for the boy who breaks hearts just to break them, 

and for the girl who keeps them hanging on, just to have something to touch. 

-Loustella Perry

This was inspired by early Chuck Bass from Gossip Girl. 

.

as a child

i was raised

to be free

and yet

fully dependent

on others

.

~@pocketfullofpoesies

.

what makes us

afraid to ask

is the answer

we know

but

are not expecting

.

~@pocketfullofpoesies

will you turn my brittle body into poetry

when the cold kiss of death floats down to my solitary corpse

will you mourn the path i skipped along

writing beautiful words of how my spirit dances in the wind

or will i be forgotten?

just to become a feast for the life that lives under the surface

scribbled lines in the once lively flesh

it was never pen ink that cherished me so

While I Still Can

You’ll find that sometimes I fall back down over the same rock in what seems like an infinity of wasted chances to jump over it, impulsive being such as I, my mind goes racing around ignoring the signs again and again and again.. stumbling over my own faults

but I can’t ignore the warnings forever.. and eventually I’ll learn the way up the mountain

And maybe it’ll be a little too late and years gone by before I reach the threshold

but ill never stop climbing, even as i struggle on my way up the slopes, scrapes and all

Perhaps to most it’s meaningless to wait around to see if I’ll ever get up that hill, but, I’d have a lifetime to move on and keep trying

And when I tire along the way and feel the heavy solemnity of my woes dragging me down from  fighting demons among the shadows of the shaded areas of my soul, I’ll find you there waiting for me all along, with the will to help carry me up and harness my heart, so that if I keep falling back to the bottom you’ll always be there to pull me up from underneath the bevy of gravel in which I’d dig myself under.. 

In which with your patience I’ll once again try running up that hill..even if I never get to make that deal before my death, and while I still can I’ll plant my seeds along the way up, until im rooted enough to bloom my own gardens of hope among the peaks of your soul.

[ By-Sin. Late night poems lead to long ones that get reread many times and then “fixed” for better or worse (mostly for worse,) yet I hope someone reads and likes it somewhat somehow? From XsWOs]

You Think I

You think I

Write poems but that’s

not correct;

this doesn’t mean anything,

right?

You didn’t love me.

Well maybe words

write themselves and

I catch a glimpse of them.

Or

maybe

you think I

write stories via flowers -

you didn’t love me, poems.

You think I catch feelings

via glimpses

in I think I didn’t I -

poems.

JP

It is at the quietest hour
thoughts are waging wars
screaming on top of the other
pulling you down under.

You feel for air and gasp for one
hoping to get ahold of warmth
but every breath feels like fire
and burns all the way down.

In silence you drown
and a question broke,
how come the fragile souls
conceal the wildest storms?

Mirror, mirror

tw: depersonalization & derealization

Fog takes over my thoughts

I can hardly see

The daily look into the mirror became unbearable

Wild eyes and furrowed brows

Who is she?

Her head is full of question marks

The sounds are drowning me

Laughter all the way down

My throat hurts

Maybe I laughed too hysterically?

I need to get that hand off my face!

A look into the mirror

My hand is covering my left cheek

As if I burnt my skin, I pull the hand away with all my might

Con-cen-tra-tion, concentration now begins!

Look, it’s your own hand!

I am

I am me

Am I?

Oh mirror, mirror

What have you done to me?

I just want to be myself

Whoever she is

WHAT TRIGGERS A POEM?

         My senses play a big role in triggering my sensitivity to the surroundings: A beautiful butterfly, the song of a bird, the fragrance of flowers, a taste of pure honey, the smooth soft touch of a cat … a word or phrase from what I read or from what I hear, an emerging emotion, a desire to express my true feelings. 

         Feelings are not right nor wrong;

Feelings speak to me and tell me I am alive.

I want to feel them;

I want to acknowledge them

So that I may learn from them

I want to hug them because they are mine,

They belong to me, they arise from within me.

No longer do I want to suppress them,

Not after I have called them my own,

Like my brothers and my sisters,

My very soul.

