Thoughts would be much appreciated! I wrote this about a relationship and beginnings.

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Sweet drops of pleasure 

Flood the thoughts in my mind

I eat until there's nothing left

Only the rind.

My stomach feels full

My mind satisfied 

Yet I still have to wonder

What could root inside.

My mother's tales come back

Of the seeds that could sprout

They pester me constantly 

As I eat my heart out.

Please disregard if I am in breach of the rules. I am not a professional writer, I only write occasionally, not often at all. I never shared anything with anyone ever. I would be curious to know what people think of this. Thanking in advance. Here were go:

Melody of unchained broken wings threads the silence.

It's like the void is the voice you are guided by with a trembling hand and all out of breath. 

There was a never ending golden-yellow, shining, horizon-to-horizon like vastness. A wheat field. Early July.

It's like you are empty and searching 

A dirt road was the only way through; somewhere along a way there was a wooden bench. It was an old, dry and worn out by time, snow and sun; bits were torn out and are now missing. Not much to look at.

It's like you are sleepless and roaming 

The bench was uneven, part of it sunk in to the dusty ground, part of it swung in the air, flaying. A man was sitting on sunken side. Let’s call him a man A or a woman A. A person A, who feels universal pain and is not impartial to a glass or two of red viper joy.

With the numbing discharges pulse 

The other man (let’s call him a man B, a person B be it acceptance and angst) slowly approaching from the distance. Slightly out of breath, sunburnt.

With breathlessness ease

A man whose feet were fighting the distance step after step, stops

With a gentle whisper rage 

He sits on the rickety side of the bench not right on the edge.

With a misguided gaze

A man who has been sitting for a while at least, an object A

Unfazed by the static face

Says 

Facing the mirror 

How was your day

Lukewarm distant embrace

Flickering lights, shadows race, feeling the space,

braised

Misdirected by missing a pace, lack of pace, not a race

Free floating in space

Good, says the one who just sat. 

Person A says

Joy (J) minus Pain (P) should be greater than zero, one should not chase bliss there should just less angst 

Silence follows, long but not awkward.

Silence, an ok silence.

Feelings, I can't forget you

I dreamed you were waiting

Even just having a meal

It's still you that I'm probably thinking about

The other day, I read something

Masturbation, they say it helps you forget

I heard it in the news, so I tried it

To ease that Cobra bite

I suddenly found myself shedding

Tears from my eyes

But I told myself, it's nothing

So I still forced it, even though it was really nothing

I was thinking of forgetting you

I locked your image away in between

But the next day you didn't catch up with me anymore

I had become a cold body.

\-Samsamiyotero

By me :)

I want to know a little bit

about a lot of things.

How the stars got there.

Why the ocean moves.

How to fix a broken engine.

How to cook a proper steak.

I want to learn guitar

and get a little better

every year.

I want to fish new rivers,

get lost in new cities,

read books that change my mind

and meet people who piss me off

in interesting ways.

I want to know enough

to ask better questions.

And I want to be old

and still have things

I don’t understand.

There’s something depressing

about the idea

that one day you might decide

you’ve seen enough.

The world is enormous.

There’s too much to learn,

too much to see,

too many roads

I haven’t driven down.

I don’t need to be great

at everything.

I’d just like to be around

for as much of it as I can.

Hey if you love poetry come check out this space and post some poems!!

I used to create until my hands ached.

Music rehearsals until my fingers went numb from aiming for perfection,

Painting until my eyes would burn and my wrists would get weak,

Sketched until the fumes of my alcohol ink markers burned their way into my brain.

I would sit at the piano in the front of my home and let the notes find their way out of my mind,

down through my arms,

Out the tips of my fingers,

until they decided we were finished.

I used to spend every spare moment of every spare minute trying to understand how I felt.

Who I was,

Where I would go.

I thought Music would heal me.

I thought art would bring vitality.

I thought putting pieces of myself on paper would make me feel real.

Sometimes it would.

One day I stopped believing it would.

I stopped wanting to create little tokens of my soul to look back at on a rainy day.

Instead of hours spent aiming for perfection of my art,

There are now only hours spent typing out reports,

For eyes who never want to read them.

Hours of wondering if this email found them well,

Or if my message came off too strong.

If my hands start to ache it is no longer out of a want for them to do so.

If my paint brushes find their way into my grasp it is only briefly.

Artistry became a waste of my dwindling energy,

My resources depleted,

My emotions no longer demanding to be understood.

I remember sitting in my backyard on sunny fall afternoons,

Trying to teach myself how to strum a ukulele,

As I absorbed the energy beaming down from the heavens.

