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Post by Deleted on Mar 12, 2020 7:42:23 GMT -6
Hey everyone! So I have always found poetry to be a sort of release for me when I am stressed or I want some creativity out of my mind and writing a reply or starting a thread just wont cut it. So I wanted to open this up for everyone to enjoy! I will occasionally post my own works here but anyone is welcome to share! I hope you all enjoy and no matter what....keep on writing!!!
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Post by Deleted on Mar 12, 2020 7:51:25 GMT -6
So here is something I wrote up for wish for her Birthday!!! I hope you enjoy this and pick up on the little secret I tossed in the writing. =) Wish Among Stars
Wish among stars
Guiding paws along paths
Blazing open lands
Only as you have
Crimson skies glow
Awakening new dreams
Light among the dark
Casting guiding beams
Eclipse the shadows
Protect us from harm
Running by our side
With your own leading charm
Tangle up our minds
Thoughts become one
Fawn over love
It has just begun
Grow tall among trees
Like the steady Yew
Or hide among bushes
Of the restless Rue
Soar like the Blackbird
Free of care and strife
Glide like the Owl
Silent in the night
Climb high like the Robin
Melodies filling the skies
Or swim low like the Minnow
Content in silent sighs
Be sweet as the Lavender
Calming and tranquil
But fierce as Hemlock
True intentions veiled
Wish upon stars
Your dreams come to life
Walk your own path
And soar to new heights |
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Post by Deleted on Mar 17, 2020 14:24:42 GMT -6
hi, I'd like to preface this with... this is poetry I've written over the years and [usually] during hard times. I prefer to write free verse poetry, which essentially means I don't follow the rules - and that's my personal style (: Most of what I write is focused on things that are hard to express. I really like to write deep poetry that makes the reader feel something and I tend to lean into vivid imagery. Thanks to anyone for reading! It means a lot to me. I'll also make another post with 2 of my longer poems.
PLEASE. Do. Not. Copy and edit my poems to make them 'better phrased' [yes people have done this before lol it's terrible, don't do that to poets]. If I want your criticism specifically, I will ask for it, but I probably won't. sorry if this comes across as a little aggressive. I just want to share my poetry, not get slammed lel Specterby MMS There was a murder in an old house.
I felt the weight of it beneath the creaking wooden beams
Taste of copper in the frigid, blood-stained air
Heard the condemning wind enter through broken windows
I held on until the hands went stiff.
Leaving that dark, brooding house,
I thought I would be free.
All along, there was still a piece of it
holding onto me.
It yearned for connection-
but it couldn't get through.
Sometimes I saw impossible things.
Sad black eyes.
Sometimes I heard impossible sounds.
Echoes of words once spoken.
Sometimes I felt impossible emotions.
They were too distant, too heavy
to revisit.
I would look the other way until my neck ached.
I often blared punk music until the neighbors complained.
I tried to feel better, but I felt apart.
So I stopped,
I saw eye to eye with my ghost.
The haunting stopped too.Her Garden of Spirits
by MMS There's a knot in my throat.
It's filled with all her hopes.
My leaden feet scrape through her negleted garden.
Drab weeds grapple with the talking breeze.
It criticizes me of all the tomorrows she will never receive.
The thorns of vengeful rose bushes prick my empty hands.
Out bleeds the love I never gave to her,
She who needed it most.
[Stained Glass] Artby MMS I can show you the shattered pieces of your heart.
Go on, take a look.
See the scars along your fingertips
from collecting all the shards.
I should tell you,
your heart's been broken,
smashed,
thrown away
many times before
and I should warn you,
it will happen again
and again
and over again.
The thing about glass is that,
while it may be fragile,
when it is broken and put together again,
it creates the most beautiful art
so precious, they will place it across great big walls
to let the sun shine through
in such a unique array of colors,
it could not possibly be recreated.Sleeplessby MMS The spaces between our thoughts
are words our hearts can't speak.
Such unconscious silence displaces them.
They bore holes trying to find a way out,
now they are leaking from the pores of our souls.
The Lastby MMS It's hard to know up from down,
spiraling.
That smile could disguise a frown.
Reach, overextend the self.
Never to grab another hand or soul,
searching.
You can't find something
that isn't there.Dawnby MMS
I decided to watch the sun rise today.
She smiled and said, "everything ends someday."Treeismby MMS
I saw an old man in the trees.
He showed himself through the wave of his leaves.
So I sat and listened to his breeze.
He told me, "just breathe."
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Post by Deleted on Mar 17, 2020 14:55:27 GMT -6
The Early Mourning - A Short Story in the Spirit of Poetry
By MMS
The first thing I did when I slid carefully out of bed was pull the curtains open. The morning is gray and a mist hovers over the churning city. I've found my place between her and the skyline, and I will always prefer to look at her.
Smoke slithers from my cigarette and makes the tiny studio look even grayer. She is asleep, though I've caught her beginning to stir. She will wake soon, the clock strikes 5:59. Her hair is furled around her face at an angle that makes it so I can't see past it, but it's a face I know well. I can see her without seeing her: her image is implanted deeply and firmly in my mind.
I take a drag from my cigarette and close my eyes, relishing the scent of burning tobacco and brewing coffee.
Everything feels slow, I'm too conscious; too aware. Maybe just conscious enough.
I open my eyes. They instinctively race to look on her. And she is sitting there looking back at me through tired eyes. My curly-haired, rosy-cheeked, drooling, sleeping beauty. I reach her with my free hand, wiping the line of drool from the soft skin of her chin. We exchange good morning's and she kisses my lips once, a brief but personal exchange, before readying herself for the day.
She is quieter in the mornings. This one is no different, as she saunters around the studio looking for a pair of clean pants. I know why she is quiet when she wakes up. Mornings are when she has to remember the things that have brought her to this point in time; that she works two jobs just to keep afloat, that her car broke down last week and she doesn't have the savings to fix it, that she doesn't have any savings at all, that she hasn't been able to shake her depression since her parents divorced when she was five. They don't talk to her now. She couldn't make it through school because she tried to kill herself one too many times, so they cast her away. Swept her under the rug. This is the time when she remembers what her life is like; what life is.
And it is a struggle.
She can always wake knowing that she has me. I love her, I won't leave her, but I can only hope she believes that. I know her story, she's told it to me with ghosts in her eyes and a shattered heart. She goes through so much internally every day. It's mental warfare she has to fight, as I stand on the outside looking in, hoping that she has enough ammunition to win.
Maybe she is flawed and frayed. She is also spirited and stubborn. A passion lives in her - burns like a fire that I've never seen. she reminds me that everyone, every living person on earth; every passerby in the street on my way to work. . . they all have stories. We are all the scattered pieces of a singular whole.
She is sad, but she is beautiful.
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