PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Would they laugh at the irony,

two legends sharing a stool, 
Trading tales of prophets, tyrants,

and the stubbornness of fools. 

Would they toast to free will,

that double-edged gift, 
Or argue who shoulders the blame

when the world starts to drift. 

Perhaps they'd find comfort

in the roles they both keep, 
Two sides of a coin, twirling

and spinning, endlessly deep.

.

The Cost of Pretense

You polish the mask
until it blinds you.

The mirror smiles back,
but no one else does.

Honest hands
slip away from your grasp,
tired of holding
what isn’t there.

The joke you rehearsed
falls flat in the silence.   

And when the lights go out,
you pay the price alone—

a face unrecognizable,
a name no longer yours.

.

We begin with simple words, 
not heavy with symbols or riddles, 
just a steady rhythm of voices 
gathering in one place. 

The page is wide enough for all of us, 
its quiet waiting to be filled. 
Each line is a step forward, 
each pause a chance to listen. 

We write to share, 
to make something together 
that feels like a hand extended, 
a small light carried into the evening.

.

to the Poet, on their inviting words

Your words unfold like a quiet lantern,
casting light without demanding notice.
They remind us that essence is never lost,
                                   only translated,
like a fragrance carried on different winds.

There is comfort in knowing
that what stirs the heart in one tongue
will find its echo in another.
The rose does not ask to be named,
yet it is recognized everywhere.

Keep writing in this way —
where simplicity hides depth,
and every line feels like a door
that opens into silence,
inviting us to step through.

.

The Good Poem Gone Bad / The Bad Poem Gone Good

The “good” poem builds its cathedral,
 arches of meter, stained‑glass rhyme.
But the tourists are bored,
 they’ve seen this nave before.
The bell tolls on time,
 and that is the problem.

   (cue jump cut)

The “bad” poem stumbles in, drunk
 syntax crooked, enjambment bleeding,
 clichés dragged like tin cans behind a wedding car.
It laughs at its own metaphors,
 spills ink across the page like wine.
And suddenly—
 the room leans in.

   (Dutch angle: the stanza tilts)

Good form is polished marble,
 but marble cracks,
 and the cracks are where the moss grows.
Bad form is scaffolding,
 but scaffolding is where the workers sing.

   (breaking the fourth wall)

You, reader,
 yes, you —
 are waiting for the “proper” line break.
So, here it is.
But wasn’t the stumble more alive?

   (overexposure)

Too many images,
     too many suns,
           too many mirrors reflecting mirrors reflecting mirrors—
   until the page is bleached white.
                                      And in that glare,
                            the “bad” poem breathes.

.

Unfinished Interlude

The world dims—
light falters, seas fall silent,
love cools to ash,
and memory frays into dust.

Yet in the hiatus,
a sudden blush of petals—
sakura, trembling in the air,
a brief rebellion of beauty
against the certainty of decay.

For a heartbeat,
the streets are rivers of pink snow,
  strangers pause,
    eyes lifted,
as if eternity had cracked open.

But the blossoms scatter,
sweep into gutters,
trampled under shoes.

The trains still run,
the markets open,
emails pile up,
and the world resumes
its business-as-usual.

The bloom was only a pause,
a reminder that even endings
carry their own fragile grace—

a petal clings to the sidewalk,

                              refusing to fall,
        another drifts, then another,
   each delay a small defiance,
each fall unfolding.

.

"  I n t e r l u d e  "


The world dims—
light falters, seas fall silent,
love cools to ash,
and memory frays into dust.

Yet in the hiatus,
a sudden blush of petals—
sakura, trembling in the air,
a brief rebellion of beauty
against the certainty of decay.

For a heartbeat,
the streets are rivers of pink snow,
     strangers pause,
           eyes lifted,
as if eternity had cracked open.

But the blossoms scatter,
sweep into gutters,
trampled under shoes.

The trains still run,
the markets open,
emails pile up,
and the world resumes
its business-as-usual.

The bloom was only a pause,
a reminder that even endings
carry their own fragile grace—
and then the clock ticks on.

.

Human Brickworks

We are the bricks,
not of temples to the unseen,
but of cities that rise from sweat and vision.

Each hand lays another,
each voice cements the mortar of memory.
The old boys built their halls of power,
gilded chambers where few were allowed.

But the wall is wider than their club,
the scaffold higher than their reach.
Every worker, thinker, dreamer
is a stone in this unfinished tower.

Civilisation is not a monument,
it is a worksite—
and we are the brickworks,
stacked not for worship,
but for the ascent of humankind.

Ladrillería Humana

Somos los ladrillos,
no de templos para lo invisible,
sino de ciudades que nacen del sudor y la visión.

Cada mano coloca otro,
cada voz cimenta la argamasa de la memoria.
Los viejos clubes levantaron sus salones de poder,
cámaras doradas donde pocos podían entrar.

Pero el muro es más ancho que su círculo,
el andamio más alto que su alcance.
Cada obrero, pensador, soñador
es una piedra en esta torre inacabada.

La civilización no es un monumento,
es una obra en construcción—
y nosotros somos la ladrillería,
apilados no para adorar,
sino para el ascenso de la humanidad.

.

Stand in your own light—
even when the constellations fade.

Carry your silence like a star,
not as a weight,
but as a compass in the dark.

The world will tell you
to orbit borrowed suns,
to wait for comets of rescue.
Smile, and keep burning.

Every step you take
is a small supernova.
Every breath you claim
is proof you are your own galaxy.

Do not beg the heavens
to redraw their maps—
learn their rhythm,
and chart your own sky.

Stand in your own light.
It will not collapse.
It will not vanish.
It will expand with you.  

And when others gather, drawn

to your quiet constellation,
you will know:
you were never drifting alone.

.