A heartbeat pulsating as living light
free from each and every limitation
I Am that dwelling in unbound delight
the source wherefrom arises creation"
Before a single name was given to the dark,
before time learned to count the stars,
a quiet held the void.
Not empty—just waiting.
Then something shifted in the cold—
a sudden warmth, a pulse,
not made of flesh or bone,
but humming like quiet lightning.
I am not the cage that holds my ribs,
nor the dust beneath my feet.
I slip past every fence we build out of fear,
spilling over the edges of what is known.
I sit inside the stillness,
unmoved by the rush of hours.
There is a stillness here that drinks from joy,
a deep, steady burning that never goes out.
From this stillness, everything begins:
the breath that moves the leaves,
the fire in the core of the earth,
the thought that becomes a world.
I am the hand that holds it all,
and the space where it floats freely.
Hug me, praise me, like me
Slap me, curse me, kill me
Destroy me so thoroughly I won’t have room left for pride
Open me up until I have nothing left to hide
Just tell me it’s love
And I’ll be your pure little dove
A holiday paradise
where the sea creates a surreal backdrop
Flooded with emerald light
The reflection makes the glow shine
This must be Mother Nature's greatest hits
Maybe a fairy tale "Robinson Crusoes luxurious life"
Breathtaking, a most unforgettable spot
to being in the right place, at the right moment
A flower stood on a hill breezy
allergic, she sometimes got sneezy
A bee heard the noise
Came and took her pure poise
and now all his friends call her easy
It’s plain, pure and simple, in July
We should all get hot, heavy and high.
Down dirty and tanned,
Get laid in the sand -
As summer and cloud nine sashay by.
They say suicide is a sin
and I want to die pure.
I want the Heaven open for me,
the absolution of my sins,
(is it hating yourself a sin?).
I want the white robe in my coffin,
the children playing,
the adults crying.
Plant tulips around my grave.
I was pure once.
I’m pure now, but
Lord knows I’ve been corrupted,
(maybe that’s why I hate my body).
Cold down, go beneath the skin,
look at my heart, my lungs.
How they move.
Still a human.
Still a being.
(If I suicide
There would be an absolution?).
Poetry
Poetry is nothing but pure poetry
What exactly is poetry?
Poetry is stories
Stories of poets
Stories of meanings and thoughts
Stories of understandings
A story of fact or fiction
A story love or hate
Sometimes, just two words can tell a story
The title and the word- "PURE- Poetry"
Poetry
Poetry is nothing but pure poetry
Poetry is exactly what?
Poets of stories
Thoughts and meanings of stories
Understandings of stories
A story of truth or false
A story of good or evil
Sometimes, just the title can tell a story
Title- "Poetry"
527.
Petition to the Pure Water of Santa Muerte
Pure Water of Santa Muerte
Bring me purity, oh bring me purity
The Purity of Great Santa Muerte
A purging gift for the whole humanity
Be my bath, Pure Water of Santa Muerte
Let me feel Thy purging embrace
Oh Pure…oh White Santa Muerte
Be with me until God I face.
Amen.
12/18/2016
(Dumarao)
*Petitions to the 8 Emblems of Santa Muerte
Taking in a breath of fresh air
AP: Honorable Mention 2026
In the midst of grace, hope, and fear
I hang myself on one and clipped to it
And hope seems the best one to veer
But hope can't be fruitful arid grace even when fear had quit
I relent on grace to ace my pace
Now I find myself traveling in my desire's grace
I lost to my ought self trying to be me
I wasn't sure if I will ever be
Until I rest not on all works forlorn
Poetry becomes an attribute of me inborn
She is the quiet dawn,
lifting shadows from the earth,
her hands, a cradle of warmth,
her voice, a shelter of song.
She is the river’s flow,
carving paths through stone,
teaching patience in silence,
guiding the lost back home.
She is the steadfast flame,
burning through the storm,
her light a beacon of hope,
her love a sacred form.
She is the unseen star,
shining through the mist,
The Chosen Warrior,
whose care none can resist.
She is the homemaker, the food-bearing goddess,
Yet through all the praise, she remains modest.
Mothers are everywhere, across the world,
in golden halls, in humble soil,
strong women united as one,
through misfortune, they still find joy.
Every living soul should honor them—
uncle, aunt, child,
and especially men.
Though we may falter, forget to be grateful,
A mother’s love remains faithful.
PURE AESTHETICISM
shattered
neurasthenia
fashionably
stylised
reluctantly
translated
with
abandoned
familiarity
implicitly
subtle
&
complex
ineffable
artificial
alternatives
of
nonchalant
effete
elaborate
teasing
ornamental
revelatory
consequence
incidental
to
genuine
impression
Pure instrumentation,
a dance for the senses.
Full pit orchestra eyes.
This sounds so cliche’..
You give me butterflies.
Pure instrumentation,
touched by a silent song.
Facing complex rhythm
you have a sweet timbre,
flashing like a prism.
Pure instrumentation,
the more the merrier.
Nuance is the turnkey
to charge an ensemble.
Each note joins seamlessly.
Pure instrumentation
arranged for all to shine,
I cannot look away.
You dangle a hard hook,
all I can do is stay.
The inhale, the exhale. It seems like way too much sometimes, the suffocating beat of my own heart, sounding off like the ticking of a doomed clock, that's taking way too long to stop. When will it end…the madness screaming from within, such violent screams taking that part of me I beg to exist. The inhale, the exhale. It tortures me, taking way too long to unwind, fragments of hope lost inside the sands of time, a grain I'm thrust upon, leading the blind, Watching the shadows trapped in the walls, taking the loss, then taking it all. Still it comes rolling back again. The inhale, the exhale. A pause between that taunts me, open my eyes just to spite me, closing the door, but only slightly. The inhale, the exhale. It's far too much for me to bare.
Oh to be loved and not lusted,
To be seen as a soul, not a body to borrow.
To have hands held with gentleness,
Not with hunger that fades tomorrow.
Oh to be known beyond the surface,
Beyond skin, beyond fleeting desire.
To be chosen in quiet moments,
Not only when hearts burn with fire.
Oh to be cherished slowly,
Like a song remembered for years.
Not a moment of passing passion,
But a love that outlives fears.
Oh to be loved and not lusted
To be valued, whole and true.
A heart held with intention,
A love that simply says: I choose you.
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.