Poem-Envy, a Lullaby
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In the flicker of my midnight lamp I mumble the holy triad—
last line, first line, title—polishing edges until they sting.
My opening coughs like reeds offbeat, and my title still hovers,
a ghost I can’t yet name, waiting for its echo. -
I crack open Vuong, Clifton, Limón—comets blazing by,
their lines too precise for my stumbling pen to spy.
I envy dew at dawn that dies with perfect sigh,
while my verses dribble half-formed, and I wonder why. -
I taste the Orchard’s Lament on my tongue—petals hesitant as brides—
and dream of guiding you in a coded waltz named Anderson MXX.
But my feet trip on shards of unspoken vows,
my lamb-soft promises turning to shadowed drafts. -
The wind waltzes through golden reeds without a care
shouting melodies I can’t quite ensnare
I chase its song in fluorescent aisles and ghosted dorms
my notebook heavy with envy’s storms. -
Still, I write—joyful fool stitching cracks with half-borrowed light—
hoping one day my last line will land like lightning,
my first line grip like a held breath,
and my title finally resonate as my own.
Poem-Envy Lullaby.
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Author:
crypticbard (Pseudonym) (
Offline) - Published: August 11th, 2025 03:51
- Comment from author about the poem: Warning: contains poetic side‑eye and excessive sighing. Tonight’s sleep: sponsored by someone else’s brilliance.
- Category: Unclassified
- Views: 15
- Users favorite of this poem: Tristan Robert Lange
Offline)
Comments6
The birth of a poem can be a difficult process its inception a seductive process where and orgasm of thought plants seeds that germinate in the womb, some prematurely aborted. The growing fetus develops and is often birthed in travail. A process where the poet mother guards her offspring against attack and proudly displays it in public despite how ugly it may be always loved by its mother. Sorry for the ramble Cryptic your poem just brought this to mind. I identify with the process even though mine is a bit different it is similar enough.
Rambling always welcome, Soren. Thanks so much! Let our offspring live!🕊️🙏🏻
You are most welcome Cryptic
A midnight desk, a restless pen, and the ache of chasing brilliance that always seems just out of reach. In this intimate, self‑aware lullaby, the speaker wrestles with envy, artistry, and the fragile hope that tomorrow’s line will finally sing. It’s a quiet confession for anyone who’s ever loved the craft enough to lose sleep over it.
Good write, arqios. Great illustration. I am never quite sure, though I try, if every word earned its way into a poem.
Yeah, I get that, Jerry. I wonder if words should earn or be recognised for their place in any given poem. Very interesting to think about🙏🏻🕊️
I sense the process of writing, which seems as I am learning there are many ways, for some a difficult and sometimes long process. Myself I literally just sit down and write what's in my head, that's it for me no alterations as it is. Other's spend alot of time and thought and adjusting to get to something they are happy with, horses for courses I guess. Lovely and enjoyable read
Rik, this is gorgeous in its honesty. You’ve caught that restless space between admiration and creation—the chase for a line that lands like lightning. The wind, the waltz, the envy…all woven into something that’s entirely yours, my friend. 🌹🖤🙏🕯️🐦⬛
Thanks Tittu! It was based (loosely) on conversations with you and others on poem-envy. Glad it successfully came across the divide. 🙏🏻🕊️
Yes. I had picked up on that and had wondered. Yay! 💜 It certainly did!
Beautiful words arqios.
Andy
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