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Best Poems Written by Zakk Mcdonald

Below are the all-time best Zakk Mcdonald poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

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Bystander

I am thankful for my mortality,
 
For if I were immortal, I would not cherish life.
 
I say this, yet my actions suggest otherwise.
 
6,211 days on this earth—
 
And I must have only seen a hundred sunsets.
 
How many more will I miss?
 
149,064 hours, all taken for granted.
 
What upsets me most is this:
 
I have done nothing.
 
536,630,400 seconds of existence,
 
And I have nothing to show for it.
 
You would think my struggles on this earth
 
Would have amounted to something.
 
But no—I have nothing.
 
How dare I sit idly by as the world shifts around me?
 
I always considered myself a man of action,
 
Yet it seems my ignorance has blinded me.
 
All this time, I was nothing but a bystander.

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my talk with god

My ego and pride look upon me with resentment.
I cry out to the sky,
"Father, everything I have done was selfless!
I helped those in need and asked for nothing in return.
I walk through life without grudge or anger,
So why do you burden me with grief?"
I stood in silence, its weight heavy on my shoulders,
until the sky opened,
and grace spoke.
"You have done well, but your heart is closed.
The ghosts of your past still weigh you down."
In defiance, I screamed,
"Father, I am not perfect!
Like every man, I am drawn to sin, yet I hold it at bay!"
"Your pride must die."
"I cast you from heaven because you were dangerous—
not for your strength, but for your desire for chaos.
You could not reside in peace.
You were my greatest poet, moving the angelic forces with your words,
bringing even the Almighty to tears.
But a snake whispered in your ear,
filling you with the hunger to control those you preached to.
And even now, that snake still lives within you.
You must kill it."
My knees struck the ground as I wept.
"Please, Father... show me how”

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Overthinking

She told me to go to bed.

Briefly, it seems like nothing,

But she isn’t a parental figure, and I am not six—

So why is a bedtime in order?

In my head, it tells me she’s bored of me,

That my weird facts have run dry,

And my personality has become an interest of the past.

My heart tells me she’s just worried about my sleeping habits—

It tells me she wants me to get enough sleep.

I don’t know what to think.

There are two conflicting mindsets:

A girlfriend who may or may not be bored,

And me—too tired to make sense of any of it.

So I sit, and I write this poem that I might show her,

In hopes my poetic skill will keep her interested in me.

Maybe it will work.

I pray like a monk that it will.

Fun fact: monks pray for six hours every morning.

Of course, you already know that—

It was that fact that made you bored of me.

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Roots

Beneath the soil, where light cannot reach,
Roots stretch out in secretive silence,
Unseen, they twist and curl,
Drawing life from the depths,
A quiet connection to the earth’s pulse.
They reach through layers of history,
Past the remnants of ages long gone,
Grasping fragments of ancient stories,
Whispering to the present through their touch.
Each root a vessel of memory,
A map of what has been,
A link between past and future,
Rooted in what remains unseen.
The ground holds them,
But they are not bound by it—
They move, shift and grow,
Pushing outward in search of sustenance,
Tasting the minerals that sustain life.
Roots do not ask for recognition;
They work in silence,
In the dark of the earth,
Drawing strength from a quiet world
Of decay and renewal,
Of life returning to itself.
In their depths, there is no rush—
Only the steady persistence of survival,
The slow, deliberate force of growth,

An unspoken patience woven in the dirt.
They resist the drought, the flood,
The disturbances above,
Drawing on an ancient resilience
That knows not of time,
But of cycles—
Of seasons that turn and turn again.
Roots are not mere anchors;
They are the very veins of life,
Lifeblood coursing through the earth,
Invisible, yet essential.
Without them, all would crumble—
No foundation to hold what rises.
They hold the tree, the flower,
They hold the earth itself,
And in their grasp, they remind us—
That growth is not always visible,
That strength is often found in the unseen,
In the quiet persistence beneath.

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They asked me

They asked me, “Why do you love her?”
As if love could be taken apart and neatly categorized,
Like items on a shopping list.
They wanted me to speak on your eyes,
The way they draw me in and keep me lost.
They wanted me to speak on your smile,
The very smile that I would kill to see.
They wanted me to speak on your voice,
The sound that quiets the pandemonium within my head.
But the truth is, I never needed a reason to love you.
It’s simply a part of me,
Etched into my skin the day I was born.
From my eyes, love isn’t about reasons or checkboxes.
It isn’t about slotting perfectly into some predefined notion.
I don’t love you because you are beautiful.
I don’t love you because you are intelligent.
I don’t love you for what you give me or how you make me feel.
I love you because you awaken something within me.
With you, I don’t just exist, I thrive.
My world isn’t dead flowers and rain clouds anymore.
It’s perfect roses and daffodils.
It’s sunlight that shines peaceful rays down on my skin.
And that’s why I love you.

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Winter

Death.
Winter is the death of all nature.
It tears down leaves,
Destroys grass,
And kills every flower.
Others may think that is sad,
But I think it is beautiful.
Just like us, nature must die,
But it must also be reborn.
The cycle repeats itself—
A never-ending loop of death and life.
Such a beauty to behold.