To You My Dear Reader
to you my dear reader
my words may appear like some exercises of thought
like some briskwalkers and joggers on the park
on early mornings
wanting to be fit for life
as they stretch their legs and use their muscles
and shake and whirl and
bend and stand and
push up and sit and
split
to you these words may not mean anything at all
something to be read
without the involvement of any feeling
sensitivity kept like a pocketed smile
buried significances
try looking at it from my viewpoint
the misery of keeping things to oneself
the ability to hide things in symbols and images
because they are too hurting
to be faced in their real forms
because they cannot be tackled
and be trampled
because in any manner of confronting it
there is only defeat
loss
surrender and even death and so you are left with nothing
but simply see them as art
ciphers, and representations, and codes
and then when i become so strong
and determined
my confidence shall unravel them
and then i shall have moved
from poetry
to prose.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Tell Me 10 Words
I have to stop saying "to be honest", it's not a real defeat
To have to stop saying "to be honest", it's not a great defeat
(No, no, no, not such a great defeat)
All these things that you don't know, it seems so much better that way
All these things that you don't know, it seems so much better that way
Can you tell me 10 words that you'd use, to describe the world
Can you tell me 10 words that you've used, to describe the world
To people, through people, never seem to know
To people, through people, never know
The more I say the more I keep confusing things, to make me feel complete
So I keep lying to be honest, it's not a real defeat
No, no, no, not such a real defeat
All these things that you don't know, it seems so much better that way
All these things that you don't know, it seems so much better that way
Can you tell me 10 words that you'd use, to describe the world
Can you tell me 10 words that you've used, to describe the world
To people, through people, never seem to know
To people, through people, never know
It's what you thought you are, it's what you thought you are
It's what you thought you are,
It's what you never thought you are, it's what you never thought you are
It's what you thought you could be if you tried much harder
All these things that you don't know, it seems so much better that way
All these things that you don't know, it seems so much better that way
All these things that you don't know, it seems so much better that way
All these things that you don't know, it seems so much better that way
song performed by by Idlewild
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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My poems is not Poetry
My Poems are not Poetry
Poetry rhythm is essential part
Communicative act of rhythms
Where words created music
An effect on the reader’s and listener
Words beginning with the same letter
And achieve a poetically effect.
My Poems has no rhythms
For the first time I don’t know
What to say and how to show.
Many words is not my style
Let me say, I like your smile
I don’t think I should like you,
Unfortunately I do.
I'm not sure now how to write
I lost my idea how, where words
Are used in away similar
Creating Music, where you find
Languages of rhymes
I write Prose but not Poetry
Using a regular rhythm
Where vast majority
Of languages spoken and written.
I try to be a barn, the muses were believed and inspire
I try to hard without success,
you already know, I guess.
Anyhow, it doesn’t matter
Usually I do not write
Things like this, I never tried,
for the first time I don’t know
what these lines should say or show.
Allegory, metaphor equated
Meaning lie outside the narrative
Acrostic phase when read together
Alliteration words same letter for poetical effect
Satire is a form of humour
Limerick is a short humorous poem.
And Honestly, I don’t regret
Things I did and words I said.
7. January 2008
poem by Mary Wismer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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World Wide Poets- Where Do We Go
where do we go when we have so much to say
and on deaf ears, my words do play.
where do we go when we are hurting inside
and the pain you can't relieve, no matter how you try.
where do you go when the words scream to be free
and no one to touch except you or me.
you know there are worldwide poetry sites
and at each one you must be strong
and willing to fight.
these words and feelings that you have locked up inside
are tired of crying and wanting to hide.
so write your words and see who will respond
and have them break your chains, your bonds.
poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Great Poetry?
How could anyone ever truly
Define great poetry?
Factors are so many that contribute
To the way each person does hear-feel-and see.
The season, the day, the very time,
Along with each readers wisdom-knowledge-and mind.
A line read one day
May deeply stir the spirit
While the very next time read
The reader simply just can't 'get-it'.
Besides, who is to judge,
And who is to decide?
Who always speaks truth,
And who pray tell has never lied?
Let the one who has never struggled with emotion and word
Cast the first critical stone,
Let the pure, perfect poet
Read and write completely all alone;
Enshrined by himself
Upon his own empty throne.
After all, it is supposed to be
A bit (or more) of myth and mystery,
A little difficult to decipher, somewhat vague,
Meant to speak, but not brag.
