poetry-plus-writing

[poetry-plus-writing]

Reject

Does it make sense

to reject

neglect

look through another lens

will it become one's drive

is it meant to be?

for you, for me?

slowly, does it lead

to a place, our key

to perhaps somewhere to thrive

[poetry-plus-writing]

Words that sound nice

Serene

Nostalgia

Indubitably

Armada

Eclectic

'Tis

Fantasia

Serenity

Rhapsody

Memento

Alabaster

Cacophony

Sibilance

[poetry-plus-writing]

It’s important to remember that the people you are meant for you will be around you no matter what you think of yourself. They will be with you when you feel like the world is beating you up and they’ll bounce off all your insecurities. Be around the people who choose you out of the 7 billion people on this planet. 

[poetry-plus-writing]

A Poem They Wrote

A pretty girl sits near a pretty tree

and blinks atop a hill.

The flowers smell of exotic tea.

They bloom around her, at least they will.

She draws on a quaint sketching pad scribbling away

 the thorns that rip and screech.

The field around her a burning gray.

Parasites below squelch and leech

The safe haven where she waits.

She lies above and creates.

Drawn to sketches and a fantasy

She pays no attention to reality.

[poetry-plus-writing]

Destruction:

Bombs go off

like a dying cough. I

try to stop and see the

destruction around me

Molotov drinks and

the world sinks

with reds and pinks.

My final plea

to this reality.

[poetry-plus-writing]

Study Hall:

There is silence in this room.

Other than the rustling of papers.

Other than the students who loom.

The music playing tapers

through the speakers that play.

There is silence in this room.

Ignoring the scratching of skin.

Nails that dig in spite of my gloom.

Despite the noises splayed within,

I’ll be quiet and stay.

[poetry-plus-writing]

A Plea to a Clock:

A ticking clock.

It was a shock

to be lying next to you.

Remember? That pocket watch

you bought?

I think about it a lot.

It sits and tocks

to me at night, it speaks to me too.

It tells of the long walks

we’d do near my house, we’d simply talk

into the night and I’d watch

as your car left the block

where I lived.

A ticking clock.

That’s all it was, eventually batteries run dry.

It hasn’t yet, covered in a sock.

The tick lingers to mock.

Each night I lie awake and sob.

God, when will the ticking stop?