Tag Archives: poems

Tame

Every night, at 2 a.m. I go smoke on the balcony
Everything is frozen and foggy
I look around and the world is standing still.
Every night, at 2.05 a.m. a black dog arrives
He stops, stretches a bit, looks at me and then leaves
Between 2.05 and 2.10, I question my purpose in life
Sometimes I try to remember the past and I see the fog surrounding me
At other times, I try to be brave imagining the future
I tell myself: don’t worry, something will arrive.

At 2.10 a.m. a trolleybus passes
And that is the weirdest thing
Not my inconsistent memory
Not the shadow of the dog
Not my habit of smoking at night when it is incredibly cold and white
A trolleybus at night at 2.10 a.m. is the weirdest thing
Because there are no night trolleybuses in this city
There are only night buses
It is as if you expect a dog and you meet a wolf
It is something strange about my expectations.

As if I expect myself to be a wild horse when I am just a deer looking for shelter
Every night at the same hour
I dissolve into to landscape and I question my hopes
From the height of my balcony.
After the trolleybus passes at the same hour every cold night
I start questioning my present
I became a bit savage
I talk about poetry and art all the time and I stopped carrying about anything else
I am sometimes joyful.

And at other times stiff, grumpy and sad
I cannot bend down anymore in front of life
And from this island in the snow that became my shelter
I observe time passing
At the same hour every night.

Laura Livia Grigore Paintings and Adventures

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Almost

For a brief moment,

Entangled in your daily torture,

You almost had me

I wait for the affliction in my head to cease

But it never does

Not yet

 

False speech drowns my mind

Caught in your network of lies,

I almost believed you

It causes me such gutless maiming,

And heartless stabbing of my soul

Somehow it’s better that way

 

There are instances,

Fragile and insecure opportunities,

When I almost told you

Emotive secrets chained to my heart

You’re not ready to hear them

Nor am I to voice them

 

In times such as these

Trapped in the pain

Listening to your hollow words

Whispering my untold memories

I begin to realize,

I’ve almost had enough.

~ by Pixel-Demon (Kathryn) via DevianArt

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Longing

I’m homesick for a home that hasn’t yet been built
That has no foundation
Except for the tears that I’ve spilled
A home where my dreams start to breathe
And my wild things can dance
And twirl in the wind
And believe in romance
My heart aches for a place that’s been only a whisper
A thought I haven’t had but can clearly remember…

— Deanne Tiffany

I__m_not_with_you__but_of_you_by_Romeo_Tango

I’m Letting You Go (Again)

I’ve lost count of how many times I let you go—
and forgot how many times
you found your way
back to me.

And every time you come back,
you leave again—
and then,
I have to let you go…again.

You’re like a balloon I unleash into the sky
and somehow,
you keep floating back to the ground—
to my ground.

They say the essence of love
is to let the person you love go.
They say if you love them,
let them be.

And while I agree with this insane notion,
I must admit it’s challenging—
it’s tough
to see you go,
and it’s tough to see you come back.

I wish you would either disappear
or perchance—stay.
But having to deal with both
is like having a bullet ricochet in my soul.

And now that you’re here again,
I can already feel the loss coming.
I can foresee your back turning
and your shadow fading.

I can foresee myself
letting you go—again,
and having to deal with the reality
that I have no choice.

I have to accept the fact
that there is no reason
or logic
to our so-called love story.

I’m letting you go, again.
I’m unleashing you into the sky
one last time.

However
I wish you’d lose your way back to me.

If coming back means
I’ll have to let you go again,
perhaps it’s wiser,
better,
less painful,
if you’d just stay where you are.

I’m letting you go, again
because—
do I have a choice?

If I can’t keep you with me,
the least I can do
is let you be free,
without me.

And if you come back
and do not find me here—
know that now I’m the one
who needs to disappear,
because…
I can’t deal with letting you go,
again.

