Tag: free verse

I’ve Touched The Sky- an original poem

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I’ve touched the sky, you know.
It feels like ice on the verge of melting,
strong and solid and drumming with life,
but lithe and loose and flowing with an
energy unspoken, a force not felt through
two feet on the ground.

I’ve tasted the sky, you know.
It tastes like unsweetened cream, freshly whipped,
light and fluffy and seasoned with stars,
but dark and heavy and looming with night,
an eve burdened by shadows unsavored
in the dishes of earth.

I’ve smelled the sky, you know.
It smells of a sea tossed across the world,
salty and ancient and familiar with time,
but summery and fresh and friendly to my
heart, like an old acquaintance long
lost across the land.

I’ve heard the sky, you know,
and it sings of what it’s seen;
of the the beastly and the beautiful,
the bygone and the brand-new-
I’ve heard it both repine and rejoice
in a voice as eternal as existence.

Existential Crisis

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Steampunk- Spiral- Space Time Continuum by Mike Savad
Steampunk- Spiral- Space Time Continuum by Mike Savad

I’m having an existential crisis.

Another one.

The third one this week, if we’re being wholly honest.

It usually starts when I remember that
we’re all ants sitting on an orb
spiraling through a universe
filled with other orbs
with probably other ants
sitting on them;
other ants who could be pondering
if their realities are parallel
with other realities,
or if the monotony of their existence
will mean anything when the galaxy implodes
on itself and all of time collapses.

That’s usually how it starts.

After the initial ‘awakening’ to the
fact that I am indeed an ant
floating through eternity,
a tempering of corporeality washes
over me, and I somewhat come to terms
with my inevitable ending and invisible influence.

Somewhat.

Because really, how can we ever
shake the notion that nothing is fixed,
especially ourselves,
and
what even is a self?
Why are there selves?
Am I a self?
Out of all the selves in society,
how come I am this self, and not another self?

No, not again…

I’m having an existential crisis.

I wasn’t sure whether to tag this as poetry or not, but I decided to go ahead, because poetry is a very flexible thing, I think. I’m one of those people who has existential crises left and right, if you couldn’t already tell. Whether that’s a bad thing or not, I can’t say. Probably a bad thing.

Machine- an original poem

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"Machines" by Charlie Bowater
“Machines” by Charlie Bowater

Sometimes
I feel like no more than a machine;
an automaton built from scrap metal,
and left by its maker to roam the earth,
forever searching for its beating heart.
Most of the times
I’m not even human, at least, not in my mind…
and the day draws on with no consequence,
with no meaning or might.
I’ve been compared to shells before,
spit out by the sea and abandoned by all other creatures-
but at least shells are collected,
at least they’re adored.
I always
feel like an impostor in some poor person’s skin,
a thief who stole away their life, pulled apart their
ambitions and said, “No, you can’t have those.”
Perhaps I am a machine,
dropped in this world to ruin lives,
because that’s all I ever seem to do.

War- an original poem

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Dying Warrior
Dying Warrior

War is not a game of sides.
You may don your colors proudly and
thump the sigil on your shield;
you may swear your oaths with your
steel at your feet, and kneel before your throne,
ready to break and bleed-
but war is not a clash of causes,
a battle of banners,
a trifle of titles.

War is a game of graves.
When the rage of swords has subsided,
and the crows circle the blackened sky,
your colors will be no more than scraps in the wind,
and your shield’s sigil splintered wood.
Your oaths will mean nothing when your lips are cold,
and your knees pricked with arrows.
In the end, war is a contest of casualties;
we’re corpses,
and we all look the same dead.

This free verse is a bit dark, I know, but I’m experimenting with getting into characters’ minds. This particular character is sort of on the pessimistic side (obviously).

Wings Are Hard To Come By- an original poem

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"MtG: Gift of Orzhova" by Johannes Voß
“MtG: Gift of Orzhova” by Johannes Voß

Wings are hard to come by
in a world where having two feet
planted firmly on the ground
is considered ‘customary’.
Flying is frowned upon,
especially when publicly
spreading your fiberglass wings
in defiance of ‘societal conventions’.
Magic is made monstrous
in a time when casting spells
will get you no more than a funny look
and piece of concerned advice.
Wings will weigh you down
in a sky that spits acid rain,
for flying isn’t safe nowadays,
since magic is misliked.

