Poetry Appreciation (do NOT post your own poetry)

Funny Sad Feeling
by Ashby Brown

Exhaustion hangs on the tips of my fingers
I feel as if I cannot go on but must
What is this place?
This place which weighs down my body
This place that vomits heat and horror
This place of anvils admitting they are the coming rain
They have no need to comfort you for they are pain
They need no introduction much like the insane
Shivering sick sedated injecting sorrow
How many more days until this feeling goes away?
The leaves turn brown as the sound from the dog pound begins to rise
Whelping squeals they beg for meals that will never come
I am tired
Oh so tired
Of this funny sad feeling
 
Psychiatry for Free
by Rachael P Presley

I’m tired and I don’t want to be alone anymore
so take me away from home,
away from broken bottle dreams
and a despair I can call my own.
Exhaustion creeps in,
deeper than my bones, something so cold
it settles in my soul like an old house
that’s been around since ashes to ashes
we all fall down.
I’m tired and I don’t want to be home anymore,
so take me away from here because clearly,
this isn’t very healthy; this isn’t helping me find a cure
to my incurable disease
called Psychiatry for Free,
in which various persons will call me
at four o’clock in the AM
begging me talk
them out of a hanging
by a lynch mob of ones self.
I guess it really can’t be helped,
I’ll just have to get out myself.
I’m so tired, and I don’t want to go anymore,
So don’t bothering taking me away,
because I’ll have deleted this messages
and you’ll again be blind forevermore.
 
Tired
by Ian M

I write this and I am
Tired
of all that I can
Feel
the hatred of those
Who
just don’t care.

The cold creeps through my
Bones
white like marble
Time
covers the
Pain
caused by all.

Exhaustion creeps through me
like the shadows of the moon.
Yet I know that sometime,
healing will start.
I just hope it comes soon…

I long for sleep
I long for peace
I pray for serenity.

Feeling the creak of my bones
The pain in my joints
The weakness of my muscles
The beating of my heart.

It’s all a waste
And I can taste
The sweet embrace of death.
 
Exhaustion
by Jaz Roberson

Exhaustion pains me
Like a cold weight in my bones
It takes me under
Pressure of the cold dark sea
Unclear thoughts, it consumes me
 
Written on sky, softly

If a broken night
ever breaks the light,
hold on

To the sun dance,
forests' silence we
belong

Candles whisper far
reaching midnight stars
that burn

Now say what's true,
now close and you
return

If you bathe in rain
not erasing pain,
I learn

Heavy winters,
they in splinters
won't turn

Paint a flower red
hiding tears shed,
hold on

To the sun dance,
forests' silence we
belong

Copyright, Yelena M., 2010
 
Tamstrong said:
leeches
by Amber S

we were never friends.
we were leeches. sucking.
feeding
the life from each other

exhaustion
that's all i ever felt afterward
you would speak to me

how did i not notice?
the smoke, like snakes, swirling
around you?
your eyes suddenly narrow, red?

how? how? how?

did i not notice
the knife hidden behind
your back?

oh, i saw the knife finally
but only.

only

when it was wedged deep in me
and my own blood

surrounded me

what a stupid game we played.
no straight answers.
headaches.
late nights.

waste. waste. waste.

i bet you enjoyed yourself.

yes, we were leeches
but you were the fatest one
sucking every drop i had
until i was dry. dry. dry.

with your lovely eyes
and smile. you'd
convince me.

why was i blind?



i'm free now, did you know?
i sleep. i eat.

i live.

and without you
life has never been better
Click to expand...

Whoa. Just.....whoa.
 
Transition

Caught between branches
hanging-
awaiting the ground.

Eyes wide open,
control out of reach.

The crash of the waves,
wind in my hair,
lightening --
showing me glimpse of my future below.

Looking back I see so much.
If only I had
if only I’d
if only I’d not ---

I’d still be standing,
two feet on the ground.

Now-
only the elements
have control

-Darcy R
 
"Earth’s crammed with heaven,

And every common bush afire

With God:

But only he who sees takes off

His shoes.”

-Elizabeth Barrett Browning
 
The Invitation

It doesn't interest me what you do for a living,
I want to know what you ache for,
And if you dare to dream of meeting
Your heart's longing.

It doesn't interest me how old you are
I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool
For love, for your dreams,
For the adventure of being alive.

It doesn't interest me what planets are squaring your moon.
I want to know if you have touched the center of your own sorrow,
If you have been opened by life's betrayals,
Or have become shriveled and closed for fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain,
Mine or your own,
Without moving
To hide it or fade it or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy,
Mine or your own,
If you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes
Without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, or to remember the limitations of being human.

I want to know if you can see beauty
Even when it is not pretty every day,
And if you can source your life
From God's presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure,
Yours and mine,
And still stand on the edge of a lake and shout to the silver of the full moon,
"Yes!"

