6 poorly written poems sorry

I keep it all

 

 

I have tried to reach you,

you ghosted my view.

I have something to tell you,

something you never knew.

About something to do,

something that is new.

All the information for you,

no lies just what is true.

I tried to reach you,

you ghosted my phone too.

Ignored my number’s view,

what a thing to do.

I have information for you,

give me a minute or two.

Please hear my words true,

ghost me you must do.

I will tell of what is new,

by millions, my account grew,

half of the money, it is for you.

These words I say true,

but ghost me you do.

 

 

 

A light and night ramble

 

 

Walk towards the light,

away from the tormenting night,

Keeping both in your sight.

Be prepared for yourself to fight,

you can be pulled back despite,

how strongly the light is bright.

Don’t be afraid of your plight,

acknowledge to yourself your fright,

of both night and light to reunite.

Confusing what is in your sight,

forgetting your current site,

a feeling of being contrite,

all because of the light.

Rejoining the night,

walk towards what is bright,

forget about your fright,

be aware of your own sight,

become one with the night.

Reflect on what seems right,

keep the thoughts in the light,

acknowledge without the night.

There’d be nothing known as bright,

without the definition of light.

The opposite of what is night,

both are known to our sight.

 

 

 

The bed

 

 

It feels wrong to sleep without you, alone,

staring at the bed like I’m made of stone.

Fearful nights since this did begin,

less painful nights before I get in.

How you use to make the bed,

fluffed up pillows for our heads.

The sheets nicely laid and tight,

It took a while to get it right.

It took a while to get sleep back,

it was something that I lacked.

Taking from pockets the tissues,

I solved the laundry issues.

Lumped up balls distorted the sight,

garbage in pockets formed so tight.

This bed that I often now make,

sitting staring still awake.

Wanting you to lay by my side,

this need since the day you died.

This bed I will sleep in again,

I just need to numb the pain.

Fluffed up pillows and pulled tight,

it will remain made throughout the night.

Each night at the bed I stare,

while I sleep in your favorite chair.

 

 

 

Strung a line

 

 

Stringing things into one line,

manipulated to make them one.

Making it into your own design,

admiring what you have spun.

You call what you made art,

making it important to you,

but will not take it apart,

not for all our full views.

One line is an untruthful thing,

many parts make up what is lined.

Just because you used a string,

does not make you artistically inclined.

What you have shown to be able to do,

by stringing things together in a row,

is to show us all what we already knew,

you have a weakened fragile ego.

Why would a line be referred to as art?

When a line itself is just a line.

No difference from the start,

some thick others drawn fine.

Why your ego needs attention?,

why you believe in your view?,

why is it a line I mention?

It is the only thing you drew.

 

 

 

 

Synapses tone

 

 

A look into the minds eye,

a reflective view towards you.

Reviewing all memories that comply,

into the ones forgotten you knew.

The interpretations are alone,

they are within the ridge’s grooves.

Vibrating to your synapses tone,

while your thoughts desperately move.

Within each groove lies the past,

the memories kept for review.

The ones you keep safe to last,

the ones you know are true.

Looking into your minds eye,

reflecting on the pasts view.

Be patient when you try,

these memories are of you.

 

 

 

A story is

 

 

A story is only told when told,

the story can be new or old,

the story can be interesting,

or it can be very investing.

A story can be long or short,

it can even make you snort.

It can be filled with lies,

about how someone dies,

about something that makes you smile.

Some of them to tell take a while,

some are sad and bring a frown,

those leave you feeling down.

A story is a story when it’s told,

listening as the story unfolds.