__. I'm sorry__. I'm sorry11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
By Tony Tran
I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when it was your 5th Birthday. I wasn't able to see the happiness striking across your face, the anticipation running through your veins at the point of opening your presents. The blissful joy of all your friends and family around you as they sang happy birthday, that day was a memory I never had the chance to remember.
I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you had your first day at school. It was like a new world for you filled with friendship, independence and above all, fun. I'll always regret not being there to pick you up after school and having you run into my arms at a thousand miles per hour, as though you hadn't seen me in years. Those days when you came home and started humming a harmonious song that you learnt, it was a tune I'd never hear.
I'm sorry I wasn't there for you when you were eight years old and just learnt to ride your first bike. The breeze going through your hair as yo
Why I want you to FAVWhy I want you to FAV12 years ago in General Fiction More Like This
Why I want you to +fav this work.
If you +fav this work, your effort will give me an immense sense of well being.
I will feel that a part of my heart has been forever devoted to this piece. For each and every soul that believes, \"this deserves a +fav\" I will grow ever happier. My view will become ever more optimistic and hope for the future will be installed within me.
My outlook on life will be like that of a sun coming out from behind a cloud, getting brighter and warmer with every second elapsed. I will forget my worries, my bad memories, my aches and pains, I will drop my chains. For each and every +fav will free me from an unwanted displeasure. Turning me into a new and better person.
My favourite saviours shall lighten my burden and relieve me from stress, they will give life reason and effort purpose. The satisfaction of a job well done becoming proven fact
The rain is stopping my friends, the clouds are dispersing. The thunder is now only a faint rumble and lightning is no mo
if I am nowhere am I everywherif I am nowhere am I everywher12 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I am talking to her saying our roads
will be all that's left; that our avenues
will turn to altars, set in onyx.
look what we remember of Rome,
all pavements and temples
arranged like vertebrae in dirt
that goes on living, full with prayer;
and as I say this, it occurs to me that in a Mexican bar
in Florence I might disappear
to the streets and run, eyeless
through an eyeless crowd,
(take me, Florence! I am a son among these heartbroken stones,
take me from the marble block lift me out!)
to laugh hysterically; she is pulling me,
her warmth comes breathlessly from the air;
we are foreigners,
we are rain. (I am inventing this,
all of this happened elsewhere, another night)
her face turns to laugh illuminated
and everything else wobbling is blue
and forgotten; lifeboats drawn away
from our bodies that are continents
moving full with rice and squash and sins
named in small homes before saints and fire;
listen. I was not there by the long bar
when everyone turned and pulled us
into the st
The Diary of I.M.HormonalThe Diary of I.M.Hormonal11 years ago in Humor More Like This
The diary of I M Hormonal
So yeah like i kinda fell out of bed this morning (it's a REALLY thin bed) kinda yeah. And like, i wasn't in a good mood (i did fall out of bed) y'see. It kinda all began like.... y'know (getting to the point quickly here), last night where i like... well my girlfriend (well we weren't really going out per say...) is such a whore (not that i'd know of course)...i mean she's my ex now y'know (see previous).
But she sleeps around like (and i found out last night. Tore my heart in two (well not really but it felt like that once the hormones kicked in... except not as painful)) and like, threw it onto the ground (she didn't really do this either but it makes me feel inntelygant) and (i felt really sad) i cried myself to sleep (but i did wake up in the middle of a night for a poopie). She says the rabbit made her feel happier than me (rabbits are sexy i'l give you that), like, i
Insomnia-A dark nursery rhymeInsomnia-A dark nursery rhyme13 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I see you've come
to play again
lodged here in my soul so tight
turning brightness into night
please let me sleep
to never wake….
…now I lay me down to sleep
my life in tatters at my feet..
if I should Wake before I die
I pray these tattered wings can fly..
I never want to feel again
trapped here in this world so cold
where self is wrong
and Us is gold.
how i wonder why i'm here..
