Loneliness Metaphor Poems | Examples
These Loneliness Metaphor poems are examples of Metaphor poems about Loneliness. These are the best examples of Metaphor Loneliness poems written by international poets.
I butter the toast as if it were a pardon,
its crust breaking under my knife
like a sealed envelope.
The coffee is bitter ink,
a confession cooling in its cup.
I swallow it fast,
as if speed could trick the executioner.
When I buy myself flowers
I imagine them lining a witness box:
petals trembling,
each one swearing I once existed.
I take long baths,
the water climbing like hours,
the body softening, rehearsing its exit.
Every errand feels ceremonial:
the grocer weighing apples,
the cashier stamping receipts—
as if recording my presence
before the page turns blank.
I buy the trinket, the sugared cake,
because why shouldn’t the condemned
glitter a little,
lick the spoon clean?
The hours leer,
their faces blindfolded.
Any minute the rope could tighten—
a phone could ring with pardon.
So I go on feeding myself,
scraping honey from the jar,
gilding my throat
for the last song or the first acquittal,
as though I might vanish mid-bite,
or else be called back,
my name suddenly rinsed clean
from the record.
nothing seems to last
flowers weep faded petals
a faint scent lingers
once blooming in bright color
my poems have lost their appeal
emotions wither
wilted words whirl in the wind
bereft of beauty
I strive to remain rooted
hoping for droplets of love
Eileen Manassian
If your misunderstood
maybe God just left your definition out.
In an attempt to clarify something .
no one would understand.
You are a riddle,
for what its worth,
what is a riddle if not a question.
longing for an answer.
Some intellectual level
that many wouldn't understand.
"Lingering leaves of gold
frolic in the autumn wind,"
Swept up by bygone breezes,
already collapsing
before they begin,
As disillusionment clouds an overtired soul—
Misplaced and irretrievable
To a society that ravenously
disembowels empathy,
Twists and mangles trust
until it becomes unrecognizably disfigured,
Leaving the carcass to be plucked by bone-thin vultures,
Fed by culture’s apathetic, parasitic narcissism,
Under the boiling, pre-winter sun.
I opened my eyes when it was too late.
The river passed before my wide-open eyes.
I missed my childhood;
I was a prisoner in my mind.
Neither God was called, nor nature invoked.
Fate took the driving seat of my life,
Only regret will not compensate now!
The grass was greener,
The sky seemed clearer,
And when I look back in the mirror,
What I have is just an illusion of my past.
Life is always from dusk to dawn.
In between, I just stand alone.
The light brings back absolutism
In my mind, with which I stand behind everyone.
When I try to escape all at once,
When I try to produce stronger words,
When I try to dive into the ocean of eternal enjoyment,
I always look back in the mirror…
Why am I here?
Where will I go?
It is not the inscription on my forehead.
I get ready to fly again,
Except when I look in the mirror…
An ominous trail
in their dark ashes—
each ellipsis
hid a treacherous bend.
I feel the camper’s
hollow rattle
between cracked ribs
that won’t quite mend.
Not their youth,
but mine—
still burning
in oil-smoke haze
too thick to see.
Torn nights
of endless yearning—
a senseless chase
I couldn’t face,
and wouldn’t flee.
Would the dust
of reckless trysts
still stir—
and burn again?
Would my reading
turn to riding
that soulless path,
the camper’s sin?
The snare of wishing
for what’s long missing—
new campgrounds,
starlit nights...
But on that road,
the rain keeps falling—
and all that’s left
are rusted rites.
- An echo to a friend's "Road Trip"
I wander where the afternoons
were so warm and golden
and wonder why
pleasant woods and beautiful lakes desert me
leaving just trees and water
I wander where the orange sunset
painted the purple sky
and wonder why
The awe at the light show leaves my heart
I become colorblind to nature's art.
I go inside to where the parlor
was full of happy crowds
and wonder why
The chill of loneliness comes over me
in this silent room I can't wait to flee.
I wander where I held your hand
We thought the future was so grand
and I wonder why
So little went as we had planned
the road went to a savage land.
I wander where values
were accepted, and known
and wonder why
Stone became water, and water stone
If they see a good man, they can't leave him alone
I sat all afternoon
by an exuberant stream of rushing flow
And I wondered why
I lost the fun; I lost the glow—
like laughter fading after the show.
Maybe you need to feel the loss to grow.
I am nobody, nothing more or less
than a pathetic line of symmetry.