For Goodness sake, it's poetry.
Not prose, not essay, and certainly not the news.
It's forms are many and free,
It's thoughts different and deep,
It's direction everywhere the heart can see,
It's origin, and destination, ineffable...
But to write, one must try, or die... such is the poems strength.
So, let the creator of words create.
With wild and wonderful words to decipher and debate;
And never let the beauty of it all
In trivial criticism suffocate.
What is great poetry though you still inquire?
I should have told you from the start;
(But, then you would not have listened)
Great poetry is always, and only,
Beautiful words written truly
From, and for, the heart.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!
THEY ARE POETS TOO, You are a poet!
THOSE who misspell
And those who are still coping up
With their metaphors
The techniques
Of rhyme & beat
Those who think
They do not
Know how to
Write poetry
And those
Who fear
What to say
What to write
What the others say
About their poetry
And those that doubt
Their writing
Abilities
Their thoughts
Their feelings
Their feelings
Their feelings
Yes
Yes
Their feelings
Or those who simply
Fear that they may only
Be displeasing
And disappointing
And those whose
Sense of confidence
About this thing
This poetry
This poem thing
Those that still
Hide what they
Feel to what they
Think
Is prose
Those who think that
Their life
Is not worth
Sharing in the
The beat and
Rhyme of poetry
Behold
The mere thought
About life
About a beating heart
The pulse
The eyes that blink
The fingers fidgety
That type the words
Of feelings
Of feelings
Yes
Yes
About feelings
It is all about feelings
The genuine feelings
Of your life
You type them
Each word
To another word
A chain of words
A long chain of words
Like playing the music
To the piano keys
Like strumming
The strings of a
Flamenco guitar
A certain music
A certain beat
To the sound
Of your computer keys
Hear the beat
And the rhyme
Of your computer keys
Each word
To another word
To a chain of words
To a longer chain of words
You are running a chain of feelings
You are chasing a chain of feelings long chained in your hearts wanting to be free
To be free
To be free
Yes
Yes
You, feeling to be free to run free to be all free
Like you were scattering red rose petals to this pedestal
Like you were sprinkling waters to this garden
Like you were splashing waters in the sea
Like you were bathing playing dancing in the rain
Like you were humming a tune to a trek on a hill
Like you were making love with your beloved the whole night
Behold
A poet in you is born
Behold
You are typing
A poem
You are
Feeling
And you are
By all means
Now a poet
I hereby baptize you
With that name.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Prose-Poetry
Once prose and poetry existed side by side
Two styles of literature, each with its bound
Jealously guarded by the literati
Lest prose masquerades as poetry.
The First World War smashed all fetters,
Soldiers wrote heart-rending poetic letters
To sweethearts, friends, fathers and mothers.
Newspapers published their anguish and horrors
The literati classed them as prose
And turned up their nose
At such a new trend of mongrelised poetry;
But the public gave it name and identity
Prose-poetry began to gain respectability.
Prose-poetry is a contradiction in terms,
An oxymoron; a paradox of many forms.
When well written, words flow as though in rhyme
Thought and syntax together dance with rhythm.
Some pen few lines haphazardly,
String words together arbitrarily,
Flit between thoughts randomly,
Structure their poems casually.
They want us to see them as thinkers
In fact, they are just wearing blinkers.
If only they could see their folly
They’d stop abusing prose-poetry.
poem by Isam Hussain
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nada Mas (only the poem)
Reader, your voice is the poem
you are the words; and
nothing more.
Reader, there is no poetry
unless you speak it.
Reader, there is no sound
you must find what it has to say.
Reader, seek the thought
rising from your soul.
Reader, look all about you, up and down
no one else has come this way.
Reader, there is no other poem
only you among the words of the word; and
nothing more.
