Before the world awoke,
Words were born,
Through countless sleepless nights,
The world you see,
Is the imagination of us,
It carries the souls of those who left
pieces of themselves.
Words still remembered,
Were written by the ones,
Who challenged the world,
Not with swords, but with stories.
Yet we gave birth to a devil,
One that forgot its creators.
And in a blink of an eye,
We were slowly erased,
While leaving only ash and dust,
The question that remains...
"Which AI wrote this?"
Hurts more than a breakup.
We were the bedrocks of the world you see.
Years traded away for a single page.
All passion was blindfolded,
By a single judgment.
We've been treated as slaves,
Though we were the ones behind it.
Yet the world forgets us,
Like we never existed.
Behind the system,
The dreamers of the unseen,
The shapers of the world...
We're the people you've never heard,
Only echoes remain
Of voices left unheard.
Ink may fade,
But the page never does.
The only way to recover
Is to tune into the radio,
Still waiting on forgotten shelves.
Sad sons weep as brisk buyers pass
Night's deep darkness falls as poor boys beg bread
Bleak bosoms, sharing sad sobs,
Fierce floods wash through the dense dirt tonight.
Gray gloom hides those cold cries.
Sharp storms wake up grim, great hunger,
Hard hearts mock the pain of lost lives.
Honored to place 2nd in the Alliterisen Poetry Contest sponsored by poet Joseph May.
Note: AI-assisted background art was generated solely to enhance the dark and somber mood of my original poem.
Years have passed since we walked this shore,
Kissed by countless waves and more;
Embedded are your footprints still—
No tide can erase, nor sands can fill.
Months have passed since you left this room,
Yet still there lingers your perfume;
Embracing each corner, a trace of your presence,
A cherished reminder of your enduring essence.
Weeks have passed since I last heard your voice,
A recording replayed in memory and choice;
Each word you spoke still echoes clearly,
Like a whisper breathed into my ear so dearly.
It was just yesterday when I last saw you,
Through a framed smile, your face I knew;
I can still trace each speck and line—
A face that will never fade with time.
Gone but not forgotten
The people that died
Of Aids
Gone but not forgotten
The homeless
That have died of frostbite
Gone but not forgotten
The whales that the poachers
Poached
Gone but not forgotten
The soldiers that had
Died in the war over seas
A pair we were once
but fate went its own way
now we remain in letters
Christ wept real tears
for us all, for you and me.
We have forgotten
the true meaning of prayer
and the joy that prayer brings.
Gone but not forgotten
The people that died
Of Aids
Gone but not forgotten
The homeless
That have died of frostbite
Gone but not forgotten
The whales that the poachers
Poached
Gone but not forgotten
The soldiers that had
Died in the war over seas
I won’t forget you
I swear
The first thing they say when we leave this earth
As we feel the stomps of their footsteps
Leave the side of our grave
Echoes of cries that soon fade away
Laying alone in darkness
A void
Nothingness
Waiting to be judged
The memories
The times
The joy
Start to flash before our eyes as we try to control them
They sleep and remember our passing
But soon smile along the line
For their lives are still to be lived
Being in the grave is being forgotten
Being dead is being history
To just feel like a past memory
Death takes our existence socially
Death degrades us
And makes us nobody
Thy begin to go back on their word
Forgetting us
Our passing
Our existence
Our memories
As we still lay there
Dark, empty, void
Death makes us history
Death makes us forgotten
The Forgotten Leaf
From autumn's aged bough I took my flight,
Through woodland streams where whispered waters gleam;
I sought fair spring beyond the grasp of night,
Yet none would pause to share my silent dream.
The birds and winds became my faithful guide,
Through frost and bloom, through summer's golden fire;
Still every passing soul unseen would glide,
Nor lift my name from sorrow's darkened mire.
A lily asked, "Why grievest thou alone?"
I sighed, "My heart's a haunted palace still;
Where joy once reigned, cold silence claims the throne,
And empty halls obey forgotten will."
The world saw waste where one young child found art;
Thus lost leaves live forever in one heart.
In a drawer of quiet things, a lone brass key keeps dreaming of doors.
It remembers the weight of turning, the soft click of entering a life.
Now it hums in the dark—unlock me, it whispers—I still know the way.
The sorrow of those wandering clouds is a beautiful poem,
And your futile halt along the way is nothingness.
Your hand’s gesture is an unknowable confession,
And within civilization, your shadow is the light.
The cup that weeps, left all alone,
Is your dream.
The joy that follows behind laughter
Is your tree of solitude.
Your confession, cast beneath that starlight,
Is the fluttering butterfly of a life in the mire.
Your unfulfilled return, flying far and wide,
Is a pain that belongs to you alone.
Your unresolved grief that will not die, even in death,
Is yet another beginning for you.
- The End -
forgotten
she was tragedy
and nefarious
(Weekly Magnetic Poetry Challenge • July 13–19, 2026)
The Price of a Mother
They warned me of sleepless nights,
tiny shoes and lullabies.
No one warned me hearts grow taller,
or that silence echoes louder.
Not death...
That grief is honest.
This is loving someone
who simply chooses
not to come home.
Another headache.
Another flu.
Another promise
that falls through.
How strange the sickest days
always seem
to arrive
when they involve you.
I gave you everything—
my youth,
my strength,
my dreams.
I filled your life
while emptying mine.
I taught you kindness,
grace,
humility.
Somewhere along the climb,
you forgot
the hands that lifted you.
Now I'm
"not your kind of people."
Funny...
I used to be
your whole world.
Motherhood is a bargain
only a mother would make—
giving away pieces of herself
to raise someone
who may never notice
what's missing.
Maybe one day
you'll understand.
Maybe one day
you'll hear my silence
the way I hear yours.
But by then...
"I'm sorry"
won't bring back
missed birthdays,
empty chairs,
or borrowed time.
Because the saddest truth
I've ever learned is this—
"I'm sorry"
doesn't rhyme
with anything.
FORGOTTEN SHAPES
immovable
unpredictable
immaculately
&elusive
masked
anomalies
precarious
spectacles
muted
&undeniable
unending
endures
&replicates
capable
of
connections
becoming
attractive
imagery
sans
precedents
encountering
managed
imagery
attributing
to
synonymous
elegance
of
visual
visible
prosaic
expectations
&
possibilities
It’s the simplest question with the most complex answer
If I asked I wouldn’t want to know the truth
I wouldn’t even want to know why
I can play this game of ignorance
…Correction…I could live it
I could sit back and push you to the back of my mind
I can manipulate myself into believing that you didn’t mean a thing
I can choose what I want to remember and hide you in the closet
Along with all my deepest fears
But one thing will always haunt me
It’s that fact that I meant nothing
That all my time was invested
Into someone who doesn’t even remember my name
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