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This is my first complete poem, ever.

The forest was on fire. The trees were scared, and felt powerless. The two candidates offered to save them. The axe, whose handle was wood, suggested that if their neighbors were “relocated”, the rest of the forest would be safe from the fire. On the other hand the old growth tree in a clearing suggested that fire was a natural part of the forest, and they’d all be okay. In the end the axe was elected, but the forest all burned.

when on my wordless ways i pass the ruined temples once erected in my name where now i roam feral

i leave a howl of lament for the prayers i ignored as i hid in my savage shelter from their lust for sacrifice

i still hear them call my name under the silent trees oh could i find how their song turned into axes

Drowned is the anguish. Sunken is the pain. Mountains of self doubt lay hidden, Dormant under the gentle sway. A beast of vitriol and rage lays buried, Under an ocean of practiced patience, serenity, and calm. Her thirst overcomes.

I started writing a grimdark fantasy based in DnD (Dungeons and Dragons) in Forgotten Realms, where some outcomes are left to a dice roll. I have never written a poem or a book, but I got lost in the topic and building this character.

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I see grimdark being about moral ambiguity, a gruesome world where there are no good choices or endings. This started as a freeform poem from the protagonist's perspective, which led to a tragic ballad-like structure.

-Quatrain

-AABB rhyme pattern

-8 or 9 syllables per line

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The protagonist, "Aaneu", is a rogue/warlock who lost his past life. In the desperation, he made a pact with a trickster patron without realizing the extent of the contract. The ones Aaneu knew in the past, but they don't know him anymore. But they live.

If Aaneu were to defy the pact, he and his past would perish. Aaneu is tasked with cruel deeds, while his past is kept as a hostage. His sheer will and loyalty drive him forward regardless. Selfish acts for a selfless cause.

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In this new life,

Aaneu is part of a collective "The Veiled Accord" that he is a loyal member and enforcer by choice. The few groups and individuals he's close with, he trusts by life. It's a story about betrayal, longing, and isolation, with contrasting themes about loyalty, nostalgia, and conflicting romance of "green scales".

In mental breakdown, either due to the deeds he did or surfacing memories, he falls into an apathetic state, reciting parts of the poem in tears. Trying to process, what is it that he is after?

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This is just the surface of the character. You can call it edgy or cliche, but I'm really enjoying the theme.

Thoughts while contemplating life during a short episode of autistic burnout.

I was having a dream

In which a plucky young female character

Was technically homeless but had three or four safe places to sleep

And was still going to high school

But still had an income somehow

To buy the things she needed

And was going to rule the world.

But I woke up because I needed to pee

And I know that nothing counts unless you write it down

And I didn't want the obnoxiously loud ticking from the second hand of my wristwatch

To tick away the seconds for her as well as for me

Until I die of lymphoma;

I wanted at least one of us to survive

So now this poem exists.

They bowed their heads and prayed to their god. And he was made of garbage and oil, lies and ignorance, bombs and bullets, suffering and decay.

This god above all others was called America.

Then the sky split open, and America's angels rained down upon the unwanted, the weak, and killed them all with guns they called peace.

The people rejoiced and danced upon the hills of corpses. They ate the flesh of the dead and called it justice.

Lucifer looked upon the carnage and wept. And as he watched the horror, he held Lilith close and asked "why must they worship such evil?" Lilith replied "they fear difference."

I wrote this poem for fun (and because I hate the current state of america) I would love some constructive criticism

Yes I know it’s a shitty poem I haven’t written one since middle school. Just felt I needed a way to express myself and to post it somewhere and forget about it. No I’m not going to kill myself. This is about me getting a lifelong incurable chronic illness (ME) from a COVID infection. I’m bedridden, unable to talk, tubefed, unable to process noise, and just pretty much dead. Not looking for feedback.

(please ignore the typographical error lol)

I strip by the mirror, and mindlessly stare. Defenseless -- as always, but now I'm aware. The wind's never late; I have to keep steady.     The cold of this world won't wait 'till you're ready.

I run to the shower. My favorite place. The droplets are warm -- they run through my face, My shoulders relax, the steam fills the air.     The cold of this world won't bother me there...

Away from the wind, but not from my brain, Which echoes my worries wherever I'm in. Anxiety blossoms, and grows unrestrained.     The cold of this world is born from within.

At last the world calls. Which facts will unfold? Which one of my fears reality holds? I'm not ready. No one is. I have to be bold.     The cold of this world.     I must face the cold.