Author: Elyane Youssef

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Disobey

How to Write Bad Poetry:

Start with: SCISSORS

Scissors are very good cutting your prose

into pieces (as well as fending off mobs of real poets).

It works better if you start with

some imagery, such as simile

because if everything is there

in the first place that makes it like

a childhood craft project:

mindlessly cutting and pasting

fragments of thoughts,

searching for meaning.

(a cliché by the way works well,

And may I mention

Add some tension

through predictable rhyme

how simply (time, climb, rhyme! no wait….) sublime!

Don’t even try to count syllables, meter is forbidden. Ridiculously longer lines

Followed with

Short lines

For a

few lines

Really annoy people.

Choose whatever pet peeves

are in season, which leaves

Random

Words

Distributed

Across

The

Page

or web speak (LO and bad spelling,

Rules of Punctuation; whats that

It sounds as useful as putting

St*pid stanzas in my work.

I CALL IT FREE VERSE,

HATER!!

Don’t forget to sprinkle drama liberally:

 

Spellcheck wounds my page,

Like razor blades

cause they’re made

For cutting things ‒ duh.

I can hear my page sigh

I wish I could die

The world is black like my

black boots thigh-high

 

Create rhyme even if it’s grammatically incorrect!!!!11eleventy-1!!

Do you think they’ll notice?

Who created the rules, does anyone know?

Hi-ho, philosophical contemplations below

with my rhetorical questions!

(Is that a Pretense of Pretension?

unseen irony?! OH, NOES!

I did that last climax so fast

I forgot to close my brackets!

 

End with:

TWO FORKS.

Chances are it’ll give most people the shits (bad pun!)

but the forks don’t help with swallowing bad poetry. (and again!)

Chances are your worst critics will call it quits!

Instead, they will stick the forks into their eyes go postal, have suspended computer privileges and will only have rubber safety utensils from there on in.

That way you’ll never know how bad your poetry really was…

Shame, really.

Storage Note: Best kept bottled up in an air tight container as Bad Poetry Stinks.

(found this among my old documents)

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Rhyme

I believe the king of rhyme is Theodor Seuss Geisel otherwise known as Dr. Seuss. Reading his works is like drinking champagne or a cocktail. Because it goes smoothly the effect doesn’t hit home at first sip until much, much later when you realize how potent actually the message is. You know what they say…bubbly gets you drunk quicker.

I used to do it in high school for pocket money, writing poems, mostly for lovesick teenagers trying to woo their crushes. I find that rhyming is the easiest form of poetry. Every one can rhyme. But not everyone can rhyme meaningfully. And in such playful manner without losing the essence intent implication and substance of the point you want to come across. And that’s where Dr. Seuss genius excels. I am not a fan but I’m impressed. And I give credit where credit is due. Here’s an example:

OH, THE PLACES YOU’LL GO!

You have brains in your head.

You have feet in your shoes.

You can steer yourself

Any direction you choose.

You’re on your own. And 

you know what you know.

And YOU are the guy who’ll

decide where to go.

You’ll get mixed up,

of course, as you already know.

You’ll get mixed up with

many strange birds as you go.

So be sure when you step.

Step with care and great

tact and remember that

Life’s A Great Balancing Act.

And will you succeed?

Yes! You will, indeed!

(98 and ¾ percent guaranteed.)

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Trance

Compartmentalizing without realizing,

My feelings keep on resizing and rearranging.

Changing positions to keep my heart safe,

Changing positions to keep my pride intact,

I react to failed attempts and failed attacks

Without a hint of emotion,

As if I’m unchanged by the notion.

While the devotion grows in a safe in my mind,

It lies behind gray matter in a box of things that matter.

I placed them there so they can’t shatter.

I thought I kept them behind glass for all to see,

But really, they’re behind an opaque shape of me.

And so a feeling grows and no one knows

And I expect them to really understand who I am,

When understanding wasn’t part of my initial plan.

The plan was to play it safe,

Using safes and locks and metal boxes,

Under the pretense that they are glass.

And if anyone asks I’m always okay.