The warmth radiated through the sleeves of my orange wool sweater as I would curve my fingers into seemingly impossible shapes,

Hoping if I just tried harder the notes would find their way out of my mind and into the air like they always did so many times before.

Now the notes in my mind are muffled and muted,

The air not as welcoming to their sound.

My contribution to this world was once rooted in my belief that art is essential to being.

That life revolved around the beauty we put into existence.

Where once there was desire to understand emotion,

Now is only the desire to stifle it.

Pulchritude,

An ugly word.

Yet beauty is not bound

To the sound that bears its name.

It speaks in higher dialects.

Humanity, beset by obfuscation,

Mistakes the utterance for the thing.

Perhaps existence is no different:

Perpetual paradox and irony,

A joke of God, a mere caprice of divinity,

This horrid orchestration,

Where anguish is met with absurdity.

A false wall casts its shadow

Over waters otherwise limpid.

Yet a pointed mind stands without regard.

Meaning a joke

A joke forsaken.

A silent truth:

Pulchritude.

First post here, trying something new I suppose 🤷‍♂️

From the start I knew it was special.
It was strong, it was warm, it made me feel like myself again.
She melted away my woes,
And I could tell she felt it too.

From the first date I knew it was special.
Talking felt like dancing
I couldn’t look away,
And I could tell she felt it too.

Her grip was soft yet sure as she took my shaky arm,
we regretted her train home was fast approaching.
I spun her round with one hand
and under the gentle glow of a street lamp kissed her for the first time.

I’d never known such bliss, never before been charmed like this.

From the second date I knew it was special
a picnic in the park, flowers in hand
We held each other under the sunset and the air began to cool
and through her eyes that made me putty in her hands,
I could tell she felt it too.

Days passed, calling more, falling more.
Just waiting for my phone to ring
And fighting off the butterflies she’d bring

The third date I hoped would be special
I’d planned, I’d prepared, I was excited.
Maybe next week instead we said
I could tell she was busy

Weeks passed, calling less, falling more.
She only seemed to drift away, leaving me to wonder why
Was I just too eager? Had this well gone dry? Every moment we shared, every kiss we stole replaying, praying it would change.

I’d never missed like this before - it should be alright, I’m sure.
I’d fallen.

It’s been months and still my heart whispers her name
How could I move on from a girl that enchanted me so,
A girl that helped find the ‘me’ I’d lost for so long.
These days you’ll find her, still picnicking under the sunset, her hair being gently stroked — but those hands aren’t mine.
So now I walk past the lonely lampposts, with my arm empty.
And that’s not special at all.

The pot calling the kettle black

this tekst isn’t meant to be morbid. just a train of thought I had yesterday.

I Keep Holding On
By Misti Pearson

I've buried the people who made me feel whole,
And each time I lost one, I lost part of my soul.
Now I'm terrified love will just leave me again,
So I cling to the people who soften the pain.
I long for a touch, for a heart that will stay,
For someone to hold me at the end of the day.
I keep holding on, though I know I should go,
To a man I still love, who won't love me so.
I've mistaken attention for love that is true,
And forgotten my worth in the things that I do.
I'm so scared of goodbye, of being alone,
Of walking through life with no heart to call home.
But maybe the love I've been searching to fine,
Begins with the woman I've left far behind.
And maybe someday I'll be strong enough to see,
I can’t keep losing others while I’m constantly losing me.

My bowl grows at it is filled

Always to the brim

Yet continues to hold

More

I grow with the weight

My world expands with the bowl

I want to see more

I have to hold more

More

I have enough

But tomorrow I won't

Good thing I'll have more

More

Clearly, I dont write much. Im curious what people think about this. Criticism is wanted. Be mean. It’s experimental.

“Each day when he rides his mechanical conception of a horse to the field
The humming of power lines distort his sense of certainty that one day
He will wake up on his own accord
That one day
The song of the crows will swallow any sense of meaninglessness
It always gets wedged in the throat of the panic inducing song like a tortilla chip that you didn’t spend enough time chewing

Considering that
He still wants people to know
He still wants to walk through the field he once plowed for minimum wage and a few electrolyte beverages
So he plows through the dirt that he knows well
In search of an artifact that communicates the translation of a universal truth
To be held tightly in his hand
And eventually passed around to his peers
Similar to the vase his potter grandmother never finished making
Which they loved all the more

Only to be reminded by the taunting sun that people dont care enough about talking dogs to pay them any mind
And that the people around him are already aware”