Country Torn to City
Living in this city,
I cannot help but miss the countryside:
the rolling trees and hunting guns,
the open fields and beauty of life as was.
I am not made for the tall skyscrapers
and blinding smog that chokes my lungs.
I am not made for honking cars and lonely sidewalks
that stretch out past the view of the eye.
I miss when it was safe for bare feet to dance
across the soft grass and dark dirt.
Now you have to watch your step
for the broken grass and hot concrete white as snow.
People around me, they have forgotten
what a tall sycamore looks like
outside of pictures and movies and dreams.
Flowers are just weeds, soo
I was never good with words.
They would fall from my lips like fake stars
or Autumn leaves, and I've never managed to tell people
how much I needed them to believe in me.
I remember my childhood days
when I would sit under a cherry tree and talk,
talk about everything and anything.
(My poetry was born under that cherry tree,
under a sky that was so blue
it hurt to look.
But I did.)
In gray days I tell lies to the blank walls of my bedroom,
and they talk back - telling me stories
of cement and hands.
They are just like me - children of old ideas
that unexpectedly came true.
(My mother always told me
I was the best mistake she's ever made,
Before I Can Become A Writer by PhoenixOfWinterfell, literature
Literature
Before I Can Become A Writer
Exchange all my blood
for ink and all my dreams
for stars. Never more
speak of myself without using
metaphors, and trade my life
for one. They are the true beauty.
Walk at midnight by the roads of my homeland
and scream nonsense to the dark.
It won't be nonsense to my ears
only to the sleeping figures inside the houses,
behind the satin curtains that
hide much more than just people.
After it, find the closest stream
and drown in my own regrets
thinking they're water. Act like I'm Ophelia.
Then realize there's no stream near my house.
Find someone who is breaking
and place all the pieces of his heart together again,
using my tears and sad wi
Neither Follow, Nor Lead by msimoneaux20, literature
Literature
Neither Follow, Nor Lead
There's something bothering me
Something on my chest
I think of it when I awake
Even before I get dressed
Life can be great
But it is certainly a test
It must feel great
To be so blessed
I wouldn't know, see
But you do very well
I'm certainly no saint
I know you can tell
But I don't deserve
To dwell in this hell
I feel like I live
In a tattered cell
I've never killed before
And I'm no vandal
Yet I'm burdened with weight
More than I can handle
Force fed a big chunk
So I learned to swallow
Wasn't born a leader
But I sure don't follow
I found my own way
Thrown to the wild
They tried to bring me down
In turn I just smiled
I've mad
Let's travel the world
Across an ocean breeze
Or roam the largest plains
And scout the tallest trees
We'll climb the highest mountains
To jump into their seas
Just join me this day
And we'll put it to seize
I can't wait any longer
I'm asking you please
We can go where you want
Just hand me the keys
A metallic staccato rhythm
punctuates my morning with electronic beats
and robs me of precious sleep,
as I peek
into his den of 02 Jams.
Intense brown eyes stare down
a waterfall of coloured tiles--
visual symbols of a sound
only he can hear in his head;
his face the steely gaze of a thoroughbred
about to breach the finish line,
his arms twin pistons
pumping tunes by tinkling keys
that keep time to tapping fingertips
and I watch his gaze fluctuate
from note to note,
his focus honed and remote.
With mouth slightly open,
lips slightly moistened
by sweat glistening
on the brow of his upper lip--
transparent beads of effort suspended on
I live my life in poetry
for you are my muse--
your eyes are my couplets,
your heart an immaculate sonnet,
your lips like redolent lyrics
of a song only your voice can sing,
your hands are jingles
that tickles my laugh niches,
your kisses are a million haikus
succinct and sweet
always an unexpected twist
in every final line,
your love is a verse sublime
a ballad on an infinite loop
eternally enduring the ravages of time
with your metres and rhymes,
our life together an ode
to everything lush and beautiful
rapturous and blissful.
Every stanza I now compose
will be a paean to our lyricism
for I long abandoned prose
when I met you--
the most
The depths roll out between the stars
and we are twinkling nothings
in a sea of absence.
When the clock strikes twenty-seven
will you take me home?
I think I've been alive a
hundred years too long and I
should really like to sleep off
the dizzying spin of everything.
For now, my limited timeless lover,
just let us be eternally
intoxicated by darkness,
by the swelling expanse that
will swallow us whole through
the ebb and flow of existence.
Reality keeps getting to my head,
whispering alarms and
threatening demise.
Love, won't you hold me
tighter than my core?
And when the clock strikes twenty-seven,
will you please take me home?
I've bee
A Path Is What You Make by PhoenixOfWinterfell, literature
Literature
A Path Is What You Make
I stopped to think today
How a single second passes as fast as any special moment,
How memories fall behind
And how I never seem to dream.
Sleepless nights turn into years
And I fall back to the same routine
That never satisfy me.
There are nightmares that don't go away,
There are risks we never wish to take,
But in the end,
In the end...
We will always end up here.
We will always go through the same way
That we walked many months ago.
There is nothing like a new life,
There is nothing like a reborn.
There are only your own choices,
That will never change.
No, they'll never change...
And on the clouds you soar,
In the winds that carry yo
i was just wondering because I saw the journal, do you need any help? I mean, I am somewhat good at writing poetry (in my opinion) and if you need help running the group i could help....