poem by Smoky Hoss
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A pathetic tale
I came across a pathetic tale
A reader friend had horrified incidence to tell
I observed she was not comfortable and feeling well
She was hunted by friend to push her in hell
She was determined but facing ordeal
She was incapable with weak mind to deal
This happens with all those who have unstable mind
They are simply lost to cunningness by becoming kind
I had few words for her to take into account
‘Don’t surrender even if pressure does mount”
Stand your ground well and dig into
You will come out and sail through
Let there be any type of cunning man
Try to prove able and stout woman
Do away with his name and surface with force
Keep no room for pain and any remorse
Show it to him you are not cheap
Face the challenge and never weep
If time comes again to act
You will be done away completely with the fact
Never surrender to blackmail game
People will employ all methods to blame
It will be severe blow when finally come
You must resist it with final blow and over come
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Back To Insomnia
back to sleeplessness
i come to you, and we talk a lot till morning
no coffee or smoke, just plain talking
and i have lots of things to share with you
my lost boyhood
so much time has been wasted on so many preparations
what father wanted what pleased mother
what made grandpa proud
and things too personal that to you i could only tell
how i wish i can go back to bed and have a nice sleep till noon
but i am simply a kind of a sleepless man wanting to talk to you
and here you are
wanting what i am and listening
too much interest in what i am saying and what i have to say
this loneliness
and guilt and
this wish for death
i could tell you like me, but how can i ever hold you
you are around me, words and words, and images and empty spaces
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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With no remorse
With no remorse
I look back with no remorse
It has left bitterness but with no force
I have overcome with strong resolve
I was well determined and equipped to solve
It breaks any spirit that seems little weak
Fails to assert and in command to speak
For self and rest of the family members
Yet no one retraces steps to surrender
I have reason to feel elated
As whole success story is beautifully related
I have tackled it with pride and honor
It was almost dreamed and sought for
I look at young grand children playing with the games
Wonder at them for availing the best of the names
Comfortably placed in heir age with nothing more to blame
I am also fully surprised how I had faced it and overcame!
Whole of the events passed off as serial show
I had lot many problems to counter and grow
It was tough time to face entire community
To stand against their attitude and prove the ability
"The fortune favors the brave" I had read it somewhere
Even passers by knew it clearly as where to dare
I was female alright but new very well that sky had no limit
It needed only right occasion to cope with and readily greet
Today I am like big tree and feel so much proud
I can right say and claim it from point of strength so loud
It need not be exaggerated but real things can be spoken off well
The world is right place to live in and experience to tell
poem by Hasmukh Amathalal
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I could have done other useful things than writing a poem
Sometimes I have regrets writing poems
Love poems, poems about virtue and heroism
Poems that explain myself, that justify
This nothingness
That fill this emptiness,
What are these but signs and metaphors of
My weaknesses,
Symbols of my hopelessness
Ciphers of my uselessness
To life’s dreams, unfulfilled, stars that I have not
Reach or even touch with the words in my lips
I could have danced, and danced so well
Sweat things out shedding sighs and skins on the floors
I could have played a role, acted my way out
Exiting through the doors of author’s characters
And feel this sense of
It was her it was him it was not me
Sometimes I feel
To be a poet is to be dumb and dead
To demand nothing but this honor
This laurel this principle
That I cannot eat that I cannot sell that I cannot
Make use of,
Useless poetry, trashy, nothing but bad breathes
Of my being
Foul and nauseating to my sense of
What I dream what I want to be
To be this great, respected man of power
One that commands rather than take orders
From someone claiming superior feathers
I have long wanted to stop but here I am again
An addict to poetry destined for rehabilitation
In distant cruel word processing centers
Just like you, here I am again, not stopping
My fingers always wanting to type the words
My mind always listening
my heart always mouthing
Words, words, words, these words
This poem
This poem is born and I am its tributary
I am this poet now without a face without a name
I am but a mouth, fingers to my hand
Always not stopping, how can I tell you why?
When I myself, do not really know. I am this poem
With an unknown author, I am this poem just written
Taking shape like a candle lighting,
Flowing from your thoughts
Taking the forms of beings unknown to us
We claim we understand we claim we can live with
You are now lost asking the way
You could have done other things than reading this poem
Precisely this is what I really feel. Do you feel it now?
Yes.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Big Or Brief Poetry......!
Big or brief, what is poetry?
Poetry is......
Creating beauty out of blemish,
Making order out of disorder,
Producing meaning out of musical words,
Creating Universal truth out of trivialities,
Arranging points out of less known facts!
Is poetry just making rhythm and rhyme
Without meaning, life, force and taste,
Without free flowing musical words,
Without words of music, beauty, fun?
Poetry is free flowing river of words
With full of images, lively and lovely,
Transporting from this world to that world
Forgetting himself and readers here!
Just end rhyme is not enough to make it so;
Internal rhymes make music in rhythm
Making all enjoy music, meaning and ideas!
Poetry is the medium to say complex things
Not possible to say in other forms of language,
Saying unknown things using known things;
It is sound, substance, message and meaning!
