Time | Chris Byrne
It’s lost, long gone
A blink of an eye
Spinning on a rock
Hurling through space
Yet we never stop
To take time to do
Things we wish
We did.
best poems about life
Limo Ride to Hell | Judy Moskowitz
I had a dream
A nightmare
I was blindfolded
Taken away in a limousine
Certain I was going to die
By a man in a mask
And gown to a motel room
Somewhere in the state
Of hell
Vilified by the self righteous
Burned and stoned
I am skin and bone
Heart and mind
Every feature on my face
Belongs to me
I’m not alone in this dream
I’m sharing it with you
Choice is not an
Acquired taste
It belongs to you
You Can't Plan Everything | John Patrick Robbins
She used to write down her every thought in little notebooks.
She talked about her hopes.
She spoke about dreams and plans she knew would be.
She wrote everything in pages that would be set aside and later forgotten much like our past.
I never read the words that were scribbled inside.
I was too busy inside my own words to ever worry over another’s.
She left them behind, little reminders of what was never to be.
Life is best lived not planned.
Resend | Cattail Jester
I do not know who sent
this gift
this parcel of half-perfect
truth, this vivid dream
of lies
But I’ll keep sending it
back even without a return
address, endless loop,
just to make my point.
The Hat | JD DeHart
Are you the hat
that sits decorating upon
my head? Here
I was thinking I’m
no hat person. But
we all change.
One day, goodness knows,
I may be a cane person.
Monocle person. Top hat
person.
One day I may move
outside of introversion
to a one-man show.
All because of the fabled
hat.
More at https://dehartreadingandlitresources.blogspot.com.
Swallowing the Scorpion | Cattail Jester
How the powers of division
stand up firm and resolute.
As when one young person
says I will dislike this entire
group, don’t make me read
about them.
Tender shoot, take the words
you so wish to drown out
and swim in them.
Take the word you struggle with,
stinger-first like a scorpion,
chew it down.
I know it is difficult, but question
your motive and thought.
Now, is it love that moves you,
or a poison you let grow
inside you?
Go ahead, take the antidote.
Open Letter to Self | James Diaz
Listen kid,
you will never grow into yourself.
There will be days
where your skin is on too tight
and the sound of your own voice
guts you like all those blades
you wielded against yourself at 15
and love will always feel like something you don’t deserve
and the truth is
just because you made it this far
doesn’t guarantee you tomorrow
but it doesn’t make it any less necessary
to fight like hell to get there
little things saved you then,
why not let them save you now.
Time to Think | Krushna Chandra Mishra
Wild in imagination and sour in thought
Bizarre in logic and boring in stress
Still aspiring for the moon
Tell me how I can serve your will.
Before you ask my best of support
Even as you know I back out never
Exercise your mind and wits to the full
And as you fight the victory shall be yours.
A La Recherche Des Choses Extraordinaires | Stan Morrison
seeking to amass only the rare
one-of-a-kind, museum-worthy
as in “better homes than yours”
shunning the average stuff
dreading the label “ordinary”
defining one’s self-esteem
a lifetime of chasing the latest
purely deserving admiration
worries over what others say
self-imposed no mercy mission
endless ennui with le dernier cri
don’t you see it matters not to me
A Walk through Time | Rajnish Mishra
A walk in this house newly rented,
Steps sure, eyes closed.
A walk in that house in my past
Old rooms, old stairs; corridors.
Old house that was home.
Old house, that is home.
This walk assured and this closure
Efface, betray that walk,
Old house, its stairs and rooms.
Betray, in a way, my city, my home, my heart.
I turn to my left or right,
Go forth or back, from mazes emerge,
As once I emerged,
From lanes-labyrinths, of my city, my home.
Live I now split in two:
In a now and a then.
Constancy and change, take turns,
They play with me, on me.
Pangs surely I feel for what I forgot, erased:
My places old, home and lanes.
Can’t bring them to life, eyes closed.
My city, my home, a memory, a phantom.
My past betrayed by present, mine own,
Or nature of man or time, or change.