Poetry
- Details
- Written by: grunfruaorshell
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 1812
Staring up and counting the slipping bits of my mind
that now seem to dance and flirt with the ceiling cracks,
I breathe deeply the meaning of words
such fickle little things
especially when not spoken in truth
but through the dirty towel of self preservation.
- Details
- Written by: gemontanez
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 1856
"Wonder ever," said the feather,
which off the ostrich flew,
"if arbitrary is this very crazy world--ACHOO!"
And with his sneeze he ended
his titanic train of thought,
and caught the breeze
and blew astray
(the feather's fickle anyway).
- Details
- Written by: michaelmiller.ic
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 2493
They'll love me for my ambition,
Even when my indecision
Begets indifference.
Heading the resistance,
Inspiration paints pictures
Of that limitless Eden.
Luminous credence
Enlightening every heathen
With lies to believe in.
He reveals my freedom
Receding in the horizon,
(The end. My zion.)
But that bygone field of dreams
Has been cut down by streams of ink.
- Details
- Written by: Vangoman/ Dan Van Fleet
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 1564
We met in the pub one night - our eyes crashing
Mine dark horny brown yours light romantic blue
Your tongue made itself at home in my mouth
At first I thought you were just passing through
But then I noticed something else came about
Wet promises on glossy lips pursued
Something way past being lonely
Something way past being lusty or lewd
- Details
- Written by: ugwerks
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 2860
It's not love,
at least not yet.
It has neither the depth
nor patina of true love,
but its promise.
Smitten: it is all giddiness,
nerves at edge
and uncertain
expectation.
- Details
- Written by: Raven
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 1752
From the centre, the colour is gone
Fire and appeal fading
The darkness consumes
Seemingly
But there is much more, we do not see
Beyond the lines and degrees
At the centre is the divide, the colour is gone
But all is the same
As the apparition draws out your eyes
And the waves rise; as they do at sea
But the edges, they do not move
- Details
- Written by: Vangoman/ Dan Van Fleet
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 1847
It is a rose
In the middle
Surrounded by bent pillows
In the background
Plays the cello
In a lifetime harmony
*
It is the shading
Of a sparrows
And the cooing
In the willows
Songs sang and carols
Worn words warming me
- Details
- Written by: michaelmiller.ic
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 2848
She drips decadence.
I relish it;
Queen's richness drenched in
Forbidden desire,
Stifles beneath elegant attire.
Her skin begs for long conversation,
That elated mental sensation.
Betwixt her breasts there is a rumble;
Her quivering lips are bound to stumble...
A delicate line from mine tongue,
And racing thoughts have no place to run.
She is mine.
- Details
- Written by: wickedwahine_69
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 1834
Pssshhhhht….
Fucking ignite!
Boom!!!
Flames burn my inner cranium,
Forcing me to spit fire,
Blow smoke out my nostrils,
Scorching hot,
Blistering my words,
Ugly.
- Details
- Written by: Knjaz Chernozmejsky
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 2237
Imposture of sunshine
lets go the curtain revealing an exhibition.
A dance honouring times of apparitions,
with festivities of death and wine...
The living and dead,
with the colourful suite,
valsing away in lead
together prepare their bed.
Read more: Festivities of death and wine
- Details
- Written by: nickpear
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 1603
Sleeps in a white night gown until morning
Comes and down the blue staircase she strides.
Everything silent and the tall servants slowly
Fold limbs and bow midsections.
She touches everything she passes,
Caressing cold fingers for a second gently.
No want for princely courtship only
Red hot kings can thaw her frost.
But how her favor fades, that maids
Would sweep her off their doorsteps.
But when she’s gone it’s not for good
Court jesters call her back.
- Details
- Written by: Vangoman/ Dan Van Fleet
- Category: Poetry
- Hits: 2882
Marooned alone in its red
The red rose, rose up from the dead
Cut below its neck and head
Plucked and stuck in fake dirt beds
.
The cut gleaming in intricate glass
From lower gardens without a vase
Delivered from the poor to first class
Waiting behind doors for open mass
