PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

In the water

I met the one I wished to be.

As I watched her walk away,

swaying like- like-

like I read everything to find you in the pages

but they have just stolen my words.

Like I stand here as the moon rises.

Like I’ve run out of time to watch her walk away.

I shut myself in again.

In the water

I met the one I wished to be.

I keep telling myself

she is not perfect but

she has battled the ache on her shoulders

and come back stronger.

She makes you look twice.

She is all of me and none of me.

She says she will teach me the world-

the parts of it she knows.

I want to listen.

How many words

We say and write

To unfold our souls

To whom we love

But what it means

Doesn’t work right

Missing the goals

And raising doubts above

Sometimes, I realize how different I am.

A shape that doesn't fit into any one particular place

Odd man out

When I look back on how versatile I've always been

Lots of different cliques, not a singular type of friend

Expending everything I have to be someone people want to talk to

But for what?

What am I searching for?

I can identify so many beautiful things that I have

In real life

A short few people who actually love me, for me

When I need them, they come through

In depth long conversation

Or just a simple cup of coffee because they're near

These are tried and true relationships

Sometimes I realize how different I am.

The tallest tree in the forest, towering above those who directly surround her

Or the tiniest grain of sand, undifferentiated, lost in an endless desert

So much the same, but uniquely separate in perspective

Nothing better, nothing worse

Just different...

If I had the choice to be somene else, in another place, another position

I wouldn't think twice before turning it down

I realize this isolation is an opportunity to turn myself around

I was once lost, and once again I will be found

I know I won't find myself in the struggle of another

So, I'll stop attempting to drown myself in the company of others

The silence, the absence, the willingness to be with me

The effort, The choice, The solace

It's become my sole necessity

Step by step I take to see the skies,

Not understanding what my goal is,

Seeking, digging, searching for something more than all I have,

With pain I turn my head around,

Fearing, crying, sobbing to see myself where I once was,

Step by step I take in this deep fog,

It's better now, but the shadow of the past decides to follow,

Causing hell in mind and heart,

Who or what could help me now?

Step by step I take, to see a light,

Grabbing on to it for every second,

With hope that flames of hell will stop,

and an empty heart of mine one day will be enlightened,

but until that day, I deserve this suffer as a payment for my past.

Tomorrow will be better!

What happens when your tired of being used
Tired of writing sad songs and singing the blues
Friends ? Not friends at all
The same snakes you take to the mall
Everyday faces seem so predictable
Their only goal, is to ruin things unfixable
But you standing strong, taking all you can take
Backed up in a corner with a shell that can't break
And your lost, with no sense of direction
Just wanting to feel some type of love and affection
Cringing for words, craving for the truth
Looking beyond all disguises for who is here for you
Knowing what is right and doing what is wrong
Confused by the words they say so strong
Young wild nights turn in to unbreakable habits
Looking back to the past saying shit happens
Do words hurt ? Do they mean what they say ?
Will they give you the answer or show you the way ?
The truth is always left unsaid
But you will know who was real
Only when your dead

A man sits with letters and numbers at his feet
In deep contemplation of how to proceed.
Logic persistent, the written word escapes him.
Left with quantity and calculation.
He finds it exhausting and chooses to daydream,
Drawing funny lines in the sand - by hand.
Mouths filled with teeth and fiery intelligence
Orbit about and spout to him relevance;
But try as he may, he finds them so boring -
They continue spilling their values on to the ground.
He remembers as a child how they sounded so shrill,
Filling mind and body with their pressures and dread.
Intentions were noble, methods were flawed;
Still they cannot seem to reach him.
He'd rather craft the dirt than trade his time for theirs;
Such voices laced with fine contempt.
Admiring his work that now devours the Earth,
He doesn't see the sense in their chatter.

So they've borne another artist,
Doomed to filth and peddling scribe.
Dust beneath nails, colors in his hair;
Altering and fashioning and generating nothing.
Spawn of the moonshine, constantly tilted -
Swine of the herb vine, messy and stilted.
The making of bull shit will get you nowhere,
But maybe you're happy just being wasted.

A man sits so stoic, enjoying the air;
Indulgent in quiet, grateful for stillness.
A trifle bit hungry he reaches for something,
And finds he's yet to earn it.
He smiles, so sadly, and yet absolute,
Only to continue his scribbles.