OUR ORIGINAL POETRY: Share It Here

@Annie Haha, if only all bar fights went like this

Darkness...

Deep within us...

It consumes...

Melting through the goodness, it tears... gashes... shreds...

And rips the joy away from our feeble grasps

Fear...

Even deeper...

It destroys...

It shatters the walls of our carefully constructed safe havens...

And leaves us in a pit of despair

Pain...

Deeper still...

It's excruciating...

It pierces through our happiness... our laughter... our blissful ecstasy...

And won't stop until we beg for death

Hope...

The deepest...

It shines light into the darkness...

It shows how small our fear really are...

And makes the pain more bearable...

Hope keeps our hearts alive

@mandy123966

Keep the hope embraced

keep the spark alive

your heart will yet find

the love to survive

@mandy123966, this poem has so many powerful aspects. The repeated structure with the single word at the beginning of each -- and then the final stanza ties is all together so amazingly. And the message is BEAUTIFUL.

@Annie

Thank you so much!! That means a lot to me!!

noone has a clue how you feel but you

You cant unlove something even if it dose not make sense

You will never be able to unlearn things that you have learned

You will never be able to forget things people hve done

there aways forgive , but theres never forget

You cant be anybodyesle but who you are

we all bleed the same color but that dosnt mena were the smae inside

we have doubts and fears alike sure, but we all go through diffrent emotuons, and we will never be able to change our dna

@pureatheart25

There's a way to forgive but not to forget

a wonderful line

@2genpoet

Thanks I know right, I mean people just expec t you to forget what they have done to you but how can you do it when you have that memory logged inside ypour brain , I do forgive becuase im classy like that but no sir will I forget my pain I tell people all the time but they laugh in my face but hey what helps them slee[p at night I guess lol, Im going to follow you today.

A little beacon of hope

In these oh so long fields of dark gray
defying nature, a single lone flower bloomed
Bright yellow petals caught my tired eye
I wonder, is its final time also nigh?

In this field of death and despair
the flower bravely continued existing
What is this beautiful miracle of life
and how much longer can it truly survive?

In a time where the world is slowly ending
here grows a little beacon of hope
If my precious family were alive to witness this
would they trust their eyes and bask in tranquil bliss?

In my quest for something worth living
what I found was perfect in its imperfections
Shall I leave this world peacefully and move onto the next
or will I keep on living a life so incredibly complex?

@Cheeney Awesome!

@heartfulMusic18 Thank you so much!

@Cheeney

awesome poem

@pureatheart25 Thank you so much!

Fear in uncertainty

Not a way of living.

Death is not a cause

But rather a reason -

For change. An opportunity.

Always there..

When uneeded.

When you need it.

-Ano ni Muse-

(personal contact information deleted by forum mentor Annie)

@AnoNiMuse

How do i edit this post?

@AnoNiMuse, to edit your post, you can click on my name in this post and send me a message and tell me what changes you want.

(Anyone who wants to make a change in his/her post, feel free to contact me. It helps if you provide me with the date of your post, so I can find it!)

@Annie

March 3

I just need a backspace on the line... Always there.. Coz the word there is on the next line.. It should be Always there..

