Connection misfired not quite there.
Wanting actions to speak louder than words.
I expected more from you.
Wordku: 5-7-5 words
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
A drift in a sea of longing,
rudderless and without direction.
Trying to stay afloat
amidst the relentless winds and currents
whipping the crests into a frenzy.
At the mercy of the nautical tempest,
in a fruitless battle to maintain control,
I’m losing sight of the sheltered harbor
that was my refuge from this upheaval
brought on by the forced solitude
when you left me.
Let’s be brutally honest with each other
AI poems are being posted on soup
Can be seen on a daily basis
Keep seeing the same names produce it
I don’t bother alerting admin as
Nothing gets done, so instead I
Go and seek genuine poems… HOWEVER
I USED to read a poem and comment
Now I often copy and paste them
To check for AI, and sadly I
Even search for plagiarism and
Get infuriated when I find it. I’d
Really love an explanation how a dead poet
Is able to post THEIR poem here on the site
The time has come to clean up the soup bowl
Yes let’s rid the site of cheaters and fakers!
What mere things I lack
long lost treasures from the past
never to be found
One hundred fifty calories
in twenty-seven Cheez-its.
Unless you chew one at a time,
they go fast; best believe it!
Old age will be miserable
If one thinks of the dreams
That haven't been fulfilled
And time is lacking
If one thinks of the hatred buried in the heart
And there is a little chance to release
The oldy is too weak to combat again
He will burn himself out
Like a candle in the wind
Maybe doing good
Is worthy
But doing bad
Will face a penalty from God
Those writers inspired by a muse
Have a bevy of topics to choose
So when faced with a time
For composing a rhyme
There are mountains of thoughts to peruse.
But the rest of us sit there and stare,
Pencils poised, although barely aware
Of the air that surrounds;
Meanwhile, just out of bounds
Are ideas others’ muses won’t share.
Still, at last, the mere germ of a thought
Will pass by and, if lucky, be caught
And that’s all that I need
For the poem to proceed
So my worries all add up to naught.
sensitivity is killing humour,
actually that's wrong,
humour is linked to intelligence,
so if they fail to sea the funny sense
their probably dense,
which is easily confused with taking a fence....
see what i did there intents
fantastic suspence holds up tents
spastic pens roll ink-tensive ends
the lack of sense is the sense
it's a matter of intelligence
sexist is intelli-gent
or is it In-tena-lady
Trans-elligence
humour not evident
Do you ever feel like a song
Written on a blank page
No melody
Just black lines, smudges on an empty page
on the floor on
all fours next
to me you
sit on a
stool
knowing exactly
what rhythm
and tempo
to keep
you
begin
milking
me making
me feel as if
to swoon
i
moo
I spot your monsters lurking behind but,
I am too busy chasing my own away.
They encumber your every step
as planes boom by on death hooks -
your spirit lies flatly and is wailing
with its arms and legs in the air.
Imagine that!
The black sky empties your demons like
sour milk down the drain.
They happily haunt you
in your one dimensional nightmares
lacking light -
not even a small lit candle that
you would adore like an unexpected gift.
Your inescapable tsunami plagues your sight,
your mind, even the feeling
in your thin-skinned hands.
You never weep.
No, all of this mayhem has settled deeply
into the marrow of your bones.
Perfect and lacking the words dance in my head.
Perfection is a belief that should stay dead,
To lack information instead.
Learning that I can grow that must stay.
Perfection and lacking two unequal words,
Perfection is a lie, a victory never reached.
Lacking nothing is a belief that gives hope and sweet peace.
Perfection not needed here, simple trust without fear.
confidence lacking
running low
on empty
internal engine
controlling self-esteem
levels
depleted motivation
driving force
give up on goals
give in to self-doubt
lowering the bar even
lower than before
I don't feel much like writing this poem,
for there's nothing that much on my mind;
No birds are a-tweeting, no cattle are lowing,
or maybe my perceptions are blind.
For want of an alternative merit,
I find now is the right time to stop.
If a poem won't work, then end it
to limit the scope of the rot .
Today’s trains leave much to be desired, in the way of charm.
The iron horse of yesteryear, laughs at his grandchildren’s weakness.
The great king of the old tracks; a force unconquerable.
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