart full of life,
Someone who notices small joys, who would travel far just to see us,
For every moment together is a priceless gift,
A soul that loves each day, sharing our laughter and silences,
Someone who reminds us that love is not a mirror, but a heart that makes us feel alive.
In our silence, we find the warmth of a presence that embraces our soul,
A soul that accompanies us through sunny days and storms,
A heart that beats to the same rhythm of joy and longing,
A refuge of peace and laughter, a light that never fades.
We seek that heart that makes us feel each day is a beginning,
A beginning where love is born from imperfections and completeness,
And where every moment becomes a memory engraved in the infinity of time,
A home of love, where we find ourselves in others,
And where, in the silence of love, we truly feel at home.

Birds

Birds

Birds should be 
up to date with 
sky traffic in the 
foreign countries they’re visiting. ‘Send to 
all nests copies, not ones that’ve 
been shortened, parts removed – ASAP,’ one 
bird should 
spread. Also, injured in 
the air birds have had 
all the time to 
make parachutes.

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