Because never okay is never okay right?

When the feelings fight to resurface I’ll build more walls,

And more blocks, adding new locks.

These fortresses protect my most sacred parts.

But now in these hours of honesty and humanity…

I’m just dying to break down the walls,

And give someone all of me…

(found poetry)

__Untold_Stories__

Grainy

I feel like a fish out of water, a bird in the sea

But in the mirror is a girl who looks just like me

She goes through each day like she did before

Suddenly she just isn’t content anymore.

 

Each day is so fake, words are so hollow

She takes all this in, but it’s hard to swallow

Who is she, this girl that I see?

We look so alike, but how can this be?

 

I’m a horse in the city, a dog in a cage

A little girl in a body that’s three times my age

That’s not me in the mirror, no not at all

This girl hangs her head low, I held mine up tall.

 

How did I get so out of place

I want to look in the mirror and see my real face.

I want to hold my head high, I want to see;

There’s a girl looking back, but… she isn’t me.

 

(from a stranger I don’t recall the name)

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Spicy

goodbye was my freaking words I said to you

and now here you’re back for round two

you ask what more do I want from life

well… I can guarantee it’s not to be your wife!

you know what? I so don’t want to hear you cry anymore!

 

I don’t understand how you can be so in love with me when I’m just life’s wh*re

shut up! I so do not f**kin care

shut up! It’s your fault, you weren’t even there

you want me to lie and say I love you?

f*ck off dude coz we’re through!

~found poetry

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Traditional

I do believe that I am suffering from a mild case of slight peculiarity
This I do find greatly distressing.
Indeed, far from being vaguely odd,
It merely tars me with the same characteristics as that of the mundane multitude,
Whom are the normality.

A greater insult I could not possibly fathom.
Do not, I beg you, take this as an offence.
It’s merely that I had always reveled in the delightful assurance that I was what they call, “unique”, “individual, “abnormal”.

But to learn that this solid truth which I once held so dear is no more than a fallacy?
That is an incredible blow!
How can I ever again look down on the popular masses?
How can I ever again look the truly strange in the eye?
Is there even a faint glimmer of hope?

Alas, my last resort.
I shall endeavour to be what people refer to as
“dull”, “boring” “ordinary”
Yet this prospect fills me with much intense excitement!

Oh, and it is a struggle to contain!
However, contain it I must. So, as not to shatter the illusion;
The thin veil that separates me from the sheeps of the world.

Please welcome the incredible,
The amazing,
The most utterly wonderful,
Brand spanking new,
Conventional me!

~ found treasure

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What Does A Caterpillar Think

Is happening to the world when

He lies down in his cocoon

And everything is dark

And everything still

And his body starts to change?

Does his whole body ache?

So much so that he thinks his

World is ending?

Does he think this is the end?

Does he think his body is falling

Apart?

He must feel his world crumbling

Chaos

Darkness

Change.

Does he know he is growing

Wings so he can fly above

It all

And soar with the wind?

Does he know he is growing legs

And he is growing the most beautiful artwork for wings

So he will be able to lift himself

Off the ground

He once was stuck to?

Probably not.

When your life is filled with darkness

And your body starts to ache,

Your world is unrecognizable—

Remember the caterpillar

Who curls up thinking that this his final darkness

And his body is failing him,

Who is only but changing

And who awakens one morning to a new life,

A new body—

A butterfly.

~Author: Liz Brenna

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Taper

A candle is lit

In a solitary, dark room

Full of

Paper bag memories

Wrinkled and strewn about

Smoke fills the air

Suffocating high hopes

And possibilities

To start anew.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Close your eyes

And hide in the darkness

Of corners that the candle

Flame barely illuminates

And slowly breathe in

The poetry of lost promises

As the candle burns

Leisurely into oblivion.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Wave goodbye

As you drift into

The darkness

Of black and white memories

That have since been lost

In the candle smoke…

~ found poetry

A woman participates in a candlelight vigil in support of women safety in Mumbai