Who am I?
It's weird to think,
How I wake everyday,
But don't know why or what for.
It's weird to think,
I roam the earths as a person,
But of a person I don't know of.
Contemplative poems
Contemplative poems — a collection of the best works on PoemShip.
my soul
My soul is connected to the sky
the colors of dawn is my happiness
The colors of dusk is my sorrow
the sunshine is my smile
the rain is my tears
and the thunder is my heartbreak
tell me how
some people
talk about happiness
with strength and everlasting sparkle
inside their eyes when they speak
when the only thing they carry is
pain and heartbreaks
deep inside
their heart
perhaps they are the kind of flowers
that still grows
after a forest fire
balanced
She's both
Peace and war
Hellfire and holy water
Ocean and sky
Devil and angel
And beautiful in her own world
Kind
a word so plain
easy to say
hard to be
Honesty
I wish I could understand
The lies you said
The pain you hid
The bitter truth you spit
But what if I told you
That every word you said
Is a dagger through our hearts
A wound that could not be stitched?
I wished to be your best friend,
But sometimes I feel like a stranger looking in.
Will you have the faith
To confide in us one day?
I promise we'll ignore your flaws,
If you'll kindly ignore ours.
Everybody lies,
It's the only truth sometimes.
SIX WORDS, SIX STANZAS
The steamer trunk might have been my grandfather’s,
but I don’t remember seeing it in
his dark little room that smelled like old clocks.
If I sit for a long time in this chair
the right words will appear. Like magic.
Despite the evidence, I still believe
that. Believing in anything now takes
a toll. There doesn’t seem to be a god,
for instance, who gives a shit about us.
It’s August. The dawn chorus is over
for the year. Sometimes, one dusty robin
lands on the lawn and hops around. The worms
have burrowed down under. Everyone is
exhausted by the heat, the drought, the plague,
waiting and waiting for some kind of relief.
My grandfather had a small life, and yet
* * *
I love my friends.
I like my life.
My grades are
good, reputation-
pristine. Yet I
Don't feel happy here.
Is there something
wrong with me? Or
Is there an unchangeable
reason behind this feeling?
Any other way,
something does not
Belong.
* * *
We aren't special.
Nobody is, has
been, or ever will
be. Yet something
burns inside saying
that somehow, we
Are.
So are humans
just put here to
get from point
A to B, with
obstacles to amuse
the maker who put
us here? Or is there
a way to break
through the
Sitting in Rain
Walking out the door
It's 4
Going to sit on natures floor
Listening to the rain
The cries let out by nature
Sitting peacefully in her tears
Mother Nature cries
It's 5
We say goodbye
No more tears
A new sky
Writer
Someone may reads books, but she doesn't always write one or so.
But another one who writes, she always read things.
She reads the sky and flowers.
She reads her surrounding.
She reads seconds that is passing.
She reads people.
She reads soul.
Fossil
Having turned away from the present, a mood slides over and locks.
A vivid personhood folds him in. A halo as in an eclipse.
Knowledge is funny how it can just eat you up:
having named eras longer than any wholesome human projection,
and compressed extinctions into black threads,
and eaten a nice meal at All Souls College,
(the organ testing its high silver pipes,
thinking of the weird smear of blonde on the nude girl
he’d seen split apart in the operating theater)
John Phillips tumbles down some stone steps and dies,
concussing, his soft body softening further
on the edges of the granite,
erasing, in a way, a fish in reverse,
the special fleshy hope-lumps—no, need-lumps
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