Spent spirits bend; grasping grips slip.
Bent backs bear what numb nails can never mend.
Frail fingers fail; bent bones break.
Weary wrists wrench as tired tendons twist.
Cold claws clutch sore shoulders.
Rust rasps hard; battered palms pull back.
Hammered hands hang; tired tools fall still.
A room flickers under a
nearly dead bulb.
The mattress keeps the deep impression of a body,
cold air stealing whatever heat was left as I pull back under the covers.
By morning, the shirt
has borrowed the room’s smell.
A half-filled glass leaves a ring near the door.
An unread book sits open on its face,
cracked open the width of a penny.
The window, latch half turned,
hand curled but not closed.
Morning again, to the same failing light.
I thought the room
would keep its scent for good.
Instead I find it
folded into the shirt,
into nothing.
The heavy coat drops.
The pretending stops.
You sit on the edge of the bed,
with a tired head.
We carry the dread
of the things left unsaid.
Afraid if He saw the real floor,
He’d walk out the door.
But mercy still finds us
and gently reminds us:
He doesn't look down with a frown
at the ways that we drown.
He searches the dark
for a small, broken spark.
He doesn't pull back from the grime;
He stays every time.
He buys back the years
of the wandering and tears.
The hands that first knit you in place
now fill you with grace.
No checklist to fill,
just a love that is still.
He meets you right inside the smart
and holds your whole heart.
-inspired by Psalm 139
I lay, I stare, I look around… it's black as pitch. I'm underground.
I'm chained, I'm bound, the walls are tight. Someone help me! Give me light!
Trickles of liquid run through my chains. I smell the blood as it seeps from my veins.
The air hangs heavy and smells of damp earth,
Help me, hear me, give me rebirth!
Despair; it is taking me, my blood draining low, when a rumble above me, it renews my soul
My was my tomb, bound here for certain,
But now I hear them: dig, dig, pull back the curtain.
Its close now I feel it, then the door did burst free,
Someone was sneering, yes, sneering down upon me.
He said not a word, he made no move to help me more.
He simply stuffed a rag in my mouth and with a wicked chuckle, closed the door.
Let me hear the dawn of a new creation.
Let me pull back the sky and restart time.
Eternity without me left in darkness I am free.
Let me walk on fire for your entertainment.
Let me ride the clouds like I am not chained in the basement.
Eternity calls to me while the shadows of silence crushes me.
Look for a way to break away from deliverance.
Look for a way to exit their schemes.
Under sundering lights I am washed away by the font of a new creation.
Blood washing me clean like a calf freshly born.
Elevate me away from my prison away from the eyes of untold watchers.
Set me free for a new Dawn and dismember me before my day of reckoning.
They say they are waiting for a new education.
Heavy is the truth of this new generation.
Swallowed by the ocean my fire will never go out but it will melt the waters around me.
I am turning to ashes chained to a man waiting to go home to a place only seen in my dreams.
Welcome home to the land of broken dreams.
I feel so much
yet show so little
the pounding in my chest
as i push it down
slowly
into that little jar
buried deep
into the pit of my stomach
day after day
i repeat
feel
push
forget
until one day
i push to hard
and forget how to feel at all
is this even real?
they say i have so much
friends
family
faith
hands always reaching
so why do i feel so unseen?
they call me weak
they call me dramatic
little do they know
my past was traumatic
and it still lives inside of me
no matter how many layers
i try to pull back
and peel
i can never find
what once was real
i scream
and i scream
and i scream
but nothing comes out
my screams are silent
i curl up
i shake
wanting to wake
wanting to feel
wanting to know
that i am real
Slice!
breathe
one
two
three
there
for a moment
i can finally feel
tell me
is this the only way
i remeber
that i am real?
Fluent in passions tongue
suckles like loved lost found
six drips hit tongue fast
heart races eyes look past
She's here again bare torn and happy
She smiles when my lips past gently
Warming hearts beats of joy
feeling impulse turn slowly toy
slide into my mind
pull back slow
find out why
You let me
own
Your heart
flutters
home alone
Hand gun
Shoot Theory
Bullets aim
Victims with names
Totally lame
Kill instance
Never stand nor rise
Close to the heart and hitting home
Each door becomes harder to roam
Families who mourn
Freedom that’s said, but hard to believe
Pistols and the hands behind
Wonder and yonder of hope
A world on hate that needs to think and cope
Guns are no joke
Lives cut short
When will guns finally end?
It’s up to Washington to respond in gun’s disappear
Living in Gunsmoke
Away with guns and let’s communicate
Families would love to see guns pull back
Let’s us all associate and appreciate
Guns have no place
Senseless murder a waste.