And many more matters to many men in the world!
poem by Ramesh T A
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poems As Diary
to know me
there is no other but this poetry
to know poetry however
please do not read
my diary
for this diary may fail the standards
of your poetry
but at any rate everyday poetry is a diary
what makes us fume like a mad cow
what makes us whistle like a satisfied lover
what makes us surrender in defeat and shout victory in triumphs
little things and big things
all summed up
in this new thing: diary as poetry
and poetry as diary.
we do not even have to rhyme
does life rhyme at all my friend?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Just Like Me
You have a stubborn disposition.
Just like me.
You are determined to accomplish.
Just like me.
You can annoy with your confidence.
And agitate with your insight.
Although you are not 'always' right...
You 'are',
Always right and committed.
And...
You say what you mean.
Just like me.
And do things with the best of your ability.
Gee...
That's just like me.
Perhaps familiarity does breed contempt.
And we see in each other what we dislike,
About each other.
Well...
All is not lost.
At least I never thought of you as horrible.
But you do provide irritating moments.
'Hey...
You took the words right out of my mouth.'
Yeah...
Unfortunately!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Shake That
Allright Crew!
I am a junglist man!
Don't try to change my plan, yeah!
Right!
Flip that coin, see what you get!
It's M.C Dave, who's on the set!
Left, right, left, right, push up the mic.
4, 3, Stand at ease, turn it in 45 degrees.
Doing it for the masses! Doing it for the crew!
Going to make you hop and skip around like a kangaroo!
Get 'em! Get 'em! When I'm on the mic, when I'm on the mic I read some rhythm,
Get 'em! Get 'em! When I'm on the mic, yeah!
Bring the beat back!
CHORUS:
Shake, shake, shake... Shake, shake, shake...
Shake your booty, shake your body.
Checkaaah checkaaah!
Shake, shake, shake... Shake, shake, shake...
Shake your booty, shake your body.
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh! Shake That!
Shake, shake, shake... Shake, shake, shake...
Shake your booty, shake your body.
Come on!
Oh shake, shake, shake. Shake, shake, shake.
Shake your booty.
Right!
We love you lots! 10 out of 10!
Select 'n' gimme that
And mix that plan
Left, right, left, right, I've got the vibe!
4, 3, come on please!
Turn it there like Killer Bees
Doing it for the masses! Doing it fast and slow!
When I'm in charge of the microphone, watch out I'm about to blow!
Get 'em! Get 'em! When I'm on the mic, when I'm on the mic I read some rhythm,
Get 'em! Get 'em! When I'm on the mic, yeah!
Time to attack!
[CHORUS]
Ah yeah! Check this out!
I never say no! to return to the floor!
You're raw!
Wanna test my crew?
You better be sure!
Ah!
Here we come!
Straight between the eyes!
Life without knowledge is death in disguise!
Shake that!
CHORUS.
ARGH!
song performed by by Scooter
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Parsing of Senility
The names go first. That’s not
uncommon, and even among those who
are younger.. psychologists say
(how discomforted this couch, Professor Freud..)
it’s sheer selfishness; we don’t want our friends
to know our other friends..
The names go first. One learns the dodges –
‘You’ll all know each other, of course…’;
names, they’re nouns; so how far will it go?
how well can I live well, when without nouns?
Spirit lives in all things; the self exists in all;
perhaps I’ll manage with this thought.
Then, what will be next to go ? (The nurse sighs
as the impatient patient cries, ‘..want..THAT…’)
Ah, there’s the clue: pronouns simply stand for names;
first person, second, third, will merge
into one selfish self – ‘want.. that! .. hungry..! fetch!
no.. not that… that… when shall see…? ’
I’ll need a patient nurse…
So in the this nameless world, where all things are as One,
what then, the next to go?
