I Wish for hope in this day of despair
I Wish there would yet be love in the air
For the sky is dark and cloudy and gray
I Wish I could witness a happier day
The sun did not shine in the brightest of morn
For God be shunning a powerful scorn
I wish that out yonder
would be full of life
I wish that the victim had not pulled out his knife
I Wish the lord be Praise
A broken heart
Full of cracks and tears of distress
Full of open wounds
Right from the start
He would always cheat
And always lie to my face
Fate was cruel
Laughing in my face
No one saw my pain
I would always hide
I never left
Staying by his side
Knowing that everyday
I would die a little inside
I've clung to you for a year now--shackled you to me with sweet words like "I love you".
I've held you close to my heart only to muffle it's beating with my cruelty.
Why am I causing both of us agony such as this when neither of us deserve it?
You have been a true lover--a true friend when I really need it.
But yet I...I have been a cruel, hateful monster.
What have I become?
I feel like I'm standing on a road of orange and yellow,
And in the distance I can see someone waiting.
I want to see them with all my heart, I really do,
But my shyness protests, or they're too far away
So I'll just stand here forever, not daring to wave.
The leaves feel so secure, so peaceful and true
But what's down that road, I have no idea.
Maybe I'll just wait here. Maybe they'll come to me.
Funny joke, right? That never happens. Ever.
I want to love someone, but I'm so afraid.
He breathed noiselessly,
with collapsing lungs sang
not a sweet whisper but caused the world to tear.
Above us he rose, giant and gentle-like
palms open, silver lining bound
only to be shot down by frequent fliers
who couldn't care so much for the moment
as one single second captured in sepia photographs
framed on dusty bedroom walls
to the ticking of the impatient clock.
A single breath was shed into an ocean of sighs,
soon forgotten under war torn skies.
Summers are green
Winters are blue
Love is in the air
And so are you
The spring is fluttering
The Fall is starting
So is my love for you
Why can't you see my feelings for you?
Why does every beat of my heart go faster when i'm with you?
Is there a season that cannot be seen?
Is there a friendship that can never end?
What a i really to you?
Am I just your friend?
Promt-The elements/freedom(or the lack thereof)
The sun rises.
A new day dawns.
The day goes on.
The Rising sun turns
to a light upon the surface.
it pulls "them" from their slumber,
below the ground,
and below reality.
New life grows and thrives.
new hopes simmer and ignite.
New dreams are carried out and fulfilled.
The sun disappears.
New life is fading.
not established, crumble.
New dreams become old dreams.
The day halts.
The sun sets.
***But you have to keep it 5-10 lines, no more no less it makes it easier and quicker to decide who wins
how does having 5-10 lines help you decide quicker who wins? if you want limericks, the funniest one usually takes the win; you want haiku, it's tough to say which one is the one with the deepest meaning/truth. you want to know something? the size of a poem pales in comparison to its power, its impact on the reader; Shakespeare wrote many plays in iambic pentameter and they were grand, but what is he most remembered by? Why, his hundred-something sonnets! 14 lines of iambic pentameter. Same goes for William Carlos Williams; his most famous work is usually called The Red Wheelbarrow, but it doesn't have a title and guess what? it's very short BUT it impacted a lot of people because it was that powerful.
I'm going to post a poem with more than 10 lines; i hope you don't disqualify me for "breaking" a dumb rule.
Your Name: 2pound
Title: Overseeing the floor
The prompt you used: E) Real Life Experience
Text: Overseeing the floor
My dreams thrive upon calloused hands
that seep grout after the sharpest edges
of a mosaic mind go beyond all matter;
as chalk lines disappear, mortar sticks
together sanity in a checkered board
and all sense of thought is pre-destined
and organized by contrast to pattern.
Yet when I see the tiles lay down
on the floor, it breathes new life
through square pores; the surfaces
have their smoothness from a fine glaze
covering the uneven valleys of porcelain.
The tiles have their geography;
I rank them from small groves
to huge lumps that each represent
a valley, a mountain, or a vast plain
where children roam like the wind
and there is a joy frozen within them,
captivating me to believe there's a place
outside this back-breaking despair.
then I realize that I'm dreaming
for a longer break when it's over
and it's time to get back to work.
I'm a great poet
no you're not; poets don't boast that they are great unless it's in poetry like when a rapper boasts he is the best rapper in his rap music/lyrics.