I'm am a poet and have been for years. I am published in books and local publications as well as church programs also. Do any of you have any poems that you want others to see?
This is just one of my many and I picked it randomly out of my collection. I hope you enjoy.
The Realm of Tears
My soul is lost in this realm
Where my fallen comrades lay
For those who have allowed themselves to be destroyed
I do not cry for them
For they shed no tears for me
Yet it seems I am damaged by each one
My soul takes the beating
But still, not a single tear is shed
I refuse to cry
Instead I retreat my feelings
I hurt so bad but no one shall know
Because the realm of tears
Is for the tears I do not allow myself to shed
Hence my soul is lost to this place
Where I can be me but no one shall see
My every waking breath you are all I think of
Every moment of every day you are who I see.
At night when I dream, it is always of you
I haven’t known you that long
But you seem to fill my soul.
You are what’s always been missing
And I would die for you if that’s what it takes
I look into your eyes
My head aching with a pulse I cannot describe.
I tear open my shirt and reach into my chest
And yes I will die now
But take this before I go
I give you my heart my love
And with a tear in your eye
I die in your arms.
Tis not really a poem, although I have many, but an excerpt of something I wrote for class a while back.
The room was shadowy, and where she sat by the window, the air was undeniably crisp. The harsh light of the hotel bathroom spilled out onto the carpet in the hallway nearby. Through the glass, the Oklahoma stars shone down on her as she watched him, sleeping in bed. Even with him there, snoring softly, she felt a deep isolation. She felt the tears on her face before she even realized she was crying. "Please, God," she said, hardly above a whimper. The new pain of their earlier argument coalesced with the aches of old wounds never healed. She pulled the robe tightly around her half-naked figure, and she closed her blue eyes shut. Her grief began to manifest itself into physical torment as she began to rock in the stiff chair. Deep inside of her heart, she wanted him to wake and find her there, to wrap his arms around her, to comfort her.
She knew she was never that lucky.
She opened her eyes and gazed at the articles on the table next to her as if seeing them for the first time. There was some change, her purse, and his pants. She could make out the faint outline of the buck tool he always kept on his belt. She felt her thoughts becoming scattered and increasingly distorted. She stared into the night, catching the reflection of someone she did not want to be, and steeled her mind. She had been down this road many times before. Lurid excitement began to build in her soul. "It's my people's tradition," she theorized. It was a good excuse and the only one she would welcome. She put aside her trepidation temporarily, and she slipped the tool from its cover. She looked quickly over her shoulder at her boyfriend and then back to her prize. She held it in her hand and stared at it as if waiting for someone to change her mind for her. No one would.
She blinked her eyes a few times to clear them of tears, then stood and made her way towards the light. "This is better than crying," she deduced. The chill of the bathroom tile numbed her feet as she stood before the sink. Deciding it was best not to look at herself in the mirror, she pulled the knife from its niche and dropped her robe. A chill colder than her thoughts raced through her body. She ran her thumb along the blade; it was dull. At that, she nearly gave up. However, her deep need to assuage her pain persevered. She contemplated for a few seconds where she wanted to cut. She had done it in several places in the past but the general rule was to avoid any spot that wasn't easily covered. The face took a while to heal and attracted unwelcome questions. She resolutely turned her left arm upwards and gauged a distance five inches from the wrist. Piercing the skin horizontally, she quickly pulled the blade towards her. She winced and watched the fat, crimson droplets dance swirl patterns in the sink. Fascinated, she cut two more times. "Ok," she finally breathed.
After she washed the blood away, she calmly slipped the tool back onto his belt. She sighed heavily and climbed into bed next to him. She felt immensely relieved as she lay there, and gazed up at the ceiling. She knew the morning would bring clarity, and the stinging cuts on her arm would drown out the aches of her heart.
That is amazing! I love it! No, not poetry but a nice piece of work. A lot of detail in the setting and of course her mood.
The grasp around me is strong
And the look in his eyes is of hatred
I slice through the air
Clean as whistle
And as I find my mark
I tear through bone and gristle
The blood pours down my edge
It stops at my tang
My cold steel body
Now wet with life’s blood
The warmth of it bathes me
The gurgle from the throat I have just sliced
Tells me my work here is done
This is not what I wanted
But you see I have no choice
I must do what he makes me
For I have no voice
I am only his knife,
Which he used to kill
The love of his life.
I'd never read poetry or written it and one day I just started writing. Didn't really know how, I like how you have it down almost to a science. I will give it a shot. A few of mine are in stanzas but after I'd written several. These are my earlier works.
This was my first. It's been published in a book and on audio CD.
My heart has been shattered into a million tiny shards
They pierce my broken body.
As I walk through this wasteland that was once my soul
I feel more alone than I have ever felt.
Was what happened my fault?
Did I drive her to do it?
I will never know the answer to that
This is the end for me; I can see the dawn of something new…
As I look into the distance
Through my burning, tearing eyes
I can see her wanting me to come to her
But I can’t, I cannot do this to myself.
Slowly I pull the pistol out of my mouth
Kneel beside my love, her blood on my hands.
She is dead. She took her own life
But she has forever sentenced me to walk through this life…
Not science, just I look at it as painting. I keep my brush strokes to a minimum, each one important. None wasted. And don't take this as me not liking what you wrote. I like it very much.
Free form poetry is great. But look at it this way. When you open a book and see huge blocks of text your mind tells you this is hard reading. There's no breaks, no breath.
Insert a paragraph or space and your reader takes a breath. Look at any fiction book and you'll notice lots of breaks and white space. White space is just as important as text.
By the way, I've never had any formal training in writing. I just started a couple years ago. Poetry is not my thing. It's something I dabble in, but only when I'm stressed. And, it's all personal choice, write what you like and like what you write. That's all that matters unless you're trying to make a living at it, then you have to consider your readers.
I have a lot that don't rhyme. But a poem doesn't have to, to evoke feeling. Tell me how this makes you feel, or what you think as you read it. It's not broken down into stanzas, but I couldn't get it that way. This was the only way it felt natural.
My desperation clouds my mind
The anger I feel repels all rational thought
My innocence is clouded by what I know to be real
This world has destroyed the fantasies of my childhood
My soul is broken
The shards of my heart are scattered through existence
My heart only beats in the memories of those that still believe
This wasteland is scattered with those
Who refuse to believe what is real
I pity those people who lie in there own filth
They try to destroy what little life I have left
My heart bleeds for those who have fallen
And much like myself
They had a way out but chose to escape
But what they feared was only their salvation
And now I fear it is too late.
I agree also. I started writing a book. It has a lot of white space, small paragraphs etc. But only a few of my poems do. I love to read Stephen King, and in reading what I had from my book, I inadvertently adapted his writing style.
Tiny is right about the stanza thing. I never really understood it until I took a few classes. I went back and re-edited all my stuff and it makes a big difference. Here is one I fixed, it's still not perfect but poetry rarely is.
Smooth, sexy sounds
running over moist lips
Warm brass soothes my soul
Moves my mind
Makes my heart melt
Soft as silk over my lovers body
Makes my tongue quiver
in delightful ecstasy
Soft, low lights
Puts me in the mood
carries away my pain
like smooth liquor
Yeah, that's Jazz...
When the world turns its back on me
the loving arms of Jazz are always there
like two lovers in a forbidden romance