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Best Poems Written by Zach Broniszewski

Below are the all-time best Zach Broniszewski poems as chosen by PoetrySoup members

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

Your Broken Handyman

Oh you broken infinity; gray in nature.

Allow me to repair you.

I am a handyman of words,

breaking down this soft-spoken language in rhythmic remedy,

yet only for you, my good neighbor.

You are the everlasting universe,

but let's not stumble over words.

The universe is infinite; yet not quite infinity,

and the great field of stars must be jealous,

for infinity, you are here on Earth.

And now I am a handyman of kisses;

easing what is broken in your essence,

yet the complexion of infinity

is all the bad or good that completes itself,

and maybe that's exactly why the universe

isn't quite adequate enough for that word.

So perhaps I should spare my lips and release you into space

where you may become one with the stars.

I am now but a broken handy man of muted words,

signing written verse with paper kisses.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

Define Creativity

Laying out the sacred miniscules,

claiming knowledge to be your 
land.

Infinity with an open eye,

truth in the palm of your hand.

Amidst rolling whispers,

distorted answers through 
translucent glass.

Ambition seized too soon,

questions uncovering far too 
fast.

Held bound by expectations,

burying tangible thoughts of a 
soul.

Contradictory in the midst of 
discovery,

creating vacancies within a 
desolate hole.

Irrelevant ideas in creative 
thought,

divinity held within the power of 
a mind.

Innovation derived from 
imagination,

yet chasing dreams already 
signed.

Fragile persistence in 
consistence,

kneeling to a blank drawn.

Endlessly approaching 
opportunity,

practicality sacrificed more than 
a player's pawn.

Embodiment of perfection,

skin forged with revelation.

Correlating wonder with 
disclosure,

upon ignorance in separation.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

Rip - Love Hurts

Tell me if it's okay for me to 
love,

for I forgot far too long ago.

Forgive me for the three words 
I've forgotten how to say,

but love is all apart of my 
almost forgotten soul.

My love always falls in the beat 
of those who share my very 
blood,

and in the final hour,

my soul was surely capturing 
her beautiful silhouette.

But what I do remember,

more than what may be,

are simply the memories that re-
kindled the flames of a 
forgotten feeling.

It was love,

more certain than ever.

I felt love again,

with the last time I'd ever hold 
her hand.

But I felt the sinister soul I was 
amidst,

And after I remembered how to 
say "I love you,"

It spoke up to make sure I 
would never forget again,

"The last thing you'll ever 
remember is the taste of her 
tears before you had to walk 
away."

Tell me if it's okay for me to 
love,

for I forgot far too long ago.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

A Beautiful Night Sky Portrayal

My last wish to the night sky;

To join your portrayal amongst the stars.

My mind meanders into your luminescent epitome,

For which I shall grow weary

before accompanying soon after the sun sets,

and summer fire flies will make their way to my delight,

capturing deliberate flashes of green

when I am not able to see it in your eyes.

But the night holds your glitter and glamour;

A rare sense of alluring companionship from so far away

which writes my final regards to the stars;

None other than a congenial "thank you,"

for the pale moon light may dim the beauty beneath your makeup,

but distance gives way to satisfaction as the fire flies return

and you are portrayed soon amongst the stars.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

Poetic Masterpiece

A pen held within my grasp

could create portrayals

of your beautiful display.

It is as if I am an artist

of which my deliberate strokes

sway with the rendering literature.

If this was the generous truth,

then I would have all of the necessary materials

that any Leonardo Da Vinci would use.

So let this paper be my canvas,

let this pen be my brush,

let this ink be my paint

and these words; my masterpiece.

How lovely and strange it is at the same time

to think that poetry could paint

my Mona Lisa in one hundred words.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

Nature's Pattern

Through the forgotten meadows 
of nature;

For the wind whom grazes on 
grass more often,

And the tears fallen from the 
sky;

A purpose out of our knowledge.

A sunset leaving at pleasant 
ease,

Before guiding our last dove to 
its nest.