A lady as confident as the morning sun,
stretched out her left arm
to pull back the curtains.
Her home on the water's edge
overlooked the bay.
Her red and blue rowboat waited
patiently anchored a few feet away.
Her father died a prisoner in this town.
She grasps both oars to row through calm waters.
To survive, her country must move forward in peace with no guns.
Get out of the race, you can’t control the pace. You’re trying too hard
to finish first in a competition that has no composition. Forget
what has been programmed to stay, it is no longer the day. Feel relief
as you let go and pull back, move away from the attack. Smile and
watch what happens to your mind; now leave the baggage behind,
for there is no change in time. Don’t give in to temptation, it is only
manipulation. They play for the other team, so stick to your dream.
The weight you put around your neck reject, stand tall above all. We
only need to fit in from within. Look for good news and waste no time
to bad. Don’t be mad; don’t be sad, just be glad you can’t be had.
She flickers in the glass—
a glitch of golden déjà vu,
The paint strokes—bright, wild yellow,
but no warmth leak through.
I sometimes reach
for her dimming leaves
that hum against my skin then disappear.
I pull back and smell
ash, when nothing’s charred.
There were twelve petals yesterday,
now, only eleven.
I wake up and count again.
Still eleven,
or maybe
none.
(I’m not sure if I’ve woken,
even though I know
I tasted salt from my tears.)
Mother says we never got a dog.
But I remember—
the texture of his leather collar,
the white fur tickling my nose.
The sky runs—
watercolor pulled too far.
I check the time:
9:42 AM.
Then I open my eyes.
4:08.
She’s still there,
scorched
into my nightstand—
brushing mirage into my vision.
_______________
Inspired by Vincent Van Gogh's sunflowers, which I cannot seem to stop thinking about.
I used to think love was simple,
but now it feels like a tangled thread.
You pull at it, I pull back,
and we both end up with hands full of regret.
I want to ask you what’s broken,
but I’m afraid you won’t say anything.
So I sit here,
waiting for the silence to fill the space between us,
hoping you’ll fill it with something real.
We built it with soft hands,
stacked comfort upon convenience,
turned our backs to the gears turning in the dark.
Fed by silver screens and full stomachs,
we let the fire flicker,
too drunk on the warmth to notice the smoke.
They whispered,
“Don’t worry.”
And we believed them.
We traded vigilance for spectacle,
truth for something easier to swallow.
The cracks in the foundation widened,
but we called them character,
part of the charm of an aging empire.
When the first stones fell,
we laughed.
When the pillars trembled,
we turned up the music.
By the time we saw the beast,
it had already made a home in our halls.
And now, even the quiet places are waking up.
The ground hums with something unscripted,
a pulse beneath the broken roads,
a breath held too long.
Fists clench beneath dinner tables.
Voices sharpen in the night.
The forgotten, the overlooked, the ones who never raised their hands—
they are standing now.
The tide that carried us into sleep
has begun to pull back.
And in the silence left behind,
the storm begins to speak.
Chocolates... Roses...
The questions love poses...
Does he or doesn't he?
She cannot say...
Soft breezes... Moonlight...
Shooting stars take flight...
Sad uncertainties...
Valentine's Day...
Dinner... Dancing...
Such sweet romancing...
The morning sun rising
Seems so far away.
Whispers... Soft sighs...
Gazing into his eyes...
But still no "I love you's"
Valentine's Day
Why must he leave her uncertain?
Why must she hold to her dreams?
Why can't she pull back the curtains?
Could it be more than it seems?
Should she be constantly guessing?
Should she just give it away?
Should she just count all her blessings?
Hold on to hope day to day?
Morning... Sunlight...
He kissed her goodnight...
But he didn't tell her
What she wants him to say.
Candies... Flowers...
Gone like the hours
They had together,
Valentine's Day.
Escaping Death
(written in a mental hospital)
I escaped from Death today,
And I don't know what to think.
Because when Death comes round and round,
you start to feel his scent and stink.
There are others counting on me now.
I can't let them down, this I know.
So close to Death and yet, so certain-
now I'm back to life, if just a little while
to finally pull back the curtain.
Still others only see- the ghost
that walks these halls forbidden.
I don't know how to talk to them,
the horseless carriage is hidden.
My pen feels broken,
still it flies against the page once more.
Swirling new tales in ink and bone.
Yet my ghost, she still sings for home.
Morality and death
hang over me.
Still, I'm used to these things.
I try to speed up the hour I'm closest to hell.
But as I creep ever slow,
the witch rings her last bell.
You can only listen to a cd once,
then the magic is gone.
But it still lingers in your ears,
in the mind and in heaven
their voices still ring on.
Sub Categories
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.