I am a pen. Yes, your pen that you managed to forget about over the years among the many others you picked up free at a hotel or borrowed from a neighbor. And I sit here inhabiting this dark, crammed drawer along with all the other stuff that has occasional use to you. I, a pen, your pen, sit in this dark, crammed drawer awaiting for the day that is the reasoning behind my existence: a sketch on a napkin when your bored, quick phone number or even the occasional grocery list. And as I sit in this dark, crammed drawer, I have faith that this day, the day of my destiny, the vain of my existence will come about but hasn't at least not in a while. As I sit in this dark, crammed drawer, I lose faith that I will ever be given my born right: the right to feel the grasp of someone's hand against my base and the smooth, slick surface of a piece of paper. This may not sound too exciting, but I am a pen, your pen, and this is all I desire in my life and all I can ask for, since I am a pen, your pen. Finally like a bear coming out of an endless hibernation after an endless winter, I see the dawn of a new beginning. Out of the the crack of this dark, crammed drawer that I inhabit, I see you, your wonderful hand calling me back to life, the very thing that I yearned to see. Maybe it was out of lost hope, maybe as a last resort but somehow, still counts well at least to me being a pen, your pen. You quickly grab me out of frustration but give out a sign as you pull off my cap revealing my tip, the very tip that was never given the opportunity to see the dark, crammed drawer that we have inhabited for as long as time could say. You place me on that smooth, slick paper, and I feel a feeling that feels so familiar yet so strange. Just as you're about to write reason to my existence, you notice that I spew nothing, not a single drop of ink, for over the time that could not be kept in that dark, crammed drawer, my creative well ran dry. And you have to constantly scratch my head on that smooth, slick paper until I have the will to live again. And just as the moment began, it was over, and I a pen, your pen, was shoved right back into that dark, crammed drawer. Little did I know this was the beginning to a worser faith than the last. I lay there as a pen, your pen, and the cycle begins again. I have hope or what's left of it that you as my owner, the carry outer of my born right, will remember me in this dark, crammed drawer and summon me back to life. Unfortunately I never see the day of this come at least, not as I a pen, your pen, as you once remembered me. I wake up and fall asleep in this same dark, crammed drawer everyday, every hour of every week and have nothing to look forward to, for I now know that you were never truly going to come back, and I lose all hope. This torture of feeling unwanted, unloved and unneeded never got easier. And eventually, I completely lose all my will to live as a pen, your pen. And when the day I had longed for but lost all hope for is finally upon us, you, as my owner to my born right, are too late. You'd be surprised about how this dark,crammed drawer can do to me as your pen. It sucks you dry of your purpose and makes a pen, your pen feel as if it is as useless as you coming and summing me back to life from this dark, crammed drawer among the other junk that has absolutely no use to you at least, I now know that now as a pen that was once yours.

@Insertnamehere333, a tour de force of the imagination, a pen that senses and has feelings. A remarkable piece! (I wonder if my laptop feels this way . . .)

Why is she staring with a blank face?

Is her façade slowly fading away?

Why doesn't she laugh the same way again?

Maybe her miseries finally syncopated with her frail frame?

Why was she happy in the bus ride off her place and giggling at the lame jokes they made?

And gloomy in the bus ride home the very same day?

Why is she staring with a blank face?

Is her façade slowly fading away?

Why isn't she eating anything? I know her appetite isn't the one to effortlessly dwindle this way?

Maybe the food isn't appealing, her interest in living is slowly waning to a dull grey.

Why does she have scars on her wrists? Is she a coward that refuses to battle?

It maybe her wounds, her warrior scars to show, what she has been going through, fighting this chaos.

Why is she staring with a blank face?

Is her façade slowly fading away?

And why is she blinking the tears away?

Is it because she is having a rough day?

@proactiveDime3437, this poem evokes such sadness. My heart went out to that child.

@Annie I'm glad that I could convey what emotions I wanted to. :)

Well, it isn't about anyone in particular. Just some tweaked personal experiences. I feel writing poetry directed towards a second person more liberating when I'm too insecure to just do it with the "I".

@proactiveDime3437, for me, once the artist (you) created that child, she is real. She has an existence in our minds.

And I agree about the liberating choices that a poet has (and other writers as well), including that the author can choose the speaker and the point of view. Writing is marvelous that way, isn't it?

A hundred pretty coloured balls
High up in the air
And every time a ball falls
A heart breaks a bit somewhere

An uncoordinated klutz
I scramble to keep them mid air
And every ball a hope, a promise
Too heavy for me to bear

A helpless observer, I stay
As pretty balls drop and crack
A sorry, guilty bystander
As few million promises break

@heartfulMusic18 I love this! Nice imagery paired with great rhymes makes for good reading.

@Cheeney yey! glad you liked it.

@heartfulMusic18 This is really beautiful. :) I completely empathize with the sentiment!

@straightforwardApricot7544 thank you <3

Dear @heartfulMusic18, I really like this. I read it over and over. I felt the striving and earnestness: "I scramble to keep them mid air /
And every ball a hope, a promise / Too heavy for me to bear." And the helplessness and sorrow at the eventual inability to keep all the balls in the air. Nice poem!

@Annie Thank You. I am glad you liked it. I confess I thought it sounded a little childish, I am thrilled by the responses. :)

(Trigger Warning: self-harm)

Stacks of Books

Stacks of books on my bedside table

The hands of the clock tell me

That time is reality.