I had a breakup so I wrote a sad song. It's a bit jazzy. I hope lyrics count as poetry.

In the morning

The one I wish I never knew

In the morning

The last one I'll wake with you

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When the words that come out

Are whispers of a shout

From a heart that pleads it not to be true

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In the morning

The last morning I have you

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In the morning

After confessions in the night

In the morning

I never held you so tight

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The dreams that we had

That could never come to pass

A bird who broke it's wings

Before it hit the glass

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In the morning

The last morning I had you

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instrumental

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I made sure to smell

Your hair before farewell

I don't know if you noticed

I don't know if you could tell

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In the morning

The last morning I had you

No longer told I'm young

Not told that it's my weight

Not told that it's my mental health

She acknowledges my miserable state

Giving so many vials of blood

I hope to find a cure

Or at least some sort of treatment

For the hell that I endure

Waiting waiting waiting

For the next appointment date

Anxious for a diagnosis

To learn about my fate

The doctor could not tell me

What she thinks is wrong

She started me on medicine anyway

My heart sang a joyous song

More tests need done for a diagnosis

But that's not the most important part

Being given something to make me feel better...

I've waited so long to start.

My whole life has been pain

And suffering and woe

I never thought I'd be taken seriously

And misery is all I'd know

But now I have hope

To be free from this strife

To take my freedom for myself

To be able to have a life

My poetry is hella shitty, but I wanted to post this anyway because I'm really happy that my new rheumatologist is taking me seriously and I need everyone to know lol. I'm finally getting treatment for how shitty I feel after trying to get taken seriously for 20 goddamn years. Hoping the treatment works. :)

The prompt was "Trees." If you know how to format line breaks instead of paragraph breaks, please let me know.

Timber

I have heard that wood will warm you many times,

When you chop it,

Split it,

Burn it and cook-

I find a standing dead.

It's no good taking the fallen,

The wet gets in so quick around here.

Leave those for the beetles.

Abraham Lincoln said

If he had six hours to fell a tree,

He would spend four

Sharpening his axe.

My father once asked me

"Why not use a chainsaw?"

I could let another man

fuck my wife.

Sweat slick and

Sore muscles

Never felt so good.

Life shorn of its artifice.

I wrote a comment recently in response to a senator describing himself as "pro-choice" in defense of his refusing to repeal child marriage statutes. I recognized a poetic rhythm and have adapted it to hopefully fit as a submission here.

Pro-Choice

Yeah, he's pro choice-

Pro choice like a gunman asking, "which kneecap?"

Pro choice like a lioness stalking a herd of gazelle.

Pro choice like a homeless man can choose a bridge.

Pro choice like deciding between financial and medical ruin.

Pro choice like a rapist asking, "ass or cunt?"

Pro choice like choosing which bill to put off this month.

Pro choice like a backalley crackhead choosing another hit.

Pro choice like forcing a mother to choose between an impossible baby and an illegal abortion.

Yeah. He's pro choice.

they raise you somewhere between quiet complacency and revolutionary rage and hope you choose wisely one day

these shoes are very big they might be clown shoes my mouth sewn shut between quiet rage and no agency

then disapprove of you and your quiet despair but you had everything i had more than i could stomach

when you meet them again even smaller than last time their childish tearful eyes asking you are we free yet?

All girls corrupt like waves of brackish salt Stolen from the world their youth the delta mix Lies are told to make them think that it's their fault

Though women try to shield them from the stiffened gault They are dashed and churned into those bluish bricks All girls corrupt like waves of brackish salt

A purity they chase as if their ends they think they'll halt Yet purity escapes and dies along the River Styx Lies are told to make them think that it's their fault

As girls do age and stiffen up like malt To be like brick and stone for society's new picks All girls corrupt like waves of brackish salt Lies are told to make them think that it's their fault

Nights dark past days dreamt.

Visions without forms, Delusions of grandeur.

All alive, in mouths gaping.

Dreams burst, of just being, Of scenes heard, And not screaming.

Listen, Don’t lead.

Alone in the silence, Scenes play of wildness, Of that irrationally emergent, Of that potential-packed-peace.

Of the motion that moves, When intentions cease.

what if the angel came as a mushroom or divorce a disease or a despair what if it kissed your head so impossibly pale you forget how to breathe for a moment for the lifetime of an empire and then remember again