In this paradox of existence,
a listless, feeble entity.
I am nothing more , and nobody
for the universe to see.
A dissonant heap of dust,
and never a beloved priority.
I want to write a single line, just one,
to hold within my memoir’s quiet space,
where sorrow and joy dissolve together,
becoming something weightless, something whole.
Perhaps it will be my final offering,
the only treasure I take with me.
A life steeped in unrelenting grief—
what else can I craft but a fleeting companion?
The words the world desires are not mine;
I write only for the silence within.
Each line pulled from beneath my skin,
yet they remain nothing but passing echoes.
I write to escape what lingers too long,
to stretch joy before it disappears,
to hush the chaos beneath my ribs,
to find comfort in letters and pauses.
This hollow refuge is all I own,
the journey, once hidden, is now my fate.
Perhaps I will never truly exist
until I write a poem that feels like life.
Wandering the two in between the kingdoms
One side, quiet and bright, flagged the havens
The other, earthly world, noisy and light dim
Drifting up or down when the moody flow faint
To brightness fly and blurring dim fall
Somewhere belonging may lack for souls
Quiescent and chaos changed as tides floated
Uneasy and wobbly similar to traveling boats
Up or down, with straw sticks grasping
Steering wheel holding for the time clouds
Time goes likewise the seagulls chasing
From starting point to the place anchor
Heart awaits longly for people nauseating
While mind gonna sparks be star exciting
I lie down in my four-poster bed,
facing the pale yellow wall.
The same that I see above,
behind my headboard,
opposite me.
I drown in the sickly pale.
I dare not turn around
to face the wall again.
Little do I notice
the little window behind -
rays of sun streaming through
little glass panels -
Gentle apricity grazing its
little window sill.
I want to belong to a hollow space,
Where no one can catch my tiny lace.
I want to live on my own,
The space is nothing but a trace.
I have found my own kingdom,
The disheartened enemies have learned some wisdom.
I have found my own gallery,
Where hollowness is never misery.
I want to live every day as if it’s my last,
The world is the beginning and, perhaps, also the end.
I want to live in my own space,
Where I can be myself, leaving behind every judgmental face.
I want to leave behind my memories,
Since memories stir unnecessary dilemmas.
I cannot undo what has been done,
I cannot worry about what is out of my hands.
Allow me to live in my hollow paradise,
Free from the tension of commentators.
Allow me to get back on track,
Even if it’s a chaotic maze.
Reflecting its neighbourhood,
The lake water shone yellow.
Resembling a synchronisation of saturation
With the setting sun.
Seizing green colour of the grasses
The sun painted them gold.
Engrossed gazing pines dance spectacularly,
Only awakened with sparrows' chirps,
And Robins' melodious songs.
Perched on the edge of a dead tree,
Abrupt thoughts hovered my consciousness.
Despite a gust, the dead tree stayed firm.
Nighbours swayed, relished,
Departing sun of the beautiful evening.
It rests and rests....
The landscape mirrored delight,
It grieved its own death.
Incompetent to sense, the scorching sun,
The white sheet of snow, dusk and dawn.
It rests and rests....
Observed the ambience twice .
No mournings! no sorrow!
Nothing ceased their pace.
Infact , they moved on.
It rests and rests....
My sizzling heart failing around the clock
No light colliding with the dark to spark
But essence dying passively through the dim
Dream's wall burning by the fire of terror
In a second, a sharp arrow infiltrates the soul
And silently overflowing blood around its artery.
Nothing emerged than an insane time,
Everything not set as materialised
There are volatile inheritance bloodstreams
Follows to end up with a quiet destination.
What a life ushers for nought...
No, no satiety to purify the lure in life.
Look at the moon shaded by a cloud
A hard rocky cloud
Cosmos horizon...
Never has it appeared over the sky
Even ancient times have yet to happen.
A silent mourning overthrows the time
A path continues to the graveyard
And I found a frosted body lying
cuddled with dreams.
A scamp life left behind the snag...
A presence of fervent destiny, a final milestone!
The all-seeing raven, cursed by fate,
To witness all, yet never relate.
It sees no light, nor darkest shade,
Its wings spread wide, yet flight delayed.
The Raven Lord, lost to the void,
A monarch of what’s been destroyed.
What once it was fades, drifting slow,
Into the shadows it does go.
Pondering deep, a mind untamed,
In purgatory, it remains unnamed.
Forever lost in sands that climb,
A figure trapped outside of time.