Conjunctions would be no great loss –
no ifs or buts, as Nanny said, when an all too similar
frowning plaintive child tried bargaining…
re-punctuation, editing, those shorter sentences
which editors would beg of me – yes,
‘conjunctivitis’ was my writing’s curse…
Prepositions have had a chequered history
in languages: sometimes on the end of words,
sometimes going before them with a flag;
immigrants were never very strong on them;
I’ll pretend I’m fresh from Ellis Island…
And Mediterranean and Near Eastern hands
could learn to play their part; who would spot
if adverbs, or those adjectives so dear to poetry
turned into grand, expansive gesture? ‘Such
an effusive man..’ they’d say.. maybe I’d turn
into an opera star; the words a little blurred…
And like the poet Elisabeth Bishop, I’d have to learn
how to surrender things, with joy… and read, maybe,
with ecstasy, every printed word as new, unspoken, magical…
…And the last age, lean and slippered in
those hospital pyjamas and blankets with that rough kiss
that Rupert spoke about; ruthless, toothless age,
sans words, sans lips, sans native tongue, sans…
..now, what was that word … Oh, Nurse! Nurse! …
oh damn, damn, damn.. oh yippee! .. can still curse…
poem by Michael Shepherd
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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These Things
I have this smile to hide me
And I have this cross to bear
I have your picture that still haunts me like your memory
These things have I
I have these words to lie to me
These stupid songs to share
I have these countless hours to fill the void you left me
These things have I
For all those things I've done
Let you down I apologize
But sorry's hard somehow
Seems so strange it'd be so easy now
But I've got this faith to blind me
And I've got these dreams we shared
And I have the fear that dreams are all I'll have that's
left to me
These things all these things
These things have I
These things all these things
There things have I
song performed by by Fuel
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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If You Read
If you read me
In my lines you begin
To understand what
I write about &
Perhaps what I am
That would be
So ordinary
A matter only of clarification.
If you read me, however
Carefully
in between
My lines,
and go deeper
To hidden symbols
And find some meanings
You will find
something
Else, something not
Me but sounding like
Me and you will begin to have doubts
If it is really me
Or I am just
Bluffing
Misleading you
For something else
So that you
Do not grasp me
At all,
and if you begin
to
Doubt it,
well, it could be that it was
Done on purpose
i
Wanting to achieve
A little
dramatization
Of what I am,
For some little
Thrills
Some gigs
Or gimmicks
We all love these
Tragic plays
Most of the
The time.
But sometimes,
For you to know me
I write about you,
You are
in some lines
talking about me,
and it is quite
challenging,
me finding you
to elaborate me,
and this one
would be a little bit
complicated,
You become
so confused
And even be paranoid
About this twist of
Things
Some turning points
Which may
Even be mistaken
As an identity
Crisis or a mental
Disorder,
Why do I have
To be spoken of
By another
Personality
As you or any other
Organism,
Sometimes a bird,
Or a fish,
Or even things in nature,
Like a cloud,
Or the wind, or the
Sea, or the
Sun or even the coldness
Of the night,
Where I can always
Be there in such
A hazy form
Or in opaque shapes,
And yet so essentially me
And so very like us,
And such questions as
Why
May even be answered
In that kind
Of reading,
About me
And you
And this world where we are always
In a situation.
Well I do not wish
To complicate matters more
Like this is some kind
Of a treasure hunt
With lots of signs
And symbols
And some missing links,
In a sense
I want clarity,
I need simplicity,
To drive my points clear
So that when you read
Me in short crisp lines
You grasp me directly
Like
A traffic sign
Red for stop
Green for go
And yellow for a while,
But in truth,
Things and matters and me and you
Are not that really simple
And as such
We cannot be so simplistic
And at the same time
Do justice to this and that
This you and me, this world,
But perhaps reading
Is not just that,
Not just knowing me
Or reducing me to a
Simple conclusion,
Reading me
Could simply be an enjoyment
Or a plain reading
For curiosity or
Even for just a perusal,
As I am not even
Worth reading at all,
A waste of your
Precious time,
You are busy,
But some lines may strike
You or shake you
Or develop a certain
Familiarity, of such things
Like this once happened to me
Or that I once said these lines
Or that I once thought
The same thoughts,
A sense of home
A sense of déjà vu
A sense of I am just like you
In the same situation,
That we are on the same boat
On a stormy sea, tossed
By this fate,
This commonality of failures,
And so you are
Interested for common reasons,
In a way that I search for myself,
You are also searching for
Yourself,
And once I talk of this
Loneliness, this sickness
Unto death, you ring a bell,
You are also
Feeling the same,
And we come together
Searching for the cure,
Or you at the end,
Would simply be
Wishing that we will have the same
Kind of fate,
A survival,
A victory,
A success,
A shout for joy, a shout for discovery.
