Join the Neopoet online poetry workshop and community to improve as a writer, meet fellow poets, and showcase your work. Sign up, submit your poetry, and get started.

The stream (all workshops)

This is the stream - you can see all poems on Neopoet, live, as they are created.

 

7

Breathing hotly down my neck
stepping on the back of my shoes
singing a song
on what it really means, to lose
a life well lived, what does that mean?
its so suffocating, I'm not sure why
the feeling, the want, to die
is it really so wrong?
I am merely adrift, swimming through the air
why do they stare?
I know they truly don't care in the slightest
I see it behind me when I look in the mirror
whispers in my ear, that get louder and louder, shouting.
heavier on my back, clawing into my skin

Guilt

Oh, dark mirror shadow night
Take me to the reflection of shining light
Not to leave me falling from a greater height
And lift me with your up beating spirit
Tell me when life is coming to a penalty
For not too late to receive
To lead me with my own self-conscious right
Do not crucify me to death
For my wrongdoing is a learning experience
With shed of tears and guilt of regret
Allow my remorse to set free
Forgive me for pardon’s sake
I promise that I must never
walk through the same path

Lens

Each of us contain a lens.
It is not one on which we have any direction over. Neither can we select a subject and view its image.

You see this is a inward looking lens.
A searching magnifying;
no at times, a terrifying lens.
All because it searches out.

It inspects.
It is a means of exposure.
It seek you out,
to expire The Self.
And often it reflects itself.

You can see the imaginings sent from this searching lens, are less often a picture of the triumphant you.
Here is an animated view.

HEREFORD ART GALLERY

Peacock in rusty steel circles Knife angel cast with iron wings Hereford Bull Iron glancing A winged mermaid with wings A wooden owl with snipped vertical wings Twins reading a book as siblings The face misshapen in hiding The ostrich garden girl pecking The flight of a girl skipping Bright red dragon webbed feet Walking the dead holding up lanterns The Scottish thistle just spouting The standing turning around looking Japanese warrior guarding The man in the universe star gazing The Sculpted head flower to spring Peacock in rusty garden circles Knife angel cast with fairy wings Hereford bu

Hopeful Dreams

Last night
I was half asleep
singing my new song like poem

O Maria Maria Maria
I was doggy tired
@83 plus old age
could not come out of my cage
O what a midnight rage
my dreams kept me engaged

I can't recall
those words which come
if at all like a rainbow
from a distant horizon
blind eyes cant see

Will one day a Milton I be
deaf as Beethoven was they say
composed musical poems all day
was maestro of his own way

Little Noises

There are sounds we never hear
Like spiders walking across a mirror
Or ants moving tons of sand
And bees that on flowers land
A million sounds that are so near
Yet never reach the human ear!

Doubt

Shall I forget you
as doubt does faith
Picking through our pieces
in fistfuls of frayed ends
and bitter days
Will you replace me
as night does day
Certain that where we stood
is where we'll stay
The ghosts that held me
when you met me
have me still
They overflow the vessel
and need a forge
What fantasy couldn't make
we cannot afford

January 2023 Challenge: my Freestyle.

Like a phoenix
whirling on the face
of the sun,
I burn and flicker
in varied waves.

With a final ignition
the respiriting begins,
I well out sparks
and in the embers
a wondrous explosion,
love, takes my breath
and me away
 
I walk on pieces
of jiggered heart
they no longer matter not,
trickling through fingers
having long forgone hope,
shudders of a half life
shadow puppet walls

My Demons

My demons are
ruthless be scared
when they come
into view

These demons need
exercise believe me I
have a few.

The devil is after me
yet I feel fine.
It makes me feel that
hell is going to be
my time to shine.

I Call Home

Down, down in the dark, I call home

I am surrounded by quiet stones

The bones they do not ever bother me

I can be whoever, whoever I want to be

Stones etched with weathered names

Why they left, from where they came

With dates to mark the passage of time

Of their lives and of my decaying mind

One stone has no name and no date

On someone, it calls and does wait

Then, then I will be where I call home

Just resting with all the other bones

Pages

(c) Neopoet.com. No copyright is claimed by Neopoet to original member content.