One day
Our descendants
Will marvel
(If a sense of wonderment endures)
At our ability
To string
Two thoughts together
No nets, no nothing!
They might puzzle over
The requirements of good grammar
And proper semiotics
Writing long hand
And keeping inked words
Collected on a single piece
Of actual paper.
“How did the old folks,”
They might ask
“…Thunk from one sentence
To the next
Without falling?”
Jumbled up
Prepositions and particles
Inofwith
Forafterto
Will seem downright scary.
One day
Our descendants
Will be horrified
At our ability
To string
Two thoughts together
While hanging from a tree
Upside down
While cats and dogs
Circled below
Getting along quite nicely.
The ratio 'round to across,
That's pi, in a one-sentence gloss.
It may not seem much,
But still, it is such
As that to all rhythm, it's boss.
Why are poems such dissapoint now days
So many simple words too many simple man
Please try harder or is this the best all you can do, this is why this world is hungry for truth
Nobody wants to really go any deeper
Simple stupid all these grave sights where all these simpletons go to rest, can someone please try to write just one sentence that will make me think does poetry even exist.
So much garbage and not enough real heart
Dont waste my time and tell me how to write
Your insecurities are killing all of us now
Again i beg you all please give me some heart
Give me something real i want to bleed
When i read i want to take a breath and know
I would take the next too after you you fool.
Enough of this paid passes into gates of shame
Your money is good here your wins are lonely
I cant suck up just for fame i got whats called real pain deep down i can destroy you and you know it so stop running just write a poem it is just that simple.
nobody pours the first drink
planning to smash a face
or throw a chair through a window
or say the one sentence
that burns down a marriage
they pour it because the day was heavy
because the mirror asked too many questions
because silence felt like a jail cell
alcohol isn’t courage
it’s a solvent
it loosens the screws
that kept the monster bolted to the floor
some men turn soft
crying over dogs they kicked years ago
some men turn poetic
talking about God and jazz and women who left
and some—
some discover there was a fist
waiting behind their ribs
all along
violence doesn’t arrive drunk
it was already renting a room
alcohol just hands it the key
the punch comes faster
than the thought
the apology comes later
if it comes at all
bars are full of mysteries
but this one’s simple:
booze doesn’t invent the devil
it just lets him talk louder
and when the lights come on
and the blood dries
everyone says the same thing—
“I didn’t know I was like that.”
yeah.
nobody ever does.
Sometimes a word is small,
just a whisper slipping out,
softer than breath,
lighter than dust
yet somehow it finds a heart
before it fades.
Sometimes a word is sharp,
a crack in the air,
a truth we tried to bury
but couldn’t keep quiet.
It cuts, yes
but only to make room
for something honest.
I’ve learned that words can catch people
when the world lets them fall.
One sentence, one moment,
and suddenly a hand appears
in the dark.
And when someone comes to me broken,
I speak gently,
trying to stitch the pieces with voice alone.
Sometimes my words fail
but sometimes
they become a bridge.
So I won’t lock my voice away.
I won’t swallow the things
that deserve to breathe.
My words are tiny flames
but flames still chase shadows
out of a room.
And maybe it’s foolish,
or wild,
or too soft for this world
but I believe it anyway:
every voice carries power.
Every word leaves a mark.
And yours,
mine,
ours
they can build,
not break.
They can change the world
one breath at a time.
trust is a hard thing to earn, and an easy thing to break
just one sentence can send the trust you had in someone shattering to pieces
the betrayed debris piercing your heart
once trust is broken it can never truly be healed
its not like a broken car or toy that can be mended
but rather more like a scrunched ball of paper
no matter how much you try to mend it
the betrayed secrets will always be written there along the tears and creases
when we are young, our teachers tell us that telling someone our problems halves them
once we are older we understand that confiding in someone can double our worries instead
trust is fragile and must be handled with care but too often it lands in the hands of someone careless
one sentence showered
honour sprouting my amour ~
eternal time paused.
“can we see your arms?”
how does one sentence effect me so deeply?
when the police asked that question
my heart plummeted in my chest
my eyes got watery
my hands got shakey
and suddenly i regretted everything that i had done
i didn’t want my grandma to see
how much i hated myself
how much i hated the body that i inhibited
and how much i hated the lines on my arms
but i raised my sleeves
she started crying
they asked questions
i don’t remember a lot from that night
not the questioning
not the ride to the hospital
not my mom sitting beside crying, asking why would i do this
i didn’t have a answer
8 year old me didn’t have an answer for why she wanted to die
just that she missed her dad
13 year old me didn’t have an answer for why she needed to die
all she said was
“i don’t know”
“im sorry.”
