Tag: free verse

Phantoms- an original poem

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"Ivana" by Remton
“Ivana” by Remton

If you look close enough,
you’ll be able to see the phantoms
swimming in my eyes.
Fear not, for I am not governed
by shifting shadows that whisper
impossibles against my skin.
No, I only house them,
and carry them on my cloak for all to see-
so that the world will know
my sin.

I was a child of the night, once-
long ago, I sunk into
the murk’s bitter embrace,
wrapping my arms around her
black heart and lifting it
lightly to my lips.
The shades were my sisters,
and poison was my toast,
and together we’d get drunk on toxic
sips.

I know you see the demons
dancing in my eyes, but they are dying beasts-
for I have closed my lids
and plunged them into putrid darkness.
I ascended my axe and lopped off their limbs,
leaving them to molder and rust.
My hands reek of wrongs,
but my armor is clean, and it gleams
like polished silver as my phantoms fade
to dust.

Stranger- an original poem

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"The Stranger" by TomEdwardsConcepts
“The Stranger” by TomEdwardsConcepts

People ’round here don’t take kindly to strangers.
Maybe it’s our smell, or just the look of us-
the look that says we’ve seen things, dark things,
things that’d turn any normal man’s innards into pulp;
things that’d transform a soldier into a suckling babe.
People don’t take kindly to strangers.
People don’t take kindly to me.

They don’t even have to know my name, or where I hail from-
I’m a stranger, that’s all there is to it, and I have
destruction sewn into my cloak,
and misery slashed across my lip.
They’ll look, but not for long, and their eyes’ll find
sudden interest in the stones of the street,
and their whispers’ll carry into
uncharted territories, with uncertainty
weaved into their tones.

I’m a ghost to them, a phantom blotted with grime and blood,
here to haunt their way of life, to mark the dirt
with my suffering and sadness,
to make them like me. No, they think,
as they watch me from their windows.
No, it can’t happen here.
No, he can’t happen here.
I’m a harbinger of what lies beyond their walls-
I am the absence of security.
But I’m not what they fear.

People ’round here don’t take kindly to strangers.
Maybe it’s the hardness to our jaws that outlines
a life of unseeable sights, or maybe it’s the shadows in our eyes,
the shadows that flicker against stony stares,
serving as a reminder that there is a hell.
People don’t take kindly to strangers.
People don’t take kindly to me.

The Wanderer- an original poem

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"Wanderer" by Marcodalidingo
“Wanderer” by Marcodalidingo

There’s a mark on my map,
inked in oil and scratched in haste,
with a moaning mountain
scrawled beside it;
its peak laced in smoke
and dust.

There’s a line on my map,
drawn like a jagged smile across
the plains, eternally sneering
upon the compass,
daring it to falter and turn
its gaze.

There’s a sea on my map,
draped in rolling waves that peak
like summits, tempted to
swallow the earth
and drown the journey before it’s
begun.

There’s a chance on my map,
not rubbed in charcoal or sketched with quills,
but bleeding from beneath the
parchment, as if begging
the wanderer to become the
seeker.

I Must Be A Faceless Man- an original poem

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Warrior Knight Horses
Warrior Knight Horses

I must be a faceless man,
for this cup I drink is brimmed with thorns,
and men with faces burn their lips
and choke on bloodied tongues.

I must be a faceless man,
drunk on venom and bitter blood,
and deaf to words that yank on flesh
and shrivel hides to oily sludge.

I must be a faceless man,
nameless like I was never born,
for men with names dole out their hearts,
and shed their skins for empty words.

I must be a faceless man,
for this dish I taste bites back with teeth,
and men with faces tuck their tails,
and rip at their bellies with rounded claws.

I must be a faceless man,
unbent and unbroken in a land of tears,
for faceless men must be the breakers
and igniters of the frozen years.

Can You See Me? – an original poem

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Hiding
“Hiding” by Photodream Art

Can you see me
over here
in my little box?
I know it’s dark,
but if you squint,
and tilt your head,
and call my name-
I’m sure you’ll see.

Can you hear me
through the boards
of my little box?
I know they’re thick,
but if you knock,
and pry the wood,
and train your ear,
I’m sure you’ll hear.

Can’t you see me
flailing
in my little box?
I’m trapped, you see,
and there’s no
air here to breathe.
Why can’t you
see me?

