sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
Don't Remember Kissing You
[Verse 1] You tell me my kisses keep you awake Like fingerprints pressed in the shape of a mistake You swear I leaned close, said your name in the dark But I search every room and can't find the spark [Pre-Chorus] Your story fits my face too well Still every detail rings a bell I never heard [Chorus] Was I your muse, was I your imagination? A borrowed body in a private conversation? You say my mouth left a mark on you But I don't remember, I don't remember you If I was there, why am I missing? Why does your memory feel like a confession? You tell me my kisses haunt you But I don't remember kissing you [Verse 2] You know the scar beneath my sleeve The song I hate, the way I leave You keep a photograph turned toward the wall My shape in the corner, or no shape at all [Pre-Chorus] You speak in scenes I can't replay And I keep giving parts away To make them true [Chorus] Was I your muse, was I your imagination? A borrowed body in a private conversation? You say my mouth left a mark on you But I don't remember, I don't remember you If I was there, why am I missing? Why does your memory feel like a confession? You tell me my kisses haunt you But I don't remember kissing you [Bridge] Maybe you loved a version made of clues Maybe I was only what you needed me to be Don't call it fate, don't call it proof I won't wear a memory that never belonged to me [Final Chorus] Was I your muse, was I your imagination? The answer hiding underneath your accusation? You say my mouth left a mark on you But I don't remember, I don't remember you If I was there, I would be missing From every hour I can still call mine You tell me my kisses haunt you But I don't remember kissing you [Outro] Don't remember kissing you Don't remember being there If I was your dream, let me disappear
By Julie O'Hara - Author, Poet and Spiritual Warriora day ago in Poets
Half Truths
My mom’s closer now to seventy than fifty, and I’m more scared about how I’ll be able to pay rent than how I’ll be completely, painfully alone. That’s half true, if at all. It’s like dropping your cigarette on the sidewalk and watching as it bounces into the grass— you stomp on it a little harder because it’s more likely to spread. I guess I’m as scared as I should be. It’s going to kill me, probably. Fear is capable of that. Anyway, the sparks wouldn’t die so I picked it up and put it back onto the concrete where the bottom of my shoe finished the job. She’s been asleep since before I lit it in the first place.
By Olivia Dodge2 days ago in Poets
Rotted In Glass
Emerald stems, Silk, crimson petals, Love letters, Candlelit dinner. Petals turn brown, Love letters burnt, Candles smashed, Dinner, alone. Hushed tears, Fist-punctured plaster, Beer can cracked, You're the new target. Fractured smile, Latent bruising, Oppressive nights, Ensuite weeping. Emerald stems withered, Rotted in glass, The petals have fallen— Another can cracked
By Sharna Halliwell3 days ago in Poets
I Have Called the Darkness Friend
I Have Called the Darkness Friend You call me dramatic; you say I speak in fear, But you weren’t there beside me when the darkness drew near. You haven’t heard the whispers dressed in promises of light, Or watched a thing that seemed so good reveal its face at night.
By Hannah Lambert4 days ago in Poets
