Finding Poems - Poems about Finding

A heart grown weary in silent rain, No roof to shelter, no meal to gain. No gentle voice, no hand to hold— Just aching silence, damp and cold. I left behind what broke my soul, A job that crushed what once was whole. Now I drift with nowhere near, And all I know is ache and fear. I do not seek to shame...

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It’s nice to think that each of us Possesses certain skills Or talents or abilities Which, maybe, life fulfills. The lucky ones discover theirs Perhaps when they are young And if they’re able, nurture it From when their hopes have sprung. For many, strengths stay hidden And then gradually appear, At times to even influence One’s choice of a career. Yet others never have the chance To tap...

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CHERRY WAVES HEARTS I CRAVE lust is a battle don't see me waver lust is a savor savoryyyy honey, ur so sweet my delectable treattt coming home with me? no? okkk I never thought it could be this way But now my honey's left me astray She never thought to stay My darling girl has ran away Her name was Vanessa Golden hair to her toes Vanessa, my queen I never gave you...

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We seek out places that seem to fit the contours of our soul. For some, it is those quiet places with expanded distances way out past the reach of thought. For others, it is cramped city streets where buildings rise like glass cliffs on either side, noisy restaurants and talk in dimly lit bars. And there are others who find fit in seaside...

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there is no finding of what is not lost~ yet what is not lost may show up as a finding~or not ...

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They say love yourself, As if it were that simple, As if I could just flip a switch And suddenly see what they see. But every mirror I pass Reflects back their whispers instead of my face, Their judgments carved into my skin Like ancient hieroglyphs of "not enough." I've spent years Apologizing for the space I occupy, Making myself smaller, Folding myself into origami shapes That...

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Finding Joy I find joy in simple things of life new mornings writing poems singing songs I don’t need fancy toys nor much wealth ...

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Finding true faith Like going to mall Spent few hours. Go round and shop Your eyes busy Your feet is numb. When all is done With good judgement Finding your choice. No further fuss At last you bet To settle down. Once and for all You buy the thing Mall has offer....

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Henry found his people And they’re up there on the stage, Where with the audience, they all Can magically engage. We’ve watched him since his day of birth And marveled at his gifts, Delighted at the many ways He’d give our spirits lifts. He’s had to travel many paths In search of where he’d fit And middle school has been the place Where all the fires...

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Love is once again finally arising in the air And I am finding myself without a single reason to care, As I forget the one who never wanted to be there....

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My heart was breathing rapidly My ears were thrumming silence Filled with the joy That came up beside me I was seeing sounds that spoke Into my moving mind It took one glance and told me That I would never die Breathing knowledge Thinking truth Speaking to the all of you I sound was rest upon my shoulders Lifting me to speak louder I saw the truth float...

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Some say pain drives art. Is that how you fell in love with poetry? Title: Finding Catharsis (A lone voice whispers) Conjuring stanzas Baptised sanctified with pain To keep on floating (575) (C) Copyright John Duffy ...

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Inhaler Dimes Brown napkin Three pairs of eye glasses Two pencils, an eraser and a pen Wallet with seventeen dollars and eighty-two cents Comb, cracker, stale muffin, five receipts, toothpicks Tiny piece of pink ribbon, twenty-two allergy pills Empty pill bottle Sometimes finding a forgotten purse feels like Christmas...

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Clouds can close the stars But can't extinguish them It means that I did not see you But it means what I see in you No one can guarantee a full success If you don't, who else will do If you can't write, someone will do If you don't take it in your hand There would always be someone else In real life there...

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I used to think poems lived in leather-bound books, guarded by professors with stern looks, that words worth speaking needed permission, academic citations, scholarly submission. I sat in corners swallowing syllables, choking on metaphors I couldn't pronounce, wondering why my tongue tied itself in knots while others spoke verses smooth as river stones. The first time I wrote something real, my hands shook like...

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