Three letters one word, one sentence
One idea, one ideal, one sequence
of generating generated art that even AI
cannot duplicate because I
just tried to use ChatGPT to compose
This soliloquy and please before you start, those
of you that think for me to do so is fraud-like
There’s little for me about you to like
And you see the real issue here, the problem
lies when you try to use the system
because how will you begin to describe a rose?
Is it the smell, the name, the beauty, the function? All those
are all multilayered and you can’t just slam it a name
Beautiful. Damn it's not just the same.
And that’s what I’ve been trying to tell you
Refined, elegant, intelligent, beautiful, mon Dieu
It’s not just something I could label with one word
One of those of which you’ve heard
That they eclipse the sun wherever they are
While others walk on the moon, they are the star
Like the purple gold of the bolivianita
Brilliance all colliding in the chiquitita
It’s a great an honor for me you see
That this seraph knows me
And if I was to give her a face a being
Joy, joy that’s her thing.
Ignoring those slaughters,
as if there were none.
But one of your daughters
Were always son.
Simce pre-school,
hating all girl toys,
Even though he acted like a fool,
Always was one of the boys.
Confused child,
With mess in his head.
Worthless maybe kinda wild,
Fantasising about his death.
How lovely, I want to find peace.
Honestly I don't think I can.
I wish seken would not call me "miss"
I wish I could be 'real man'
Nothing. Just ignorance.
Humanity is organisation filled with idiots.
Cause they don't let me finish one sentence.
They ask questions, but in the end they write dots.
I'm tired. I want to cry.
Im not sane, can't see no consequence.
I think would kill myself, and die.
I think I would, if I had a chance.
I would drown myself down the river,
I would feel the cold water, as it soaks my clothes.
I would feel comfortable, I wouldn't shiver,
My hair would feel easy as it floats.
What? No I'm not writing about my own suicide.
It feels like speaking to the deaf people, that are dead.
So please, step aside,
And forget everything I said.
They weren’t James and John of the Bible
These two risked Writings of Stark Libel:
The shown passion indescribable
Like The Guys’ for Tower of Babel;
James for his North-South Base Latitude,
John for his East and West’s Longitude;
Grant, then, their lone similitude…
John one might forgive some attitude
Pardonable love for solitude
While not absurd his solicitude….
At least, John showed normal gratitude
And his points would make with certitude.
James” tongue you can’t bear with fortitude;
One sentence could gather Multitude,
His voice An Unbearable Amplitude,
His face Poorest Advert for Pulchritude…
[]
i call it anger displacement
see how many s i can get in one sentence
etty it
effort is another reason
i seldo
start were i finished
There is very little humanity i tolerate
if i had a
to much effort to give it
little i hate
littler i love
not mad for seeing what's coming
we have doomed ourselves
cant hear for the jet engine high above
as it rips through the sky
I am sorry for the skies
that bountiful blue with cloud creatures astrewn- i know but sounds right
every bladed grass
every orchard paved
all the beaches have no water
just rinse the glass once more
Hope the cats and dogs take over
and reign
Take your afternoons, early eve, or dark nights, but give me the mornings.
053022PSCtest, Morning Monoku, Michelle Faulkner One sentence, 17 syllables. PS Syllable Counter
One
One letter
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One
(What To Do When There Is No Inspiration)
I open my mind to music and allow the sound waves to wash over me
then, soaking in the notes as if I were a skilled virtuoso
a master of the arts , I allow the sounds to meld and mesh in me
Lost in the ethereal feel of this peaceful moment ,
I forget about phrases and compositions and begin to focus
on the appearance of color and imagery;
When my soul feels the longing to write like the poets of old,
I rise to the occasion and allow my mind to surprise me
with the many spectrums of written possibilities ;
I inhale deeply and begin my journey home to poetry
Sometimes its one sentence, sometimes just a word
but as I string my thoughts together the music fades
and the beautiful glades of verse, magically appear before me
I give honor to my creative spirit and I give thanks to my muse;
There is no greater satisfaction on earth then being inspired
so after a long stay in the dessert, I give thanks to God
for showing me how to regress back to my original spark.
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