~ Poetry Thread ~

[foreverbroken28]

When The Heart Stops
(An original poem)

When the heart stops,
the pain goes too.

..And all the horrible
things I can't forget
I've put you through.

When the heart stops,
so will my regrets.
So will the little hope for
you to forgive me,
i have left.

When the heart stops,
that will be the end.
And maybe in the next
life, I will see you again.

When the heart stops,
so will my pain and sorrow.
Goodbye, Goodbye loves.
There will be no tomorrow.

 

[faust]

Sorry, will copypaste this from "Random thoughts", wrote several days ago:

If death can come to us,
Why can't we come to it?
If driver stops the bus,
Why can't we take a sit?

If heavy autumn rain
Can't make us feel alive,
If we just live in vain, -
We simply cannot thrive.

If doomed to live alone,
We're lonely on the cliff.
If we are still forlorn
There is no point to live

In sunshine and the moon
If feelings still are dark
Why is there only gloom
And eyes don't have a spark?

If life is just a shame,
Why can't we simply die?
The glory and a fame
Is not for us, - goodbye!

Faust

 

[foreverbroken28]

Sorry, will copypaste this from "Random thoughts", wrote several days ago:

If death can come to us,
Why can't we come to it?
If driver stops the bus,
Why can't we take a sit?

If heavy autumn rain
Can't make us feel alive,
If we just live in vain, -
We simply cannot thrive.

If doomed to live alone,
We're lonely on the cliff.
If we are still forlorn
There is no point to live

In sunshine and the moon
If feelings still are dark
Why is there only gloom
And eyes don't have a spark?

If life is just a shame,
Why can't we simply die?
The glory and a fame
Is not for us, - goodbye!

Faust

Copy/Paste is okay. Very nice poem, btw. I 100% agree with it, of course. Thanks for sharing.

 

[Fwompje]

Sylvia Plath, The Colossus

Moonrise

Grub-white mulberries redden among leaves.
I'll go out and sit in white like they do,
Doing nothing. July's juice rounds their nubs.

This park is fleshed with idiot petals.
White catalpa flowers tower, topple,
Cast a round white shadow in their dying.

A pigeon rudders down. It's fan-tail's white.
Vocation enough: opening, shutting
White petals, white fan-tails, ten white fingers.

Enough for fingernails to make half-moons
Redden in white palms no labour reddens.
White bruises toward colour, else collapses.

Berries redden. A body of whiteness
Rots, and smells of rot under its headstone
Though the body walk out in clean linen.

I smell that whiteness here, beneath the stones
Where small ants roll their eggs, where grubs fatten.
Death may whiten in sun or out of it.

Death whitens in the egg and out of it.
I can see no colour for this whiteness.
White: it is a complexion of the mind.

I tire, imagining white Niagras
Build up from a rock root, as fountains build
Against the weighty image of their fall.

Lucina, bony mother, labouring
Among the socketed white stars, your face
Of candour pares white flesh to the white bone,

Who drag our ancient father at the heel,
White-bearded, weary. The berries purple
And bleed. The white stomach may ripen yet.