THE MYTHS ABOUT POETRY

Therefore, it is not correct to say that poetry is difficult. Equally incorrect is for anyone to declare, “I can’t write poems.”

Every day we are talking poetry; every day we are feeling poetry and overwhelmed by poetry: “Oh! I am so delighted, thank you so very much, oh you are so sweet … Oh! I love you, how much I miss you … This coffee is so stimulating, so aromatic, oh the fragrance … What a beautiful morning; This is just so wonderful; It is so comforting, so therapeutic, so healing … What a relief! You make my day; You are God-sent; You are a friend indeed, a friend in need you are … I am hurt! I am angry; You are terrible … I hate you!”

Whenever we sing, whether nursery rhymes, pop songs or hymns, that again is poetry.

         I suppose now you are ready to add your own poems to the above list.

         My point is, these are honest feelings and honest expressions from within our very selves. You and I, we are breathing poetry and coughing poetry, we are indulging in poetry. EVERY DAY!

How do I manage them? What can I do? What can I say?

I am contemplating, “Perhaps, I will jot them down, scribbling as they emerge, …  precisely as they come …”

         This is how poetry become conceived in me.

         As in all professions, there are practitioners who specialize in various fields. This is true for poetry too. Hence, we have poets who specialize in the wonder and beauty of nature; some in satire and lamentation; others in humanity and spirituality; still others in melancholy, ecstasy, humor, and all kinds of inspirational and imaginative poems.

         It leaves me now to announce appropriately and timely, in and with readiness:

         Arise, arise

         At the break of dawn

         Greet the newness of morn

         Meet the necessities for today

         Listen, stay refreshed

         Write them down, truly as they arise.

©Johnny J P Lee

28 October 2020

Photos Credit J. P. Lee

Hues of you

I think about a lot of things when I stare into space,

But when asked, those things immediately fly out of my head

Then I remember them later and think ​

          Thank God I didn’t say that

I still think about you ​

          all the time

All the things I am afraid to say, ​

          questions I am afraid to ask

Fear of answers, fear of what you’ll think

Fear of silence keeps me talking, ​

          like if I talk enough,

You won’t be able to think long or hard enough

          about leaving me

Sometimes I write poems out of fear ​

          like maybe my half-legible script, ​

          written by my ever-shaking hands, raw and uncensored

My word choice or inability to rhyme, ​

          who knows, really

Like my heart written in ink on the blue lines of this page ​

          could ever be enough to earn your love

Even though it was once

I often feel like there isn’t anything I could do or say

To win your heart, to take your breath away

You hardly have to try, ​

          you render me speechless as you’re curled up with your nose in a book

Somewhere between beautiful and brave, ​

          synonymous with breathtaking

They are bringing out the dead

in the Florentine streets at dawn,

while the sky is grey like lead

they are bringing out the dead;

the wealthy have long since fled

and the poor are almost gone;

they are bringing out the dead

in the Florentine streets at dawn.

.

the only thing

that’s guaranteed

is things won’t turn out

the way you planned

.

~@pocketfullofpoesies

Little stars of hope

Hung on the string of life

In the darkest of nights

You will see my house from afar

If you feel hopeless

Let the stars be your guide

To the harbour of piece and light.

a lane of tenderness

on a lane with japanese cherries

blossoming day and night

I heard you tender words whispering

walking there side by side

to me the trees were smiling

as if they could well understand

their branches bowing towards me

“be glad she calls you her friend”

that lane i like to remember

the blossoms i smell in my dreams

her words of love always so tender

forever alive it seems

*

photocredit: photosharkygiovanna 🗿🗿

dezewachtuiltjes 🗿🗿2020

Hopefulness - Bruce Adler

PRECISION

An unfortunate turn of phrase

that alters the meaning of a cause

when spoken words cannot be erased

by any reason or intent to declare it false

For the English language is very precise

to exacting vocabulary without a doubt

The choice of words is a recipe concise

to ensure a mix in measure, never to flout

This is especially true in times of war

when secret messages are so crucial

without error or misinterpretation to mar

the desired outcome of a mission impartial

©Johnny J P Lee

28 October 2020