#freeverse

[laketoriver]

the three musketeers clash timelines but feetman isn’t physically feetman y’know.. so he just wayne. seemingly random twitch streamer in a completely seperate universe with video game characters who has convinced himself that this is some weird dream at worst.

freemind does what he does best (nitpicking and arguing)

P1 (here) , P2

[zaneshoe01]

Indecisive

Hours pass by Don’t know what to do, so I do nothing Waste my god damn time away Guess I’m in no hurry Of course it’s got me itching Got me thinking overtime What the fuck do I do? Tryna be a poet baby, gotta live that poets life Of sitting in empty rooms wondering what to do Or gritting my teeth anytime I gotta do anything at all Professional bum with the excuse of being a writer Take…

[viscera-doodles]

[ragewrites]

February 21, Lianna Schreiber 21 / 02 / 2023

[thepathetickind]

in fact, I know nothing about you, but every time I see you I become silently sad and hope the very best for you. When we see each from time to time, just because of another coincidence, I hope your dreams come true and that you're going to be happy

by laurenmaerie, maybe not a stranger

[justjozzyjitters]

Old Poem #83

"How dare the sunrise,

When in the night, I thrive."

With dawn comes the sprites demise,

So bright they match up with the sun,

Go unseen to do as they please,

As a danger to you and me.

Till once again the sun goes down,

And yet again the sprites come out,

The rest of us free to avoid,

As we see the danger they employ.

Yet again we play our games,

To mystify those who also live for the night,

A wonderment, sprites to spies,

Everything is mystifying after sunrise.

About 2022, age 18.

[jacibwrites]

"But Gravity Still Exists," Jacquelyn Bengfort in Couplet Poetry

[inkstained-dreamscapes]

Stifled

Sunlight shines through the windows

Clouds roll about

High in the sky

Why am I to suffer

In this closed room

My breath stifled

I sit here

Surrounded by geniuses

And idiots alike

Whispers from all around trickle into my ears

While the man in white paces around

Occasionally peering into

The blank notebooks we hold

I wish to break free from here

To draw a long breath of air so fresh

It draws away the foggy veils

Covering my mind

I wish to skip around green gardens

Climb high trees

Experience all that the wonderful world

Has to offer

For me

Grand scenarios pile up

Like untouched textbooks in my room

Oh how I wish to be liberated

Like the pigeons flying by

[kendrixtermina]

(the fucking things on the plate are touching and the sauces mix together)

nobody will acknowledge it they might come take you if you even say it the terrible ease with which an instant of spilled seed can create a life, a new thing to suffer, that never would know suffering if it were not created the deliberate seldom less suspect than the accidental desiring a thing for their use one moldable canvas from which all that grows wild must be ripped out like weeds

but even if you lop the fucking tubes off, you cannot escape those filthy things can speak to each other, exchanging moments, drawing in tied, laying themselves open to be sliced by each other contaminating, complicating meddling superorganisms mashing its filthy parts together to tangle, as in spiderwebs to spiral and fall yet web-tied to the ground, where the things will pick you off

To think that just anybody has the power to their filthy hands on you leave that troublesome trail of their warmth, that fades ever entropic into the night, to leave a sense of cooling where once there was nothing

scratch your lovers, and what bleeds is often a mouth, biding its time to consume you

[lastconcourse]

Linked Sails

When wet obsidian talks through this landscape,

the ranks of burlap sails are printed on,

and are quickly printed out

and the passion of reading pulls them, all eight, taut.

This ink drains,

While the local Turtles stir their glass purses

while they make new knots of water flex upward

to inflame the pond shore surface

with warped cornices painted by & with Sun’s-Color.

A mini-ball stamps the cameo of Seaweed on the under-rib of the architrave

and here: is a Rainbow held by the wooden ringfingers

in the bouquet of white flags, which has linkages made of shadow and oil,

& servos to shove the Bow’s colors forward, downward,

from the airborne pose-position in the white sky

like a fountain bolted on an air

balloon spraying straight wet light

down: toward.

[laketoriver]

P1 , P2 (here)

[zaneshoe01]

Angry

Scream at who? Who is this anger directed at? Fuck if I know Still feel like screaming Suppose I dislike God But unless I could hurt him somehow it makes no difference Aimless anger, contained because there is no release available Write a poem to express it, then return to it afterwards It is my darling, my secret lover I cannot withstand it’s embrace So I lie to everyone and see which…

[viscera-doodles]

he's always talking about pixies and warlocks and werewolves,,, (oh my)

[ragewrites]

Etch (II), Lianna Schreiber 28 / 01 / 2023

[in2-you]

those eyes

hauntingly familiar eyes gaze my way. not at me, but through me. through my flaws, through my flairs, through my heart,  through my soul.

those eyes, oh so sharp, pierce through my heart. like an icicle, like a knife, slicing through flesh.

those same eyes were once soft. once soft to me, now soft to another. they sparkle and shine, illuminating someone else’s.

will these eyes, these painfully beautiful eyes, ever glance over at me again?  - T

[chucklinggg]

What will it be?

The love for you is of the aching kind

Knowing it won’t be returned in the way I’d like

I stare into your green almost all-knowing eyes,

Conversing to soothe the edges of my mind 

But can I ever bring this up?

Storing the secret burns, the shimmering coal

Maybe you’d be flattered, to know that you’re loved 

Slightly discomfited but you’d smile and squeeze my hand,

Asking when did I know?

Or more likely, you’d be horrified and you’d smile still, 

But that smile wouldn't reach the corners of your eyes, 

Either way, the months will turn into years, 

You’ll find your first grey hair and think I had forgot, 

Of the love that had kept me up, 

That let salt-water weave its way down,

Still not realising, 

The love for you is not of the fading kind.