Poetry

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  1. loveshiva profile image53
    loveshivaposted 8 years ago

    A mysterious sensation!!!

    Love for some, comes as an urge; a necessity or sometimes as a gratification.
    But love for few, ebbs for no reason but it’s just a “sensation”.
    You know “that” moment, when you’re suddenly in love with this creature
    Be it a friend or a stranger.’

    But “how” is a query, for which you’ll never find an answer now or in future.
    An infatuation?  NO!!!
    It just means you are made for each other.

    Near or far, in peace or war,
    Amidst sorrow or joy, be it a girl or a guy;
    I know they are mine and will always remain.
    This brutal world might build a bridge,
    But the pervious bond will deepen through
    Valleys or oceans, through ridges or tunnels,
    For love is unconditional
    And the chemistry, a queer thing to comprehend
    And a sheer mystery to reveal.

    In the absence, though life persists,
    Hoping that there will be a moment of reunion,
    Aware of the uncertainty and the surprises
    The next moment possesses,
    Waiting perseveringly at the dawn of graces,
    Be it in death or rebirth.

    1. Uriel profile image77
      Urielposted 8 years agoin reply to this

      ""Waiting perseveringly at the dawn of graces,
      Be it in death or rebirth.""
      WOW this line really struck me big_smile i couldn't help but reread it again LOL.~ YOu have a great talent in verse my friend:D
      I really hope you are really enjoying your stay here and expressing yourself more often in the form of poetry. Great talent and i can't wait to read more i hope you really feel generous and keep on writing such stuff and share with us your feelings. ALways an honor to be a fan of another Poet,
      And as always Quote Cris A by saying "LET IT FLOW"
      The Fallen Poet (too scared to write)

      The pen lies broken on the crimson floor
      Palms sweaty red slippery and swore
      The scars run deep but the words can’t explain
      Can’t comprehend the terror can’t tell about the pain
      It hurts when what you feel on paper you can’t pour
      And it burns like acid through the ashes deep it digs down more
      Bleakness and Emptiness
      Hopelessness and madness
      Describe the little white empty sheet of damnation and terror
      No words no reflection as the pen stares at itself in the mirror
      The writer with the mighty pen has turned vulnerable and weak
      Silenced by the excruciating pain, hungry to cry yet unable to speak

      The Shattering muteness
      Drives the poet to madness
      The memories taste of bitterness burn like lava of heat
      As the master of the pen mutely stumbles off her feet
      And the sheet under her palms virginally lays blank in the snow
      She, into the river of expression is inevitably unable to row
      And the serpents of her past uncoil and call upon her demon
      Nails dig down her scalp as she drowns in the past’s venom
      She once trusted that her pen will never fail her
      Yet once again she was wrong, oh life never is fair
      Has her heart gone cold out of shock?
      Or has it run out of time and turned to rock?
      The master’s memories are there right where they were
      But her heart can’t put them into words, unexpressed, so unfair
      Has the pen surrendered its final verses?
      To the dark and claimed death its mistress?
      Or has the last line of her heart run dry from the master’s blood

      And decided to watch her body arch in pain and her blood flood?
      Six hundred sixty six days the poet master held her head up high
      Though she knew that the scarce hope she hang to was a lie
      Carried by the wind like a powerless feather
      The master has become the slave don’t bother
      Life turned hate and evil to be her middle name
      And the numbness for her soul has came to claim
      The only words she had, have lost their lust and tastes
      As life sours everything the poet’s little hope fades
      When being the poet you are gets you damned and called a whore
      Sulk like the old master into the bleakness call life just no more

      Remember my face and how it felt to be broken
      Remember the silence of my pen and being the fallen
      The bruised fingers shake in agony and silence. Or is it fear?
      As the broken poet too scared to write sheds her last tear
      Uriel

  2. bojanglesk8 profile image60
    bojanglesk8posted 8 years ago

    It's real good.

  3. Lita C. Malicdem profile image59
    Lita C. Malicdemposted 8 years ago

    Poem writing isn't anyone's possession, it is everybody's aspiration, all right- but only few are granted the copyright. Just like you are, loveshiva. Nice poem!

  4. profile image0
    poetlorraineposted 8 years ago

    lovely just what we all  need on a monday morning.....

  5. JamesVarney profile image59
    JamesVarneyposted 8 years ago

    This is cool. U write well. Keep it up. I love this site.

    James

 
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