My Own Poems | Examples

My Own North Star

My Own North Star

A quiet hum, a gentle breeze,
No urgent calls, no need to please.
The world outside can spin and sway,
I find my peace in my own way.

No echoing steps upon the floor,
No voice to seek beyond my door.
Just silent thoughts, a mind at ease,
Unburdened by dependencies.

The path I walk, it's mine alone,
No guiding hand, no steady stone
Required to mark the way ahead,
My own true north, my spirit led.

For in this space, profoundly deep,
My truest self I truly keep.
A strength discovered, pure and keen,
The person I was meant to be,
Unseen
By crowds, unjudged by hurried gaze,
Content within my solitary days.

No void to fill, no empty chair,
Just self-completion, rich and rare.
A vibrant life, completely whole,
The sovereign master of my soul.

My Own Heart Is My Enemy

Each time I’ve loved, the wound ran deep,
A crimson truth I could not keep.
So now my heart, in self-defence,
Builds iron walls, immense, intense.
When someone stirs that fragile flame,
I whisper harshly, call my name,
And drag myself from passion’s shore,
To guard the ache I’ve felt before.
I scold the spark, I dim the light,
I shun the warmth, embrace the night.
Oh, what a maze of love and pain,
Where loss feels certain, joy feels vain.

Am I my foe? It seems I am—
I wound myself before you can.
And still, from every scar I bear,
A strange, fierce love grows stronger there.
Shall I once more embrace the fall,
And risk the shatter, lose it all?
For even if my heart should break,
It’s mine to lose, my choice to make.
And now I wonder, endlessly—
If meant to be… must still be free?

In playful hands of fate we sway,
Like toys upon her woven way.
In dreams that haunt and softly gleam,
Such visions stir—a waking dream.
Oh, destiny, if you are kind,
Let me slip through thy sleeping mind,
To see if there, the scene I see,
Plays out within the reverie.
Archangel, if your grace allows,
Unfold this truth beneath your vows.

Anne Sexton, Why I took My Own Life

I wore my mind like a corset—tight, laced, unseen—
while the world asked me to smile with lipstick teeth
and stir the soup without stirring the storm inside.

There were mornings I woke as if embalmed,
already dressed in the hush of death's silk slip,
no reason, no riot—just a fog that would not lift.

The walls of my room pulsed like veins
and the mirror whispered lies in a female voice:
You are failing. You are too much. You are not enough.

I was the soft thing breaking beneath
a century of silence stitched into my sex,
taught to hush the howl and cradle the ache.

My hands shook when folding towels.
My heart stuttered at the scent of soap.
There was no name then for the madness.

Just "hysteria," like a curse tucked under my skirt,
and doctors who told me to marry or pray.
No pills yet. No lifeboats. Just poems or the end.

So I chose the door
that closed softer than the others.
Not for drama—
but for rest, for mercy,
for the silence to finally match
the silence within me.

If I'd been born later, maybe
there'd be lithium instead of letters.
But time gave me verse,
and verse gave me wings too torn to fly.

I Am The Blueprint of My Own Quiet Ruin

The door swells in its frame each winter,
paint curling like old tongues —
still you press it open with a finger,
leaving soft dents in the wood.

Inside, the walls hum from hidden wires;
plaster sighs under your barefoot weight.
Every step — a loosened nail,
a whisper of dust sliding down beams.

The windows breathe in drafts,
their single panes shivering;
no storm need rage —
your shadow is enough to rattle them.

In the hallway, wallpaper blisters;
your sleeve grazes it,
and flakes of me snow to the floor.

The ceiling, swollen with damp,
droops lower each night you sleep here —
timbers ache above your breathing.

Downstairs, the kitchen faucet drips
like a clock without courage;
your laugh sends the pipes ringing,
and the cupboards cough up ghosts.

Upstairs, in the attic, silence nests —
you climb no ladder,
yet I feel your warmth seep into rafters
where rot waits, patient.

When you close the door behind you,
its frame leans inward, yearning.
The house is always colder after.

IN MY OWN BACKYARD

IN MY OWN BACKYARD
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
climbing stairs or books
I travel from world to world
in my own backyard

Not My Own

I am not my own
Maybe I never was
But now I’m simply alone

I’m worthless
Hiding in my mind
With no one to impress
Why can’t I be mine?

No one close but evil eyes
Praying on my downfall
No matter what, they ignore my cries
Watching as I crumble

I Broke My Own Heart

Under my covers
We talked skin to skin
Shaking and trembling 
Wondering when to begin

With one little whisper 
And one little grin
I entered heaven
While knowing I sinned

I’m not sure about you
But my soul can’t pretend
What started at hello
For me never ends

All the words for your ears
Can only live in my pen
It’s the passion that’s lacking
It’s only calling you friend

Lust is the demon
And great is its spell
I thirst for cool water
A drink from loves well

If want has a meaning 
At a table it dwells 
In a library lied fate
And in fate lies my hell 

Then I broke my own heart 
I was tricked by my mind
In the darkness came truth 
As I opened my eyes 

My heart beating fast
From the raging desire 
Though I run from you
I’m still burned by it’s fire

Any chance you were there
And woke the same way
In the light of the morning 
On this very same day

I own my own earth

I give, I strive,?
I bend, I buy,?
But I’m always the one?
Who’s hurt inside.