Pilgrims- and original poem

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"Guardian of the Sunset" by EthicallyChallenged (Milek)
“Guardian of the Sunset” by EthicallyChallenged (Milek)

We are pilgrims,
seeking what lies beyond the amber vale-
a land where the mountains are gilded in freckled light,
and the earth sighs with each step.
Here I live on dirt and rock and water,
and breathe winter air that bites my throat.
But there I’ll feast on garnet grapes,
and sleep beneath a moon carved of opal
every obsidian night.
Where malachite moss creeps up jasper trees,
and seas are bathed in starlight-
there I shall build my home,
nestled in the golden sands.
We are pilgrims,
seeking what lies beyond this molten matter world-
a land where jewels drip from trees,
and time is crystallized.

Time- an original poem

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"Sad Goodbye" by Mariana Vieira
“Sad Goodbye” by Mariana Vieira

Time will be your only friend, my child.
It will cloak you in years that I will never see,
and watch you grow in the palms of its hands.
You will hate time, my child.
You will think it your fiercest foe.
But it will be all you have.

Some nights the wind will scream your name,
some days the rain will douse your flame-
but never leave time’s side, my child,
and wander into the shadows alone.
Remember time, and keep it close.
For though it’s short, it is your own.

I have to leave you now, my child,
for where I go, the storm weeps on.
I know that in years to come you will scorn
the faceless man who abandoned you to time.
But time is my old friend, my child,
and I trust it with your life.

The Red is Gone- an original poem

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"Coalescence" by Lanie Loreth
“Coalescence” by Lanie Loreth

In a sea of gray,
the red bleeds out
like a brilliant flag amidst the smoke,
coming to life in a burst of crimson-
I marvel at the sight.

But then it’s gone,
and the beige swallows me up.
The fleeting flare of color collapses
and I am returned to the bleak cave
that is the underground.

I become one with the crowd,
a gray fish in a gray school,
striving for the stairs that rise out of my reach-
they are the deliverance from this pit
that festers with sound.

I am bumped and nudged,
elbowed and overlooked,
like a bobbing leaf in a raging stream.
Curses and whistles drizzle in my ear,
and then I see the red.

As the stairs ascend beneath my feet,
the red pulses past the pack,
a flash of color in the stilted sunlight-
a bright bloom that lifts my soul.
I long for it to stay.

But it is all gray,
everything is gray,
and I climb the stairs with heavy feet;
the train whistle below fares me well
as I abandon the gloom.

Finally I break away,
emerging like a wrinkled sprout from the mud.
I feel rejuvenated, I taste the air-
only to gag on the curling smoke drifting
from a man’s pipe.

Above is just as soiled as below;
there is no difference, none at all-
and the gray is fierce with teeth that tremble,
devouring everything. There is no color;
the red is gone.

This poem is sort of long, but it’s the result of a writing exercise. The object was to take a piece of your writing, whether it be a narrative, fictional setting, etc., and transform it into a poem. This was from the opening chapter of a project I completed a while ago, and I decided to give it go. To be honest, it didn’t turn out exactly how I planned…but it did give me a whole new perspective on that scene.

When The Stars Swallow The World- an original poem

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Unknown Artist
Unknown Artist

One day
the stars will swallow the world,
and on that day, I will be sitting here,
by this tree, waiting for you
to come and sit
and watch time crumble with me.

One day
the parchment of past and present will tear,
and on that day, I will be holding my pen,
waiting to write my last regards
before the binding melts
and the book shuts forever.

One day
the dirt beneath our feet won’t be enough
to keep us from plummeting into tunnels of space,
and on that day, I will close my eyes,
and dream of fluffing my feathers
and flying through infinity.

One day
the stars will swallow the world,
and on that day, I will be sitting here,
beneath this tree, clinging to pieces
of what could’ve been
if the world went on spinning.

Beyond The Void- an original poem

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"The Dead End" by Cyril Rolando
“The Dead End” by Cyril Rolando

Beyond the void there is
a door, murky and menacing
against a wall of thorns,
and choked in vines
that whisper
my name.

I know I must reach
that door, for beyond it lies
the answer, I think-
but the way is vast
and dripped in smog,
and the bridge rots
in ruins at my feet.

The end lies dead,
and I’m stranded on this side,
clinging to brambles and scraps
of the past that reek
of desolation.
The door, swirling in stilted light,
mocks me from afar,
singing a song that
can never be reprised.