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Best Poems Written by Ryan Archer

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

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

Words

The words that cling to our hearts, 
unspoken,
the ones that betray 
and leave you broken.
You hold them close, 
but then you find
that the words you need are undefined.

It’s hard to find something that makes you feel
that life truly matters, 
that love can be real.
I used to have exactly that. 
I threw it all away.

I was happy with what I had, 

then led myself astray.

I wanted it back so badly. 
I just needed the right word,
one that could say I’m sorry, 
that my judgment had been blurred.
Words can describe so much, 
but actions mean more.

I know that now. 
It’s a truth 

I can’t ignore.

There’s still so much to say, 
and so much left to do,
and everything I’m doing now 
is all for you,

so you can be happy again,
and we can finally live
the life we always talked about, 

the one I wanted to give.

It’s not too late. 
Please, 

just take your time.
We can be together 
forever, 

like partners in crime.
Now I don’t know what to think. 
I just want one last chance,
the one we talked about. 

May I have this last dance?

There are still so many words clinging to our hearts, 
unspoken.
I don’t want them to betray us.
I don’t want them to leave us broken.

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

The Light In the Dark

Moonlight on the water, Its like the light in the dark, that's pretty much exactly what it is, there's no metaphor here, but there is a Spark, it lights up into more, it shines and it glistens, the darkness is overwhelming, but at least it listens, it can envelop you, maybe even develop you, but there's always that light that shines through, that one thing in life that everyone is waiting for, its something that you just can't ignore, it will come from the dark and you will finally see, that when you least expect it, you will be set free, its something you just cant fight, I'm talking about moonlight on the water, right?

Where am i?

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

Sitting and Writing

Sitting and writing can be so fun, i may not be very good, but I'm not stopping till I'm done, this may not have proper poetic form, but if you know me I'm not exactly in the norm, i could care less, sitting and writing relieves so much stress, i could sit here and talk about my life, and you wouldn't even know, all the pain and the tears, it just doesn't show, i could try to explain, but why?, i could talk of all the anger, fear, regret, and sadness, but i don't want to cry, I'm tired of bringing people down, I'm trying to get up, and I'm trying to say, that everyone has had that day, that day to be happy about, that day to look back on, the times that you smiled and the times that are gone, the times that you can still have, you just have to see, that you are a lot like me, we sit and we wait each day, for the song that our hearts will soon play, of laughter, love and tears, we just want something to wash away all our fears, to have it close and see so deep, to finally know why, we don't get much sleep, we can laugh we can smile, we can run that extra mile, we can wait and we can stare, but is that really fair? is anything? if one of us stands and puts up a fist? when there's people that cant have any of this? such high hopes such high praise, i guess some people are just locked in a phase?, i wish people were more accepting, i wish people would help, but all they can really do is let out a cold hateful yelp, some people sit there and all they can do is judge, through harsh words and insults, they wont make me budge, because remember, sitting and writing can be so fun, i may not be very good, but I'm not stopping till I'm done.

You should try it sometime.

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

A Lot To Say

I have a lot to say, 
I just don't speak.
To others, my voice is strong, 
but to me, 
it feels weak...

I have a lot to say, 
but I have to bite my cheek.
There's a person to become, 
I've yet to reach my peak.

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

God Complex

Life is a complex without a god.
Feel too much, risk being wrong.
Sit in silence, agree, just nod.
We wish it didn't take that long.
Feel like a slave, get smacked with a rod.
Sit down, believe that you're strong. 
We all need a break from lifes daily fraud.
Please stay seated and sing your hearts song.
I'll be here, I'll listen, I'll applaud.
Wake up to the sound of a life changing gong. 

Reality rarely 
really rallies 
a real rapture or a ripple.

Condescending criminals 
cornering creative cons 
causes us to cripple.

We're never as strong as we think.
We need a reminder 
from a soul 
not on the brink 

I'm not so sure what is at stake. 
Sleep is overrated.

Am I even awake?

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

Your Narrative Needs an Audience

Filled with empty words and fake promises,
I sit still within the story that was written.

I believed the story you wrote for us,
because I wanted the ending to be...
different this time.

That was my part.
I stayed too long inside a burning house 
that you kept calling our home.

Every single time, 
you picked up the pen.

Every single time, 
I became your new blank page.

You rewrote every memory I had of myself
until I started turning every page in your favor.

You called it healing.
You called it honesty.
You called it patience.
You called it love.

You needed a villain,
so you dressed me in shadow
and called it our story.

You handed strangers a carefully curated 
version of me
that sounded the cleanest 
from your mouth.

I used to lie beside you all night, 
wide awake,
while you slept so peacefully 
next to the damage.

I wondered who would believe you.

I wondered if I should defend myself, 
explain myself...
though I was never allowed.

Or if I should correct the shape
of the knife in your hand.

With a smile, 
you called it a mirror.

I almost spent the rest of my life
arguing with what was written 
inside a book 
I was never even allowed
to help write.

But truth does not need a crowd to clap for it.

Truth does not dress itself in pretty little bows
and beg the room to choose a side.

So keep me as the villain
if your story cannot stand straight 
without my name,
bent crooked inside it.

Keep repeating yourself until the echoes sound like proof.

The people who saw it up close already know.

They saw the pattern.
They saw the performance.
They saw what you called love 
when no one else was watching.

I am done shrinking 
so you can look innocent.

I am done providing my blood 
as ink for a book
that you never planned to read honestly.