The measure of time in my mind tells me

That time is an abstract.

Stacks of books and papers

on my bedside table

A toxic scent of cigarette puffs

With ashes piling like trashes.

Epicurus, Sophocles, Camus, and Nietzsche

Wouldn't beg me to stop.

Nor would they sing

Odes of happiness

Or act tragic plays of my demise.

Stacks of books, papers,

And empty cigarette boxes

On my bedside table

The sweet bait of alcohol lingers,

Hanging like dead fishes on a net.

When will wise men of classical literature

Tell me secrets of happiness?

Empty bottles roll down the floor

Under my bedside table.

Stacks of books, papers,

Empty cigarette boxes,

And countless liquor bottles

On my bedside table

Cold metal slashing my skin,

Moving back and forth like a saw.

If Juliet chooses to die without her beloved Romeo,

Must I choose the same?

If reason, rationality, and happiness

Left me on a whim,

What am I without it?

A mess of books, torn papers,

Empty cigarette boxes,

And sharp glass shards

On the wooden floor

The smell of death hovers

Like an ominous cloud.

If our crime for killing God

Cannot be pardoned,

Will I be pardoned by

Erasing the offspring of God's mistake?

If a cursed existence in itself is faulty,

Then shouldn't I be corrected?

Then with these final lines:

I say I forgive and forget myself

In the depths of Dante's fiery Hell.

@persistentWillow4292, this poem knocked me out. I, too, have sought answers to the age-old questions from the great philosophers. You have expressed the yearning for meaning poignantly. I especially like this line, which brings alive the books near the bed: "Epicurus, Sophocles, Camus, and Nietzsche / Wouldn't beg me to stop. / Nor would they sing / Odes of happiness / Or act tragic plays of my demise."

The last two lines are also amazing to me. The well known "forgive and forget" applied to oneself! And the last line has beautiful rhythm, lovely alliteration, another allusion to a great writer, and a powerful reference to hell. "say I forgive and forget myself / In the depths of Dante's fiery Hell." Yes! that last line is superb.

@Annie Thank you!

your arms

your arms kept me safe

they caused pain too

we planned our life together

now i got it without you

the door is black now

the draft of loneliness coming through

and i got to close it

the future is waiting

the fear is holding me back

you arms will always make me feel loved

i hope someones arms help you feel loved

@pinkPal6446 **i hope someones arms help you feel loved** <3 <3

my life isnt over

you side of the bed is cold now

i lie on it and remember our life

your stuff you left i hold dear

the smile you gave me i lost

i see you everywhere i go

i changed so have you by now

but i hold our memories close to my heart

one chapter of my life all gone

time to open the book again

Dear @pinkPal6446, this poem evokes memories for us, too. The bits and pieces that a person leaves behind, they -- have a kind of weight. This line is simply beautiful and for me exemplifies the loss pervading the entire poem: "And the smile you gave me i lost."

A long lost home

Dnieper.
Boiling.

Wheat stained with blood.
Soil drenched in blood.

We watched
the womb of our mother
being smeared across the plains.

The world
failed to hear her cries and we,
we looked away.

***
Dnieper.
Boiling.

Tend to your icons with religious fervor!

Lenin's picture
or the one of St. Yuri
yellowing in the cupboard,
dusted with reverence.

For us, apparently,

oblivion is the cure.

@NataliaNectarine, I researched this incident after I read your poem. In the huge global turmoil of World War II, the horrible devastation caused by the exploded dam at Dnieper didn't get much attention, and was even subverted for public manipulation.

A damburst of this scale is an extraordinarly huge and destructive thing. I've read stories of the Johnstown flood and saw firsthand the scraped empty land left by the Sugar Creek disaster. The stories of the giant wall of water, filled with houses and people and little children -- whole communities -- is too terrible to think about. What happened at Dnieper -- how can human beings commit acts like this.

@Annie

Thank you, Annie, I'm surprised that you even managed to find material on this little known event. However, the poem was not only supposed to lamentate that tragedy, but to draw attention to what the country is experiencing during the past few years. Interestingly, the face of the disaster can change, but the mentality that caused it stays the same.