But on the other hand,
that would be so
Selfish and we do not
Glorify selfishness,
as it
Is not a commendable
trait,
We humans are
humanitarian
We always care,
we always love
We always have
affection
For another, so
If you read me,
really, as a
Good natured
human being
With a soul,
You read me,
With sympathy,
You empathize
You cry in sad poem,
You laugh
In humorous ones,
You get
Glorified in glorious ones,
you
Become a part of me,
and I become a
part of you,
well,
being
One with each other,
but, I still
Doubt it,
you read,
because
You simply check whether
This poem is good,
or making some
Sense,
or this poet
makes a
Mark for good poetry,
which
To me, is nothing but
Hypocrisy,
utilitarian,
and
Too
academic.
In truth,
I write,
not wanting
To be read,
not so inviting to
Any reader,
You read me
With a risk
But if you read me,
I am telling you,
Frankly,
I do not invite you,
You came
You gate crashed
Me, and you are
Never my guest
You are simply
misinformed,
coming here,
I do not know
You and
you do not
know me, and
I will fault you
For this intrusion,
And that would be
Too arrogant
& cruel of me
telling you
to stop reading
and leave me
at once.
Well
Actually, this is it
If you read me
As you read this poem
Just read,
For no purpose,
No vested
Interest,
You read,
Because you have nothing to do
With me
And I have
Nothing to do with you
We have nothing
To do with
All these
This life
This poetry
It is
Not because
You are hunting for
Some animals,
Put them on a cage
Or kill them
For meat
Or consider the stuffed heads
The tigers and
lions and
Gazelles
as your trophies of your adventures
on a safari of life
Or marks of your
Civilized cruelty
You are here because
you just pass by
And want to read
this poem
for a while
You read
me
in passing,
I see you passing by…..
It is a matter of feeling not knowing me at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Death without purpose
death for me I must embrace,
death for me, is a OK place,
For death waits for me with open arms,
For I have dealt death,
Death is now being dealt to me,
For I thought I had a Angel,
A savior,
The person who pick me up and gave me purpose,
A love I had thought I never imagined,
Now this is gone if you could only imagine,
You had my soul, now my soul is gone,
Who am I with out you? With out my soul?
With out you making me hole,
Now death is awaiting me with a smile,
No purpose, no love, no soul,
Life and death, death and life,
they stand side by side in the end,
For now death hands me its hand,
I don’t know who I am,
So death once again offers its hand,
Such a easy offer right at hand,
For its a easy answer,
For all I feel, death does seem the sure deal,
Sorrow, pain, heart ache, purposeless, loveless,
Hate for ones self, for all the things I have done,
This sure seems the answer,
Death looks at me with a glean in his eye,
He knows I am tempted to take the easy way out,
Is that such a terrible thing to have offered?
Do be tempted to take?
What else is there now left for me to take?
What else do I have to be taken now?
If this is the choice I make,
Don’t mourn for me for its to late,
Don t show me sympathy I have to shake,
Just let me go,
I choose this, not you, not your blame
Take my soul,
It is your, once always, and forever,
When the going gets rough,
Remember what I stood for,
For I can not stand for myself,
I can not take the this feeling I have inside,
I'm lost with out you by my side.
Will I be judged for the things I have done?
The sins I have committed?
Well in the end it really doesn't matter, now does it?
Now death is waiting patiently by my side,
Now as I lye here awake with a gentle shake,
I know what it is to have death on my side,
So now I say goodbye,
Death is taking me for a ride,
poem by John Pollock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Slice Of Reality: What Is Poetry? Unedited
poetry is just a slice of reality
a tip of the iceberg
true
they are marks
points of origin
helipads of departure
boundaries
hmmmm
you felt something so strong
and then you mark it
so that you may remember it again
like some images
a subconscious talking too maybe
some monuments
you simply bury them there
even in water
yes i love the images
so that when you come back
you still remember
what was it
the simple stuffs
that u wont forget
remembering the details
so that when you are lost
yes
they must have something to say
to describe you
really?
such as
Alice had a mole on the right shoulder
she wore a red blouse
brown shoes
her hair had split ends
when we last saw her
who was this Alice?
could be you
hahaha
before you were drowned in the river
it is only when we are gone
i have a birthmark on my right arm
that they begin to ask
who was that?
what was she?
do you understand what i mean?
yes
all my poems are dog ears
i am reading my life
i know
things that i cannot forget
and i leave some words to guide me
what really happened
they always resurface
yes.
yes.
yes
yes, i know.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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