I listen, I care,?
I help repair,?
But I don’t often?
Get to share.

No one asks?
If I’m okay,?
They leave me alone
?To slowly decay.

But I want more—
?Where I’m not ignored.

I see the note on the wall
?I feel myself begin to fall

Am I not enough?
Am I not tough??
Is life always gonna be this rough?
No, I’m enough—?
Stronger than they see,?
I’ll hold my head high,?And just be me.

They may not notice,?
But I know my worth,?
I’m more than their silence—?I own my own earth.

my art is my own

polka dot peacock
kitty cat with blue daisies
my art is my own

MY OWN SHOE FIT

Life came in one shoe fit
Determined to live and not quit
Made the wrong choices
Managed to overtake and make right
Achieved of value in knowing how establish
No question needed with answer
Fighter of life with no surrender spirit
No need to say sorry
There is no worry
Some would say merit while others would say punk
Call it what you will
I understand myself, but do you understand yourself
My name is counted among
A man higher than I knows it
Believe what you will
Know myself better than anybody else
Baby, I thought you understood
Must understand yourself before analyzing another
Words you say draws me away
You are trying to convince me to stay
Standing on principle
Words said are reality
Don’t pity me, but pity yourself
Made up for it in life in believing who I am having a purpose
Tomorrow everlasting
Shoe fit
Don’t try to fit in it
Don’t know what I gone through in life
Standing and continuing to stand
You are no longer in dem and
My shoes have walked on
Be gone

Its my own fukcin fault

I blame it on life,

But really it's all on me.

You wouldn't believe the fu*cking mess I've made.

My Own Personal Hell

What have I created?

I look in the eyes of the devils kin everyday,
	yet it has not fazed me until that day.

This man, 
	who claims to love and care for me,
Has brought me to tears more than I can count

But you see,
	I’ve made him this way
					he claims.

I am ungrateful.
I am selfish.
I am rude.
I am a dishonorable person.

I am untrustworthy.
I am narcissistic.
I am unclean.

But you see,
	this man has sinned more than me.

This man speaks of stories that 
	are far to gruesome for anyone to hear.

I’ve made him this way,
		he claims.

Yet he speaks that he was like this
	before I was a thought.

It was as if the devil came to his hospital room and claimed him as his own.

This man, 
	who I cannot seem to understand.

Seems to not understand me as well.

What have I created.

My own Gasconade of the Swiss Alphs

Marly’s gasconade about her chalet in Switzerland was not braggadocio
 I sat for two hours keen to see it all, stunned by the dazzling clear water
Captivated by the lace topped Alps, the air was crisp and clean.
Her description of a delightful dazzling scene was not an embellishment.

Ravishing flowers beside the cool bench where I sat were vibrant
within the Alps I heard the crisp tweet of a songbird.
This was an innocent place, I was keen to see more.
This gasconade does not do this alluring scenery justice.

A ravishing, captivating, enchanting, marvelous wonderland

My Own Private Beach

“Dance with the waves, move with the sea. Let the rhythm of the water set your soul free.” — Christy Ann Martine

Sundown.  I enter the private beach through a rusty gate.
I walk towards an umbrella and sit in its shadow near my wife
Summer is warm.  Hurrah for the sea that sparkles like a  jewel .
Listen! Surface waves flutter and chase each other toward the beach. 
I walk to the sandy edge mesmerised, listening to the sea’s melodious thrill.
Suddenly, I feel a push and find myself in the cool, wavy water.
I get up, mutter a curse, grab my wife. We plunge into the salty sea, kissing.


Placed 1

I was born with dreams, not my own, but woven like a spider's web into my blood

I was born with dreams, not my own, but woven like a spider's web into my blood,
by ancestors who left this world without fulfilling their desires,
they pass down ambition like an heirloom of old silverware, polished with memories,
caressed by the dust of decades, yet too precious to be left to fade away.
Each night, I feel them breathing at the nape of my neck, whispering like an ancient wind:
"Do not waste what we could not become, do not let the dreams fade into oblivion".
But I wonder, what happens if I want nothing of this at all?
What happens if true freedom means letting dreams lie untended,
renouncing the burden of inherited ambitions, carving my own path through the labyrinth,
where the shadows of the past cannot touch my light, living a life unchained,
becoming a shooting star in the sky of my own freedom, a constellation of choices?
Perhaps, in the silence of the nights, I will find the answer in the echo of my unheard desires,
in the quiet between heartbeats that dream of something else, of a universe of possibilities,
where the courage to be nothing but myself becomes the true magic of existence.

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