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Best Poems Written by Me Me

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

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Drops of Blood

Crimson rivulets, felled from a need for pain.
They forget to scream, and instead a sigh reigns.
The blade that strokes.
Each murderous thought it provokes.
An attempt to escape paled and failed.
The stains embalmed.
The blade now palmed, for the wrist it may dash.
If it may, more blood doth it dash
An idea that pain is relief, how rash.
This hurt so much, could they not ever remember to move on?
Yet to this they fall pawn.
Somehow to it they feel drawn.
Their thighs and wrists well clawn.
Now they are gone.
Out of the silence, a single sound is born.
The echoing drip of the dropping drops of stained blood.

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Do I Exist

Would it be so bad if I didn’t exist? Maybe if I didn’t exist, 
		then you could live life how you would like to?
	I don’t see why I can’t exist, You make it seem like I’m not actually 			there. You pull everyone away from me it seems. 
Why would you do that? You used to say you loved me… 
		Where did that go? I can’t see it anymore
	Certainly not in how you don’t talk to me at all, or do your best to
		alienate me. What happened to the love 
you used to feel? Nay, I don’t want you back, not after this,
		this saddens me, more than a year and a half,
	 I existed. And it has taken a single day to destroy that. I used to
		think that you would be forever; but I can see
I was wrong. It seems like you’ve pulled others away from
		me; she won’t talk to me anymore. It seems 
	like they won’t talk to me anymore; what happened?	What happened 
		to the person that wanted to be friends ever after?
I’m not sure she’s there anymore, I’m not sure that she 
		ever existed? Thank you, for what you didn’t 
	teach me; because I learned that lesson well. Thanks for listening 
		even though you won’t say thank you. Thanks
 or being there, as much as you could. Now you’ve disappeared
		and I can’t tell why. But it makes sense. What.
	Has. Happened?

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What Is Life To You: Pain

What is life to you??
What does it matter when you fall down?
What does it matter when you can’t stand back up? 
Your knees are broken, and no one wants to help you.
What then is life to you?
Why can’t you cry? 
Why can’t you cry when your tongue is tied?
Why can’t you cry when your jaw is locked?
What then is life to you?
Why can’t you stand?
Why won’t you try to swim? 
See the water is calm atop its surface;
See the underlying issue with it.
Can you see why your knees are broken?
Can you see why no one wants to help you?
You attempt to command authority;
Do your words go anywhere when you’re on your knees?
You try to control everything; how can you, with a locked jaw?
Why can’t you see that if you swim… You’ll sink…
Can’t you see that the bubble you’ve created will implode?
Why is it… Why is it that you can’t you use your illusion…
Can’t you see that anything you use it for is selfish?
Can’t you see that this is why your knees were broken?
It doesn’t quite matter why, but now you still try;
try to command authority you don’t have anymore.
Your everything will fall; a trip down an ascending escalator.
Can’t you see? This will hurt,
Will,
You, 
be ready,
when,
it happens?

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The Blade: Dull, Wise, Sharp, and Forever Heard

The stone, icy and arid
He brings it to the table, all the while a fable plays in his mind
He remembers a girl, a girl from long ago
His blade in hand, shining armor dawned,
He charges forwards, to save the girl,
He slips, falls, his heel tender, his body is ill in ability
He stands up, how can he carry on? 

His comrade tells him to carry on.
And the stone in his hand becomes the instrument, the pawn.
He slowly turns it over and over, and inspects it for scratches.
Yet he has no intention for the stone in need of patching.
He drags the blade over the stone, even amidst its plea for relief.

There in the distance is the hill, the flag to capture.
Oh how he tries, his armor’s shrill screams holding him back.
All the while his mind screams for him to attack.
There She comes, the night mature.
She hides him in her cold embrace.
Slowly he sinks, deeper and deeper.
Till yet so suddenly, none can see his face.
His face to fades, his intent for virtuous fight fleas faster and faster.

There at home, a young widow cries.
The Night Mother does not forget.
Here the blade comes to pass to the hands of another, another tries.
The Night Mother does not regret.

The stone, now whet and tasked, lay drying, the blade is well.
The man who carry it now, remember all those who fell.
He remembers all those, His Night Mother won’t let him forget.
He holds the blade: She holds him under her spell.
How can he understand enough to regret?

The Night Mother calls to the fallen of the field.
The Fallen gather up,
Gather up the Fallen swords they wield.


Where they used to lay, 
The Night Mother called the Standing to praybe vigilant.
There, the Fallen stay.
And who, who of all, could call, call the Night Mother A Tyrant?
Yet, there She lay, in her mausoleum.
Where there is Her Freedom?

What of her fallen? Sprawled and laying in the fields.
There still lay, all the tools they tried to wield.
The Fallen, how they cry out.
How ever will the Standing find Out?

Now the man with whet stone in hand, 
The sword of the Fallen on his shoulder,
The cry of the unheard echoes throughout the land.
Even the Fallen, the Fallen buried under the great eastern boulder.

How can the Standing know what the blade’s legend was? 
The Night Mother, She has not left a witness among the Standing
Yet, He Has: the blade amid the Standing.

Details | Me Me Poem

She Wasn'T, Why Was I

Little letters come to me, I see her there, from here.
Th colors, the little black dress, the lime green sneakers and hair bow.
If I had told her what I knew, I'd been in fear.
Those colors that sing out to her, talk so softly for me now.
She was adorable, yes, the dress, and her semi-curled hair.
Rarely did I think that she would pick me, simply by herself.
Little did I know, oh the eloquence of my own snare.
There she goes, she doesn't want to dance: No, that's disgusting itself.
Here she asks, talk with me, how can I refuse the beautiful request?
Ah how well she thinks, somehow I wonder how she knew.
That every night she would leave, save me, to return to her rest.
Aye, that, she knew just what to say.
How is it that she is gone now? Oh, gone...
Will emotions play us ever the pawn?