It doesn't interest me to know where you live or how much money you have.
I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair,
Weary and bruised to the bone,
And do what needs to be done for the children.

It doesn't interest me who you are,
how you came to be here.
I want to know if you will stand
In the center of the fire with me
And not shrink back.

It doesn't interest me where or what or with whom you have studied.
I want to know what sustains you
From the inside
When all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone
And if you truly like the company you keep
In the empty moments.

-Oriah Mountain Dreamer
 
If

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you
But make allowance for their doubting too,
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:



If you can dream--and not make dreams your master,
If you can think--and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same;


If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:



If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it all on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breath a word about your loss;


If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"



If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with kings--nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you;
If all men count with you, but none too much,
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And--which is more--you'll be a Man, my son!

-Rudyard Kipling
 
Tao Te Ching. Chapter 24

He who stands on tiptoe
doesn't stand form.
He who rushes ahead
doesn't go far.
He who tries to shine
dims his own light.
He who defines himself
can't know who he really is.
He who has power over others
can't empower himself.
He who clings to his work
will create nothing that endures.

If you want to accord with the Tao,
just do your job, then let go.

-Lao-tzu
 
Humility by Robert William Service

I met upon a narrow way,
Dead weary from his toil,
A fellow warped and gnarled and grey,
Who reeked of sweat and soil.
His rags were readyful to rot,
His eyes were dreary dim;
Yet . . . yet I had the humble thought
To raise my hat to him.

For thinks I: It's the likes of him
That makes the likes of me;
With horny hand and lagging limb
He slaves to keep me free;
That I may have a golden time,
And praise the Lord on high,
Life grinds into the bloody grime
A better man than I.

Yet if in sheer humility
I yield this yokel place,
Will he not think it mockery
And spit into my face,
Saying: "How can you care a damn,
As now my way you bar,
When it's because of what I am,
You, Sir, are what you are?"

But no, he did not speak like that,
Nor homage did I pay;
I did not lift my bowler hat
To greet his common clay;
Instead, he made me feel an ass,
As most respectfully
He stepped aside to let me pass,
And raised his cap to ME.
 
Nightmares

At last I rest in tortured bliss
As horrid nightmares whisper their gentle kiss
Wrapping me in ghastly arms
Caressing me with their wicked charm
Until I wake in sweat so cold
Shaking away the lies of old
 
The Flawed Immortal

Her divinity is a pure as snow
The daughter of a nymph,
fathered by a sprite.
Tall and supple as Artemis, wise as Athena.
As beautiful as Aphrodite.
She is imbued with beauty and grace,
it hangs about her like a shawl.

But she is flawed,
tainted by mortal desires.
She spends her days, endless as they are,
in hope and longing.
Sweet ambrosia turns to ash in her mouth,
and haunting melodies,
played by deft fingers,
fall on hollow ears.

She walks with honeyed steps,
through meadows and forests,
in the cloying heat, searching.
Never content.
For each day she feels a blossoming desire,
swell in her breast.
For what, she does not know.
But it pains her endlessly,
and she is forever restless.
This flawed immortal,
eternally unsatisfied.
 
Waiting For Sleep To Come
Scottie Allman © 2009

Deep in the night
I search for mind numbing things to do
Waiting for sleep to come.
My mind turns over so many things I’ve done,
Wishing they could be undone.
It makes any rest elusive,
And my mind will not rest,
For many hours to come.

The night goes through changes.
The wind comes up,
Bringing a comforting cool.
The stillness of the night
Broken as thunder rumbles
Closer through the dark.
I hear rain moving up the road.
The shower grows into a torrent.
Lightning flashes.
Thunder roars awakening the night

As with life
The storm moves on
The thunder grows distant
And the rain that once showed its relentless powers
Fades to a drizzle.
And the sudden spring storm departs as it came
Leaving me alone in the night . . .

Waiting for sleep to come
 
Last edited:
In this life

It’s hard to question reality when its right there in front of you.
But it’s also hard to accept the things you wish to be otherwise.
Everyone started dying since the day they were born.
Some of us just chose to hasten it up a bit.
Things didn’t work out like you planned in your head.
But we’re not all dead yet.


© Madrea Marie
 
Circle

if there are people dying from
hunger and neglect
on the steps of a church
and it is said, well, we
better re-pave the steps
and while we’re at it
re-stucco the walls

if hospitals start running
out of room to store the old
and uninsured crazy people
and it is decided to have
them loaded into vans or taxis
and sent off to downtown L.A.
or the San Fernando Valley

if the homeless population
increases and it is decided
to cut funding to the local
shelters and have them
ultimately shut down

if we see kids cutting class
and selling drugs
to each other and decide
on more funding for
more prisons to be built

if we all continue in the
same way of looking, then
what is left is only us and this
circle of nothingness, ourselves
slowly, deservingly merging
with it
 
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