Learn more about other poetry terms
Sweep to the center of the room, My brain, the state I live in, All the junk; collect it in a pile, And sweep it out the front door.
I don't want to sound pathetic, but lately, I haven't been able to focus, and I cannot blame anyone but myself. My hands weigh me to the floor, the snapping of a will,
Reading is a release a fantasy an escape. reading is a drug that numbs the pain, stress, and thoughts. you don't have to see yourself reflected back at you
Moon-kissed windows, projecting the oblivious melancholic sight of those who shine bright, and time-blessed gravity defyers dancing to a rhythm of lust, like blooming roses in the sun.
dear distraction, don't show your shoulders don't wear low shirts no open-toed shoes don't wear tank tops don't wear skirts no sandals, that's only for dudes
Zoning out is not a pain the feeling of dancing through the rain And feeling it kiss your cheeks like it hasn’t done for weeks or maybe even years
It had been 90 days. She’d finally learned to leave it alone. It had gone from her mind, she’d resisted the images she let consume her, and the strange sensations she knew would hurt her.
I am standing at the top, But I am not looking down. I hear the world beneath my feet, But I am not looking down. Instead I see the sky above, And I am not looking down.
America America is that you? Motivated by greed and excess nothin' they say is true.
You love me,So you have told me before,Would die for me,Love me till the very end,Even marry me.So why am I still your second choice?Why do I still come second to her,
It’s a specific side. The one with frayed edges where Paper fibers are disrupted from the interwoven Pattern of rules calculated to win points. No one can see the perfect matrix.
Lately I ve been distracted Writer's block so powerful Hands crippled aching with regret Turning to my temptations My soul, my creativity dies a little each time But now Im bac..I hope
I live in the stories that I create, in the books that I read and make, the stories in my head because it is better instead. I imagine many things, many horrible things, things wonderful,
Pressing further down the road. Pressing harder on the petal. Racing my way- To the thought of you. At the end of this road, I see me coming home. Back to you. Gripping the steering wheel,
The low tones of my cello Resonating through my own chest The harmonic accompany of the orchestra Sixteenth notes and eight notes Whole notes and quarter Half notes with dots And rests in no order
Looking out my window where
The glass on my window moves back and forth The wind makes a pounding noise Every so often I have to check To see if someone is out there There never is anyone I am always alone And outside I can hear,
A river of thoughts mind sees them pass drawing gaze it cant select one
I am young. Thinking more of girls, than of grades, I take the time to ponder lips of pink-ish red, soft and moist, Glossed with the scent and color of strawberries, With curvaceous beauty, with supple sensitivity.