Can’t you hear me
screaming
in my little box?
I’m scared, you see,
and my voice
is drowned in the dark.
Why can’t you
hear me?

A Word- an original poem

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Fast Messenger
“Fast Messenger” by Itramaral

A word
is a double-edged sword,
for it rings clear and true,
but stings with
a red smile.
Me? I am
no wielder of hammers-
I seek not to shriek rusted
blade against blade
beneath the shadow
of the gallows.
I deliver
my attack with callous lips
and loose my barrage
as grave silence
glowers on.
I am
loved by some, and loathed
by most, but my duty
beneath the blight
remains the same.
This battle
is not one of arms and axes,
but one of reading lips
and sometimes
reading minds.
I am
good at playing the part
of the fading ghost who
haunts abandoned
battlefields and
beds atop tombs.
They need
not see me, so long
as they listen, for
I forge and fight with
the deadliest weapon-
a word.

I Was Born Into a World- an original poem

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Abstract White Hands
Abstract White Hands

I was born into a world coated
in quicksand, but you
were the vine wrapped
around my waist, yanking me
to the sweet surface with
every misstep.

I was born into a world slick
with swindlers, but you
were the sword that struck
down my doubts, and swept
away the muck that lay
in my path.

I was born into a world dangling
with ruby lures, but you
were the shears that snipped
off the bait, sending me
swimming into the sun
for a tastier prize.

I was born into a world swallowed
in glaring sun, but you
were the one who opened
my eyes, teaching me that
there was nothing to fear
in the light.

I was born into a world veiled
in the mist of dusk, but you
were the one who took
my hand, and with soft fingers
parted the sweeping folds
of black.

This poem is in honor of my mother, who, despite every struggle and burden she endures, has always been there to support me. Happy Mother’s Day!

Proud- an original poem

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Knight by the Lake
“Knight by the Lake” by David Hong

I remember the day when they
draped this satin cloak around my neck,
and kissed my shoulders with steel.
It was an honor, you see, a blessing
from the faceless gods that I
did not deserve.
I was proud, that day.

I remember the day when I
watched a naked man be beaten bloody
because he dared to ask for coin
to feed his children.
I looked away, unblinking, and
pretended I did not see.
I was proud, that day.

I remember the day when they
sent me off to a stripped land
to set it afire and milk it of gold.
It was my duty, you see, and I
marched forth steely-eyed and stone-eared,
drowning out the screams.
I was proud, that day.

I remember the day when I
tasted the bitter tang of war, and
cut down foes with a sword that
did not feel like mine.
They were boys, I killed, greener
than the grass; but still,
I was proud, that day.

This title I bear as champion of good
is paper armor on a dying ghost,
for I’m no knight who wears satin cloaks
and says his vows in earnest.
I’m proud, I know, and my eyes
are caked in blood and ash;
but now I think I see.

Throne- an original poem

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queen of crows
Unknown artist

When I was young, I built a throne of roses,
and said, “One day it’ll be I who sits
there, with a scepter of silver
in my hands and a beaded
crown woven into my hair.”

But shadows are tricky creatures, my friend,
and they stretched across the lands
with fingers that drained the blood
from my skin and cast
my heart in dusk.

Now I am old, and sit upon a throne of thorns,
with broken glass plaited
into my hair, and a bone dagger
in my hands that weeps
tears of red.

Listen – an original poem

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Skyrim archer image
“Skyrim Archer Image” by Unknown Artist

The wizened crow sang me a song
of blue fire that
melts the flesh off your bones,
and violet mountains that hunger
for the sky. I did not know
what any of that meant
at the time, but I smiled,
and nodded.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of needles that fly
and pierce the skin of the earth
and broken bows that fling
their sorrow into
the sea. I laughed, for
it did not make any sense
to me.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of assassins who weep
and armies that crumble to dust
in the heat of battle, before the
sun bleeds over their corpses. I
shook my head
and walked away, for it
was all nonsense.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of a fate further
than the stars, and a lonely wanderer
reaching into the dark,
with nothing but the snow on her back
and a heart in her hands.
I looked at him, and wondered
why.

The wizened crow sang me a song
of crippled worlds
and torn puppet strings, and at first
I didn’t hear him.
But now I sit
and train my ears, and
all I do is
listen.

Welp, here’s a free-verse. I wanted to try my hand on a “speed” poem, so I didn’t take any more than ten minutes on this.