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There is a poem scratched onto the walls of my throat. No one has ever heard it, but it is there.

Kai Cheng Thom

"I am a bird,

Locked inside its cage.

I am watched by others with glee,

As they listen to me sing songs of sorrow,

And my everlasting melancholy.

Forever stuck.

Forced to watch as others move along,

While I remember the freedom

That I'm no longer allowed to feel.

I remember the wind

As I raced through the breeze.

Never was I lonely,

With the sun and the sky,

Keeping me company.

Now I just watch

As my friends soar away.

They sing songs of joy,

And of freedom,

And love,

While I waste away.

I am a bird.

I am locked in my cage.

My love,

My freedom,

My joy,

All stolen away."

- B

Hello! This is my first post, so I don't really know what to do. This is a poem I wrote, and I'd be happy to read any criticism or advice you have for me, and I hope my poem was able to make you feel something.

Poems are just word structures, sometimes devoid of poetry. Poetry goes far beyond words. Images are words too... Poetry is how we use these images.

L. V., i found this poem when you let me walk around your mind

That is a very derpy Shakespeare... Silliam Derpspear if you will

Would you hang or would you sink?

Flutter like butterfly or moth?

Freeze over or return to ash?

Phoenix

I’m trying to be what I’ve never been please don’t wipe these droplets away I’m crying for someone other than me can we just let them fall where they may Today I’ve tears enough for the world help me remember that love is to share I’ve been cold and numb for far too long and fear I may have forgotten to care God If you hear me, make me a phoenix I’ve been selfish these many long years I will cry a river, or an ocean if need be if You’ll place healing love in my tears

Inverted Vertigo

None

We need more cutesy horrors

silly oc doodle sticker ideas

smile, they say,

as if a smile is

just a vacuum cleaner

that sucks away

the sorrows of the world

smile, they say,

as if a smile is

just baking soda

that unclogs the drain

that has become my life

smile, they say,

as if a smile is

just a broom

that swipes away the sins

under the bedroom carpet

smile, they say,

and i will, for

how many skulls

have you seen

frowning?

what the moon can see

it is twilight again. she settles 

into her spot upon a sky full 

of stars. she looks down. i 

wonder if she can see through

the blinds and into my bed. if she wants to see all this pain.

~K.T.

i write about the ocean like it is a lover

but the truth is it terrifies me. 

it can choose to still, to reflect

the sky and all its shimmering 

promises. it can rise, roar, and

swallow. 

~K.T.

I'm going to asphyxiate xdddd

An authentic experience of me, reading the Silmarillion for the first time, trying to imagine what Melkor looks like:

Me: If the Ainur can choose how their fanar appear, then I bet he'd go for something physically intimidating... Tall, then. Most likely wierdly white-gray pale, too...

Me: Long, dark hair... Dressed in black robes, ooh! What if they pool at his feet when he stands, so it's kind of like he's emerging from a puddle of darkness... and... hmm.

Me: Why does this sound... familiar? W-who does it remind me of...?

Me: ...wait.

I am so sorry.

and maybe one day i will wield the scythe

my poetry can resurrect demons

from the past, so let me swing

another sharp weapon and

name it poetry.

~K.T.

roles reversed, crumbling in dust enough to cave in the lungs of titans. don't force me to breathe anyway, it's pointless in the grand scheme of cigar marketing. all for standing outside and watching the rays of sun stretch their limbs and lie down for the evening but the true beauty comes when all the pawn shops facing east are religiously nocturnal.

a hopper of trains, we can be out of here, we can be slugs happily avoiding the minefield of saltshakers set up to watch us perish. a tale as old as grandfather's medals, tears stinging eyes, hometown roaches feasting on nuclear Thanksgiving; part the lips and caught the tongue trembling common knowledge. that the boxing gloves hooked on the wall have touched their fair share of tender cheeks and retiring will only cause the maroon to solidify.

nap away the wrongdoings of foreign-feeling nausea. spin the story like a top on the evening reporter's desk laden with load-bearing ash-pokes the size of his ideals surrendering to keyboard gestures of love and floundering reputation.

ON THE BRINK

Standing on the brink

A humble grail in hand

Contemplating that clink

According to thy command

Boisterous play, or high jinks

As the mist begins to clear

I await in the morning chill

The Passover of my fear

Oh! Silently, in the still

Whether far or near

©Johnny J P Lee

19 September 2024

A Gogyoshiren Poem (10)

Photos Credit J. P. Lee

(Man on a cliff, unknown source)

Imitate

You run

And I follow

But the chasing I do

Has left me hollow

It's really not urgent

You have all the time in the world

Your last seconds

Will be the eternity

Inside a nibless

Fountain pen

The fog creeps in,

thick like breath

on a window,

the hills fold

into themselves,

and I am

somewhere else

while the red bridge

cuts through the mist

like a wound

that has yet to heal

Carry On, Fair Fighter 🌷

Set fire to the acid rain Watch it burn, burn down See the sweet flames burn in the light Finally, I feel something Like the time I almost set a lighter to my own carpet We all lose yourselves sometimes Plug the holes with poetry Your leaky eyes with holy water Watch the flowers melt away It gonna-It's gonna be okay We pick yourselves up Journey on another day It's gonna- It's gonna be okay Lick the paint off your fingers Oil pastels all over your clothes You just murdered an emotion That's just how life goes In the words of my kindergarten teacher"Sometimes you just gotta go with the flow" If you were a salmon meant to fight it You would've been born with gills Now carry on, fair fighter We must get over this hump We must crest this hill

Mouth full of silver,

a waning cresent smile shines

in the ink of night.

I float above the debris

Freshly risen from the grave

Where moths gently flutter

And the worms quietly dance

At the rhythm of blue crotchets

Hanging from red green wing tips

Resting beyond the horizon

Where your brokenness waits

Behind a shattered mirror

you solar flare, enkindle all

lounging poolside plague the apartments nearby yeah, im on your back you're, easy to second god them assume i need your — i really need your — my theoretical models more shameful than Jane Birkin theses and ripped red camelias these are no times for innocent eyes, bordellos our overeducated elbows — passers-by pre-September matchsticks arrival of late — trains you've seen it all, all it seems you've, waved goodbye, if it's fantasy made of swallowtail sensation drunk on your humid breath, — chisel your truths out: of my Mongol hordes hands that warm-up Prajnaparamita Sutra three am — is never deceased, a mouth of Korean cabbage heatwave artform, and we can superglue like last two pages, silky moist after hurricane rains