A sense of harmony; nature 
plays it best.

Our minds choose to provide us 
with a guise;

Only the morning light could 
satisfy our hymns.

A synchronized melody;

At which the inferior dove will 
sing for its children.

However this sacred idea;

Another selfish cling to our souls.

The pattern made obvious; even 
to the blind,

But we'd rather scatter the 
ashes of reality;

For it is our superior nature,

that plays a lesser role in what 
nature really is;

However I'd rather burn this 
page,

and leave its ashes somewhere 
in our forgotten meadows.

Maybe then would nature be at 
peace with the next blank page 
in our arrogant minds.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

Oblivious Words

I feel wild desire
within a fingertip's touch;
Swaying gently out of grasp
like majesty in the distance consuming your desperate mind.
I see the hope
lurking amongst my own shadows;
Watching as a bright light
journeys through the unforgettable cloth
to shine on your precious skin.
I hear the twisted melodies;
Truth covered in veil
as lies conquer in the same likeness.
And so my tired ears throw trust
down the throats of those whom speak.
I smell the ink that rises from these pages,
in my wounded effort to heal.
But I taste the knots of forgotten love
dancing at the tip of my tongue,
so I picked up a pen
and wrote the words I could not say.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

An Imminent Fantasy

But it's only that drunken-immortality fairytale

embedded into your unfortunate soul and

pressed seemingly against your lips,

struck across with that fancy red gloss of her favorite coat

of which gathered every ounce of deceit

she could have possibly mustered up

out of the back of her sickening throat.

"Forever"

was merely another one of her words

that made its way into the void

sometime before reaching your such gullible ears.

Or perhaps every syllable that slipped

from the tip of that tongue

is simply another piece of the actual void,

relishing its way

into a deliberate consumption of your senses

to ease every misfortune with bitter condolences.

This was your first mistake;

She craved adequacy of every "I'm sorry"

she spoke that slithered away

and wrapped itself around your mind and soul so tightly that

you utterly forgot what the word "pain" meant

simply because she forgot that "truth"

was even a damn word.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

Sweet Verity

We wander through this cold world

forever in search of answers;

Finding ourselves tipsy in thought,

drunk on the words of a fairytale,

and wasted on the idea of Truth.

Only our bare feet will know

what it's like to travel so far

along a path parted with Despair

merely because a lie

could never be painful enough

to stop us from seeking the truth.

And as we learn more about what a question is,

we seem to learn more about what an answer isn't.

So we clench our fists in distraught

as we're forced to watch

what we thought we knew

slowly drown in rivers

and meander into oblivion.

But as much as we connect our nighttime stars

to form the words in our fairytales,

we'll always remember

how desperate we've become

to simply begin changing the truth 

we thought we wanted to hear,

because perhaps this white lie

sounded a little less bitter.

Details | Zach Broniszewski Poem

When the Wolves Howl

I've trusted my senses through 
dark nights,

sleeping my deliberate way into 
realistic dreams,

soon slipping fast enough into 
oblivion.



When the wolves howl to the 
moon,

I would've already forgotten 
what reality was,

and their growls would've lured 
me into a whole new realm.



Maybe there's a demon lurking 
somewhere in between,

forcing me to question 
my "dreams,"

though do I even dream,

or am I merely a puppet 
dancing around two realities?



For whatever answer satisfies 
my poor knowledge of 
consciousness,

I just hope that these words 
forever remain where they may 
be.

'Cause this page could soon be 
the ashes beneath the flames of 
tomorrow's reality,

but nothing will take away from 
these words for which I question,

for what I am doing now as I 
write,

am I being tempted to dream 
about reality,

or am I realistically the demon 
somewhere in between?



I believe either way that these 
words are the part of my soul 
that is awake,

and I believe there is confusion 
when my mind slips away as the 
moon rises,

but is the moon just a symbol of 
laughter,

laughing at the barking wolves,

or were the wolves apart of my 
dreams all along?