the answer is to just let go
the betrayal is to the past
the cocoon dangles empty
the desire outlasts the object
the effort lingers
the frustration is in how pointless the effort was
the ghost does not make itself transparent
the heart knows nothing except its own mind
the ideas are not enough
the jealousy is always there
the killing blow is sometimes the softest
the life you lead can be detoured
the moment you know cannot be taken back
the new you will try to bury the old me
the opportunity has passed
the past is inopportune
the questions all grow from why
the reality will always be contended
the sadness will ebb
the trouble is the time it might take
the ugly words cannot be erased, only discredited
the versions are never the same
the wonder is that we make it through
the x is the unknown variable
the yesterday cannot be repeated
the zenith is the point when you look down and realize you’re
no longer below
Stichwörter: poem
Poetry is one of my guilty pleasures and I want to thank you poets for providing me with beautiful words that I can devour and selfishly indulge in any time I want. ♥-Nina Jean Slack
Nina Jean SlackStichwörter: words love poetry selfish pleasure poem poets poems beautiful guilty indulge devour
Today I write,
riots with insite!
Tomorrow I read,
take the lead!
Sometimes I sleep, health to keep!
But for now I write,
and got no gripe!
Stichwörter: poetry poem poems author-quotes poetry-quotes
I listen to the rainfall,
my words wanna flow!
Droplets run down the wall,
where do they go?
Letters in the raw,
mesh together for the show!
Stichwörter: poetry poem poems author author-quotes poetry-quotes
YEN
What happens if you take a cup? Put it to your lips. A cup of desire. Of dazzling colour. Of intoxicating aroma. You can't resist. Drink. And in the bottom of the cup. There is a fish. And the fish says "You have uncovered me! Now I am condemned. To die."
What happens if you find a box? 35mm by 35mm exactly. And are curious. You open it quickly. Of course. And inside there is an eye. And the eye seems to think that the box is its exclusive property. And fixes you with a terrifying glare.
What happens if you catch a soft sound? A voice whispering in the air. Above the tree tops. And you can't quite hear what it is saying. But you have to listen. So you float up. Then you find you can't come down again. When the conversation is finished.
Stichwörter: poem prose-poetry span yen
Objects and Objectives
To contemplate LEGO. Many colours. Many shapes. Many inventive and useful shapes. Plastic. A versatile and practical substance. Symbolic of the resourcefulness of man. Oil taken from the depths of the very earth. Distillation of said raw material. Chemical processes. Pollution. Creating a product providing hours of constructive play. For children all over the world. Teaching our young. Through enjoyment. Preparing them for further resourcefulness. The progress of our kind.
A book. Many books. Proud liners of walls. Fingered. Taken out with great care. Held open. Gazed upon / into with something like awe. A medium for the recording of and communication of knowledge. From the many to the many. Down the ages. And of art. And of love. But do you hear the trees outside whispering? Do their voices haunt you? No wonder. They are calling for their brothers. Pulped. Pressed. Coated. Printed. Bound. And for their other brothers which made the shelves to hold them. And for the roof over them as well.
From the very beginning - everything at cost. A cave man, to get food, had to deal with the killing. And the bones from one death proved very useful for implementing the death of another.
Stichwörter: books progress knowledge man death poem trees killing prose-poetry bones resourcefulness lego cave-man
Time is not ours and we would not own it. It does not wound us to say so.
from the prose poem INNOCENCE
Stichwörter: time poem prose-poetry
One weekend it rained for 48 hours without stopping. The rain beat like bony fingers against the window panes. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. Fungus was growing on the walls. I polished off a bottle of gin sitting huddled over the two-bar electric fire and wrote a poem, one of the few that has lasted through the moves and the years. It is called 'Where Can I Go?'
If this is not the place where tears are understood where do I go to cry?
If this is not the place where my spirits can take wing where do I go to fly?
If this is not the place where my feelings can be heard where do I go to speak?
If this is not the place where you’ll accept me as I am where can I go to be me?
If this is not the place where I can try and learn and grow where can I go to laugh and cry?
Stichwörter: acceptance sadness poem anorexia depression cry mental-health alcoholic learn alcoholism rejection anorexic anoretic
I think maybe today a poem I hope
after breakfast I start trying
pulling it out of my own gut
mostly by force
Stichwörter: writing poem breakfast
Yes, I know," Isadora said, and then read her poem, leaning forward so Carmelita Spats would not overhear:
"I would rather eat a bowl of vampire bats
than spend an hour with Carmelita Spats."
The Baudelaires giggled and then covered their mouths so nobody would know they were laughing at Carmelita.
"That was great," Klaus said. "I like the part about the bowl of bats.
Stichwörter: absurd funny poem bats lemony-snicket a-series-of-unfortunate-events silly funny-poem silly-poem vampire-bats
« erste vorherige
Seite 44 von 50.
nächste letzte »
Data privacy
Imprint
Contact
Diese Website verwendet Cookies, um Ihnen die bestmögliche Funktionalität bieten zu können.