You promised chapters 
you never intended to write. 

You built tomorrow out of fog 
and asked me to call it our future. 

The villain in that story 
sleeps just fine
knowing exactly who they are.

And more importantly, 
who they are not.

I am not the final chapter 
you wrote to excuse the rest.

I am not the proof 
that your hands were clean.

I am not the silence you mistook for guilt, 
or the shame 
you left at my door.

I was the witness.
I was the one who remembered.
I was the one who kept reading after every page kept changing.

Your narrative needs a stage 
and an audience willing to listen.

Mine just needs silence 
behind a locked door.

Because the future I thought we could have together
was only a trailing thought. 

An elusive idea.

An unfinished book left open in a burning house
neither of us lives in anymore.

When every page of that book
is filled with empty words 
and fake promises,

when the book lies alone 
in the ashes of what we once called home,

a question stands among its remains.

Tell me...

When the crowd stops clapping 
and the air goes still.

When the room empties 
and the lights go out.

When what was written 
becomes illegible.

Who finishes writing it, 
if it was never meant to be complete?

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

Never Again

I give up...


I give up on being someone’s everything
while becoming nothing to myself.

I give up on offering my throat
to people who only know how to bite.

I give up on pouring into someone
who never learned how to pour back.

I give up on what I mistook for love.

I give up...


I give up on empty words
spoken beautifully
and lived carelessly.

I give up on proving I am worthy
while being dismissed in the middle of my suffering.

I give up on mistaking promises
for proof they would stay.

I give up on pretty words
dressed up like change.

I give up...


I give up on people who become everything
they swore they were not.

I give up on “I’m not like your exes”
when the ending looks exactly the same.

I give up on excusing harm
because someone else is hurting.

I give up on loving who they could be
instead of who they actually are.

I give up...


I give up on being the emotional hospital
for someone who never learned how to sit in one.

I give up on becoming a place
where people leave their pain.

I give up on being the therapist,
the caretaker,
the anchor,
the servant,
the bandage,
the house,
or the stand-in parent.

I give up on becoming the villain
whenever their story needs one.

I give up...


I give up on being someone’s proof
that true love exists.

I give up on being shown why they never found it.

I give up on being left at my lowest
after carrying someone through theirs.

I give up on being told I deserve the world
by someone who would not offer me peace.

I give up on shrinking
just to keep someone else comfortable.

I give up on hanging the moon
for someone who would not light a candle for me.

I give up...


"Never Again."
Not for anyone.

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

Moonlight in a Blender

I poured moonlight                   
into a blender                  
                   
because I wanted to know                   
what beauty tasted like                  
after it had been broken down.                  

I pressed the button.                  
                   
The night screamed                   
through twelve stainless-steel teeth.                  
                   
Stars struck the glass                   
like loose gravel.                  
                   
The moon folded in on itself,                   
soft and pale,                  
                   
until there was nothing left        
but silver-red pulp.                  
                   
I could not swallow                  
because it was thick.                  
                   
It clung to the roof of my mouth                   

like a memory                  

that had forgotten how to leave.                  
                   
I coughed up constellations.                  
They landed in the sink still blinking.                  
                   
The instructions said to add water,                  
                   
but I had already used all of mine                  
just                  
                  
trying to cry right.                  
                   
So I added grief instead.      
A handful of names.                  
                
Two cups of silence.                 
One photograph      
    
with the faces scratched out.                  
                   
Blend until smooth.    
It never became smooth.                  
                   
There were bones in it.      
Tiny ones.                  
                   
Soft enough to chew,                   
    
but still shaped like every version of me      
I thought I had digested.                  
                
So I drank it anyway.                   
    
Some things are easier to survive    
when you make them part of your body.                  
    
But some things     
are not.                  
                   
By morning,                    
the moon was gone.                  
                   
The blender was full of teeth.                  
                   
And something inside my stomach                   
was still growing.                  
    
I was not hungry.    
    
So why    
was it?

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

Is This Happy?

Today,
nothing terrible happened.

Suspicious.

I waited for the plot twist,
but the sun just sat there,
warm and stupid,

like it loved me.

How does one be happy?

Does it look like
not being snappy?

What is being glad
supposed to look like?

A little less mad?
A little less sad?

What does it look like
to be joyful?

Nothing rhymes with joyful.

That’s not helpful.

Maybe happiness
doesn’t need
to look like anything.

Maybe it doesn’t need
confetti,
a punchline,
or proof.

Maybe it just sits there,
warm and stupid,

until you stop
asking questions.

I didn’t.

It stayed anyway.

Details | Ryan Archer Poem

This is Riddle

What do you do
when you’re riddled with riddles,
swallowed whole
right down the middle?

Music blares,
but it’s not me.
’Twas a toot or two

from a fiddle.

What do you do
when your riddles get riddled?

When you’re all alone
and you fiddle your diddle.
Nothing comes out
but a little

piddle.

Compulsively arranged
and out of control,

thought after thought
has swallowed me whole.

Riddled with feelings,
I pick at my mind,
looking for answers
that no one can find.

Can you connect the dots?

I’m trying to justify
whatever still rots.

Riddled with riddles,
discarded

like an afterthought.

Something’s not right here.
Something became

a knot.

Best Poems Written by Ryan Archer

Words

The Light In the Dark

Sitting and Writing

A Lot To Say

God Complex

Your Narrative Needs an Audience

Never Again

Moonlight in a Blender

Is This Happy?

This is Riddle

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