sad poetry
The cathartic nature of poetry makes it one of the best outlets to channel feelings of sadness, emotional turmoil, grief and despair.
Flinch
That flinch you see when you raise your voice, you’re not imagining it, it is a scar of the past, a fingerprint pressed into the soft wax heart of a child,
Amanda FrazierPublished 7 years ago in PoetsUnreciprocated Feelings
The dull pang in my heart aches ever so slightly. My heart thuds in my chest almost too painfully, rattling my ribcage and jumps up to my throat.
Penny CampbellPublished 7 years ago in PoetsTo Stalk / Or Be Stalked
I walk through the rain I walk the same route every day. I come into contact with you always And only today did I notice you properly.
No One Is Truly Here
No one is truly here to wipe away your starlight tears, For that is not their purpose. No one is truly here to watch you for all these tiresome years,
Jennay HaydenPublished 7 years ago in PoetsSea of Sorrow
"A sea of clouds, fears and sorrows I cannot see my light in the sky And yet, she is above the same sea. Open my wings I must,
Miguel MeloPublished 7 years ago in PoetsUntitled
It bleeps, lights up, vibrates. Hello’s are exchanged at half-past-eight. The thumb calms the fit of excitement from the morning contact. Letters form upon the screen, buttons tapped. “Message Sending”.
You
Temporary insanity... a place of blissful indulgence, yes here it comes again... She laughs i'll go with the movement of it... fluid rhythm la la la
A Smile to Conceal the Pain
She lies everyday To strangers To loved ones She pretends she's okay In reality she's crying inside. She avoids eye contact at all times
15 Units
Fifteen shots of vodka or rum, Or two bottles of cheap wine, Every one is a different person at 3am; And the bourbon simply passes the time.
Rose PelosPublished 7 years ago in PoetsWhat's a Homewrecker's Job?
A homewrecker's job is to reap the benefits of a wife, without having to put in the work of a wife. Making herself believe that she is taking my place.
Screamin TearzPublished 7 years ago in PoetsOde to a Chickadee
What Haunts me the most, are the Random, little deaths, My mind refuses to comprehend Genocide, for even one short breath,
christopherPublished 7 years ago in PoetsThe Bulb In The Lighthouse
A sea of blue, green, white and sterility The Bulb in the lighthouse flickers and dies. Up on the rocks now, I've lost all mobility,
Ciarán O'ConnorPublished 7 years ago in Poets