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Apathy

Such an ideal is the syndication of cynicism.
For in this indictment of others, they can do anything,
but they cannot escape the uncaring.
Such an ideal is sagaciously inept at showing.
For they walk throughout every day with the sun blinding,
but they cannot escape the heat bearing down on them.
Such an ideal is unmerited complacency.
For in this daily life, they have the cognizance,
but they can’t really understand the tumultuous sentiments.
Such an ideal is an amaranthine of disparateness.
For they feel nothing that they feel,
but can they care when simplicity’s complexity turns dialectical?

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Thieves: a Dragon, a Girl, and a Knight

Scales cut into scalene shales.
A girl kept behind a shanty veil.
Teeth to consider.
With the jaws and claws to render.
A tail for a fender.
A king will bequest the men tougher.
A simple challenge to select the best.
The one to win merely completes the quest.
Off to joruney across the land.
A donkey for a steed.
A sword in hand.
The lung quester ready to do his mighty deed.
Through the woods and over the lands.
Where mere nights become shadowy last stands.
The girl up in the keep.
Her only companion a golden fleeced sheep.
Her thoughts of a night grand.
The dragon pompously wrought defeat on band after band.
Fist over claw, and tooth over sword.
How hight the knight holds his reward.
To plunge forward.
When his blade drives through the mighty skull.
His senses will ever be dulled.
His humility dead, and his pride shown full. 
The girl from her chamber be pulled.
To her, He lulled.
His mind dredged and her body used.
A trip to the king's land.
Only to find no rings for a young knight's hand.
To him she showed endowed love.
He who cursed the beings above.
There flew a dove.
Save that it called a sound.
To the table long and round.
The knight well forgotten.
The girl's mind and heart now rotten.
The king barely clothed in cotton.
He wonders was it time well spent?
That he should pay an ungrateful rent.
The king with mind bend,
His daughter's hand now lent.
The dove calls again, the sound of matrimony.
The knight, hungered and bony.
Repayed y whom he cursed.
The girl well versed. Would be the first to tell.
Of a knight that went through he!! (>.< poetry can be dark. >.<)
Only to be thrown away. 
For him the bells of death toll and on rusted hills they roll.
How she hated this day...
He falls down and blood trickles from a small wound.
His coin purse unbound.
With the thieves it can all be found.......

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A Token: Mysterious and Drowning In Anger Pt1

How often does it come to call?
How often does the sea breeze spray?
How often will she fall?
How many times will he ask her to stay?
Then tell her that she is to leave,
How many times will she have to greave?
Will she leave him forever?

She sits in the room, it is so cold,
It is now, so much darker.
In her hand, his hateful words in bold.
On her face the pain of staying with him,
In her heart,
Her hair, how he hated it, short trim.
She thinks of her heart; she only imagines it falling apart.

He walks in, key in hand.
He walks in to ask her,
Where had she been?
He tells her to stand,
Then drops her to her knees, 
She cries out, and he lashes out at her,
What of this had she not already seen?
Her knees begin to shake, and still the scream…
Still the scream won’t come,
Yet, when she awakes, she thinks it a dream.
Then, when she looks at the picture of herself,
She remembers how she must be mum.
She remembers at time when she had health.
When she didn’t have to worry about him.
He turns through her mind, so horridly.
Yet, she still calls out to him.
And he scolds her so disapprovingly.
Can’t she do anything right?
Can’t she find new words to write?
Her guitar,
snapped strings,
Unpleasant things,
So near to her from afar.
Then, when he is dead, she says, I will be free.
How can she not worry?
How can she not, herself truly see?
How: the truly beautiful things she now will carry?
Why does she know? 
Did she have to learn; Trust is often broken?
What now will she show?
Will the next approve? 
Or will he be unreal as a mysterious token?
Yet… There she stands…
The gun and razor in her hands…
The current has not yet washed away.
He still comes back, like the tide late of midday.
There… 
The gun goes back in the drawer,
She will wonder,
Will another be able to love her?
No, she takes the razor,
the chair,
and she takes up the outside’s cold air.
She cries as she walks briskly to the water.
And in the chair she carves a message to the hater.
She sends a message to those who will find it later.
And slowly she slips into the water,
colder than the dead of night.
Yet this, this she thinks feels so right.
She swims in above her height,
There she realizes she wasn’t quite right.
Yet she can’t swim against the drowning waves.
The waves beat her down, and she can’t swim.
The current keeps dragging her back in, 
the man she didn’t want to see again.
There he is again, like the tide, out, and in.
He sets her on her bed.

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Silence Breeds Hatred

She watches the knife hit the chopping block.
The blood runs deep, a river's lake.
Nails that scratch a door with lock.
Hinted humor drips in failure's wake.
Romanticized thoughts, so hard to break.
Yet love is so hard to fake.
She keeps from screaming
As his voice is quieting,
Her mind is rioting; yet his is fried and sizzling.
A blank stare as they eat.
hatred is silence's greatest feat,
Who next will she entreat
Who then will he meet?
What burns red, is the color of silence...
Solid iron fence,
Covered in the silence, bled and bred,
Hatred rears its ferocious head.

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Love: the Deathly and Delicate

Like the sight of Dandelions at an open venerate sepulcher.
Of the ardent touch, precipitously hailing two other's semblances to erudite tacit merit.
Voracious of the petal's vocation.
Voracious of the petal, so insatiably, so securely vulnerable, does she... does she not...
Delicate, denoted as such an inane, yet so gravely a significant.