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Best Poems Written by Renie Simone

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

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Falling In Love With a Writer Is a Faulty Design

Falling in Love with a Writer is a Faulty Design
We see things that other females
don’t pay a tuppence to.
Like a half-burned cigarette tail,
Your osculation of deep, dense rouge—
A secret trusted only by two.
With our own hands, we mimic time
And manipulate the world you once knew.
Falling in love with a writer is a faulty design.

To your heart, we assail
With words plunked to a tune;
In your soul, with great force, we impale.
From a love-front angle of view 
You might feel a tad misconstrued,
like a poorly mixed cocktail.
Ricochet from baseline to fault line,
But every time you pull through ‘cause you knew,
That falling in love with a writer is a broken design.

When we close our eyes and slowly inhale;
We hear the laughter of a family in an empty room
And unveil the retold, recycled tales.
Picturing why the dust rests less heavily on one broom,
And can smell the meal Ma cooked when they came home from school.
From the underworld and past the skyline,
We scour everything down to its last detail.
Falling in love with a writer is a grueling design.

To us, your eyes flourish like flowers in June
With lips– silky like cabernet wine.
And although sometimes we forget to say we love you,
Remember that falling in love with a writer can be a beautiful design.

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Undo and Redo

If I could go back,
and knew what I know,
I’d change a few things,
and shake up the flow.
I might go to class,
be where I should be,
Say and wear what I wish,
And only be me.
Ignore the ignorant,
hold dearest friends close,
Respect authority,
never stick up my nose.
Have love and compassion,
a watchful mind,
Keep ears wide open,
and always be kind.
Harbor a strong heart,
let others be shared,
Make sure I remind them,
that I always cared.
So, if I could go back,
and knew what I know,
I might change a few things,
and see where it goes.

Details | Renie Simone Poem

Lazy Toes

“I like my stomach where I can see it,”
I explain to my dinner guests, but
I’d like to see my toes, I will admit.

I’m the kind of guy who always commits
To lounging around and growing my gut –
I like my stomach where I can see it!

Maybe I should join a gym and get fit
I could run, and juice, and eat cashew nuts…
I’d like to see my toes – I will admit!

Though I really like when I get to sit
And munch all day on a dozen donuts
Because my stomach is where I can see it.

There are many things that keep me unfit
But someday, I’d like to stop; cause somewhat,
I’d like to see my toes, I will admit.

That might make you think I’m a hypocrite,
For eating junk and wanting shortcuts,
When my stomach is where I can see it…
Though I would like to see my toes, I admit.

Details | Renie Simone Poem

Love In June

She thinks he hung the moon.
A princess with her shining knight
In love, she fell, with him so soon.

As he proclaimed her beautiful, she swoons.
He stands in black; she walks in white
She thinks he hung the moon.

Pinot grigio in crystal poured by noon;
He reads to her in the yellow sunlight –
In love, she fell, with him so soon.

By night, he has her wrapped in a cocoon
Fire ablaze, she clenches his arms so tight
She thinks he hung the moon.

By morning, it’s their honeymoon
He kisses her hard with all his might
In love, she fell, with him so soon.

And then, by the end of June,
Inside her something stirs, a delight
She knows he hung the moon,
In love, she fell, strongly with him so soon.

Details | Renie Simone Poem

Self Reflection

I kept staring;
She stared in return. 
When I blinked, she blinked right back —
delayed, but twice as hard;
the same, but different. 
Stood slouched — 
almost hunched over. 
She wore the same outfit as I, 
but it didn't seem to fit her the same. 
I tucked my shirt into my trousers, 
she did the same. It looked better on me 
than it did her. 
Her hair was tangled. 
I could tell because it looked just like 
mine used to. Hers was more voluptuous than 
mine ever was. I could almost hear her speaking, 
like telepathy. But her voice sounded different, 
deeper, more pronounced —
I couldn't put a finger on where I recognized it. 
She didn't say anything in particular;
it was as if she didn't say words at all. 
The way she mumbled sounded different —
almost foreign. 
It was soothing, almost refreshing to hear, 
because somehow I understood her.
Her face was pointed like a soft mountain top.
She looked almost... 
disappointed when I noticed. Nose fairly flat — 
Mine had a small bump. Her lips were uneven, 
showing gums when she faked a smile; 
I never opened my mouth to grin, it was unbecoming. 
Her forehead was long and wide, 
big enough for two brains —
I bet she's smarter than I am.
I noticed she was tired — I was tired, too. 
My eyes are blue. Hers were grey, 
similar to the sky when it rained — 
almost like it was waiting for a rainbow.
I lifted my hand to touch hers, 
she did the same right after. I could feel 
the warmth of her hand on mine. It felt as if 
she was a long-lost sister, someone 
I hadn't seen in a long time. 
An instant connection. 
I don't remember ever meeting her, but 
it was like I knew everything about her.
We let go at the same time.
She became a stranger again.

Details | Renie Simone Poem

Puppeteer

A puppeteer, you may call it,
the master of manipulation.
All his fingers hold the knots,
to the cracks in your foundation.

Hidden by your tall, lean shadow,
he lurks behind your back;
forward, with every move you make,
warlock takes his attack.

Each digit fidgets suddenly,
and your body seems to twitch;
the hands of time stop ticking now,
trapped in by the witch.

The only sound that you can hear,
is the crying of the dead;
a mournful, sad melody,
that plays often in your head.

You think, “maybe, I’ll get a break”,
he’s tricked you into believing,
the more you do for him,
the less that you’ll be breathing.

He takes you in and sucks you up,
and you would never know,
the strings in which he has you tied,
lets him be in control.

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Canis Familiaris

In days of gray, my legs will lumber,
As time moves swiftly on, it does not break,
In my sleep, dreams will drive me wide awake
And the nightmares keep me deep in slumber.

Provoked by the simplest things, a clumber,
But saddened by the man who forsake
It’s gentle heart, of broken love, it aches,
When the raging fire inside doth cumbers!

So then! We shall fight until the very end,
With sharpened dents and needle-piercing eyes -
Dare the mingy man cast us both aside?

At war, with enduringness, we defend
Our fragmented souls as we chastise,
Until your mangy skin is ossified.

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Brown-Eyed Girl

As the sun fell,
her eyes glistened like many sunsets
filled with wonder and adventure –
two pools of never-ending light
reflecting in the movement of colors.
As the moon rose beyond the horizon,
it left her eyes twinkling like stars.

On even the coldest night,
she couldn’t see the warmth, the magic,
her eyes gave the world as she gazed upon the landscapes of life as it slowly passed her by.

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Blank Page

There’s something about empty spaces that spark
Fire in us, like one with noise cannot.
Like the calm before the storm, a wild heart
Is chaos, adventure, of battles fought.
It kills people by the hundreds, and then some;
It saves thousands from pain and despair.
All while the artist is stuck in a drum --
Like a box in a museum, they stare.
Be us animals? We don’t mean you harm!
The creator of distress suffers more,
Famished, exhausted, alone, and disarmed -
As the storm rages on beyond their door.
All that suffering, trapped in a cage, 
Caused by an artist who saw a blank page.