Summer's GirlSummer's Girl11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I am gathering flowers for my girl.
She waits beneath the cherry tree,
couched among the leaves upon the grass.
Her beauty is no small thing,
and through the shady boughs
Summer's breath turns the twist of her braid.
The sun is sweeping clear the morning,
turning over slowly into midday
before expiring into unseeing darkness.
These garnered blooms still hardy though,
despite the shortened moments of their existence,
they will colour the chestnut hair I love.
In truth, I cannot stem this smile,
this attitude of quiet pleasure;
she has distilled it like music.
I am gathering flowers for my girl.
She waits beneath the cherry tree,
couched among the leaves upon the grass.
Pinnacles of PerfectionPinnacles of Perfection11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
The weather is changeable, and full of fruit:
a zesty tang to carve the edible cradle of trees.
Green hued pianists fingertips nimbly dance,
infatuated twigs lust for a young bud
and, when achieved in woody splendour,
plush green embellishment, ever upwards turned.
The youth drenched weed gazed in earnest wanting,
encrusted within his stamen was an anarchists mantra.
Calm the release to trust of life's dangerous procreatives,
mistrust the signposts and lose the generation.
Hearts are inept to emotive confusion,
yet each excretion of sound plays with youth's deafening muscle.
Startled, the truth-raven ruffles feathers to pristine clarity,
suffering in quiet subtlety the bravery of the young.
Erections of wisdom push out of his womb,
lines formate rubbing his eyes, exhibiting the progression of life.
Follow the bend and swirl of the branches,
and evaluate the weight of delicate caresses.
Drink Nectar from the war torn leaves,
they stand swift as masculine flowers and love with hearts wid
Emphatic NoddingEmphatic Nodding11 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I will wear my thong.
it is only a wedding.
sod the rest of you.
The Cruellest PunishmentThe Cruellest Punishment11 years ago in Haiku & Eastern More Like This
take this dirty brush
and lock it away from me:
do not give it back.
stop the shaft of light,
let inspiration darken;
my pen will silence.
cut clean at the bloody root:
seal closed the heart valve.
Gentle Man at RestGentle Man at Rest11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Stooped and haunted, the gentle man at rest
sleeps soundly, undisturbed, in Sunday best,
asleep ensconced in brittle timeless fire,
and seeking tryst with all of Man's desire.
This poet's words not pure enough to soothe,
nor sharply tainted, cause enough to bruise
the sleeping ego, neat and trim, inside
disrupted harmony - a vulture's pride.
The closed and hidden eye has seen it all,
and shouldered all necessity; to call
it living is to leave it all undone -
the vicious twist of life's true form has won.
FateFate11 years ago in Scripts & Screenplays More Like This
A sunny day in the park. There is a single bench CENTRE stage. GOD is sitting on the LEFT side of the bench. He has long, white hair and a long, white beard, and is wearing a simple white robe. He is reading a newspaper. Enter PETER from the RIGHT. He is wearing black pants, leather shoes, a white shirt and a garish, comical tie. He is carrying a paper bag. PETER sits on the bench next to GOD, setting his bag next to him. He folds his hands and admires the weather.
PETER. Beautiful weather today.
GOD [focusing on his newspaper]. Mm-hm.
PETER. [Extending his hand] The name's Peter.
GOD [shaking PETER's hand]. God.
[GOD returns his attention to his newspaper.]
PETER. Um… God?
PETER. Not to be rude, but… your name is God?
GOD. I am God. Or at least I was God.
PETER. I… see.
GOD. You don't believe me.
PETER. Would you?
GOD. No. But it doesn't matter whether or not you believe in me.
Stone Kings and Loved KingdomsStone Kings and Loved Kingdoms11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
This pencil is my spirited javelin,
more nurtured than a rock,
more caring than a spider of doubt:
I am a writer, always travelling.
See here, this open notebook without words,
all tangled in mind silk,
all threatening and bleak, shadowless:
how can I tempt the twists of thought to call?
How I feel the ache to grapple stories,
light a candle to talk,
encourage night to give up secrets:
I field the words like noble warriors.
Imagine stone-built kings enthroned in white,
Greek marble, and carved love,
entrap the beautiful characters:
I plague my little soldiers on the page.
I cast my artistry upon the world,
unfitting and unsought,
the battles to be fought are not won:
and the curved majesty of stars escapes.
Surreptitious FutureSurreptitious Future11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
Disturbed by a smack to the belly,
my bitter rain from the cloud unburdened
stains the bedroom carpet.
Rushed to clear the wasted future
breathing no more sensitively than a tree
my husband breaks the band of marriage -
leaves the deranged existence.
He will not consider mortal pain,
my desire to please the eager mother inside:
my body curls to join the life on the floor.
Of carved paper, and caved stomach,
the pretty baby no longer intact,
hot water called for and senseless oblivion -
drifts beyond the shaded soul of pencil grey.
The Relationship...."Times like these. Someone is writing and we are only words."The Relationship....10 years ago in Open More Like This
a small tree
there you were beneath it and lifting one arm up,
throwing one arm back,
in a Venetian garden (I think;
the details are unclear now, muted nouns)
and reaching for it, stretching and reaching,
while the strangest nakedness bathed your body, softened by sunlight.
if only I could paint you as you are
in my deepest of dreams,
with sour citrus fruits.
a medieval invention
plotted the course of our stars today; jokingly,
we listen to the fortune teller who says
'You were alchemists in a life past,
but I do not know if you were lovers
as she plotted the course of your hand,
the lines drawn zodiacally
to determine the altitude of the sun.
an apple-green chalcedony
lay there imagined in the hollow of your neck
where collar-bone met collar-bone,
the smooth white and the gemstone like a bee
People are LookingPeople are Looking11 years ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
I am the one
Who has no blood
To puff the veins
And away from
My bleeding heart.
I am not stood
As I cannot
Find the power
To lift myself up
And out of this chair
So I am down
And people are looking.
I have no thoughts
To air my views
Is unknown to me
In my small world
I do not walk
Or do as I am bid.
I am snuggly warm
And outside air
Avoids me, like the wind.
What Dreams May ComeA spoon traces reality's wake,What Dreams May Come10 years ago in Open More Like This
leaving behind ripples of that material you hold of so dear.
Lazily bejewelled spectres drift after,
all consuming behind veiled greed.
Lavishly they take their fill
of your ill dreams.
Never Ending, Ever Spiralling stairs send you
to the places where hope begins.
Ghostly dancers reside on pedestals of jade,
serenading in place amidst fluted rose pillars.
Beneath cigarette filters
their feet beat out a precise rhythm.
Disapproval splatters like rain. Soaking discarded the prom dresses
of desolate angels, resplendent in their despair.
Ebony Eyeliner runs ragged down pale cheeks
as rain pelts lifeless eyes, from whence tears come to mingle.
Abandoned, they trace their sorrow in imperfect blue lines;
emptily they wallow in forlorn and forsaken dreams.
A glib word and beautifully turned phrase
glow forgivingly in soft dawns light.
An ever expanding, all encompassing feeling
hits you like a pillow-padded train.
An ember inside of you turns to conflagration
necrophiliawe're not surviving of latenecrophilia9 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
but no one's yet been made a checkmate.
the party mix music mucus is getting too thick
like the smoke that curls around us
like toxic, uninterested "friends". (friends, see: accessories)
we wear them.
and we can't get our tongues deep enough, no matter how long and strong
no matter the width and breadth of the bong
no matter how utterly inebriated - absolutely intoxicated
oh we can't get our tongues deep enough inside to really taste eachother
we can't get deep enough to call eachother's bluff.
(its rare that his pupil meets her pupil
its rare that he can see his heart beating behind her retinas.
but it happens.