#life

Life

Folder: 
Life

Life

How, may I ask?

Why

What

When

Where

Who

Why are we alive?

This cruel word is bringing monsters back to life.

We laugh, cry, rejoice, tear up.

And even then we can't see the luck.

10000000 of us;

Fighting to be.

And only one gets picked out.

Why was that me?

I've bought so much shame to the world.

I might as well rest eternally now;

Others who meant to do good, 

Are just standing, as still as cows.

So, God, why give me a chance?

Was i just another plan...?

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Hiya! I recently got diagnosed with pcos :( so this poem isn't as good as it is meant to be. I would really appreciate feedback. get ready for more poems! you can request themes of poems under. if you wanna use a poem of mine, just message me and we will talk :) bye

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Grandpa's Exercising Machine

I can perfectly remember the time in my life, when I frequently visited my grandparents’ house. We would go several times a week, and very often we even stayed the night to sleep. On the cozy room where my sisters and I slept, was Grandpa’s exercising machine. It looked very big and complex, something only an adult could use (I thought), standing tall besides a white wall, two beds, and his favorite wooden bookshelf. While this machine was quiet at night, the next morning it would be roaring with the sound of Grandpa using it. He was indeed a man that really loved and enjoyed exercise, because he knew all of its benefits, since he was a Doctor. He used it every single day, whether he was sick, tired, or at least not that inspired. Grandpa would work a lot, from sunrise till sunset, but never missed the opportunity to do exercise in his machine. It was a possession that would always be part of his daily routine. I remember watching him, as he did his workout, and at the same time thinking that I wanted to be like him when I grew older. I also liked to play secretly on the machine, pretending to be getting stronger, pretending to be like him. Of course, I never used it correctly, since I was just a child, but it still was fun to use. I even think that, secretly, my cousins and sisters enjoyed it the same way as well.  Even though lots has happened since those times, even though I don’t visit my grandparents’ house as often, and even though one of the first heroes I met, my Grandpa “Abuelito Rodrigo” is not here anymore, his exercising machine still remains, in the very same room it has always been. The room is not as lively as it used to be, and the roar of the machine has disappeared completely from the house. Some people may think that it seems depressive, but to me, entering that (now dark) room and seeing his exercise machine can only bring back happy memories from my childhood with him that I am extremely fond of. To me, his exercise machine represents him. It represents how consistent, hard working, and persevering he was. It represents the healthy lifestyle that he had, and it also represents how much his absence can be noticed around the house. I love every ah living being yeah forever and

Author's Notes/Comments: 

First Prose Poems

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Without You

    

 

                          Without You

 
I Am :

A ship without a sail
A test I just may fail
A hiker without a trail
A life to no avail
 
A poem without it's end
A letter you cannot send
A Soul without a friend
A hurt that will not mend
 
A song devoid of melody
A servant longing to be free
A lock without it's Master Key
That's lost within reality
 
Without You
I'm many things, but
So many things with
 
So, please don't 
Let me go through Life 
Without You
 
     
© Mirror_rorriM_2000
7/31/2000
 
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So I Dance

     

 

                                          So I Dance

 
There is only so much you can control
When the goods are already damaged
So, Paper-Mache faces put on plastic smiles
To go through the motions for the uneducated
And We Dance...
 
We both know the truth
It's in our eyes, but we won't cop to it
I can't escape the past
While my present, you can't accept
Then, midnights come, whispering our names
And We Dance...
 
It's too late for me, I know, and
Now we both put on our Game Faces
To dance our little dance
To play our respective parts
Pretending everything is alright, and
The past is exactly that, but it's not
So We Dance...
 
My Right Hand, you induced, then took as your own
Leaving me cold, naked, and alone
Feeling as wanted as a jilted Lover, the third wheel
So,here I am, stuck in this circuit of Life
With nothing left to do, or say
So I Dance...
 
© Mirror_rorriM_1999
 
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food is good, food is great

food is good.

it texts back.

i’ll always choose food.

even if it makes me fat.


food is great.

it will never leave.

food will ask you on a date.

it helps you while you grieve.


food will buy you flowers.

it is my entire life.

food will give you all its hours.

it will ask you to be its wife.


food will always be there.

it helps your tummy aches.

food will never laugh and stare.

it will never act fake.


food is good,

 

food is great.


Author's Notes/Comments: 

This is a funny poem, and in no way am I a poet. It was written in a class period when I had nothing else to do. Don't take it too seriously.Tongue Out

Live life

I know we're supposed to live every day like it's our last, like that very night we'll take our last breath, but how am I supposed to do that when I'm stuck wishing I could undo the past, like pulling a rabbit out of a hat or a healed arm out of a cast, I could just go back, kick myself and say, "don't do that" but I can't, how am I supposed to live every day like it's my last when much like the arm before the cast, I'm broken, so many words I should have said, so many thoughts I left inside my head instead, but like the great Shane Koyczan said, "when something is broken, make art with the pieces." So listen to me now as I say these words. Don't ever think what you have to say is dumb we are ALL speakers of the words of our heart, and what our heart says, what our heart says is right. There will be nights when all that is going through your head is her shy smile and how you wish you could hold her hand but you just lay there instead. Do me a favor, don't let it sit tell her because when the last day comes your biggest regrets will be the words you never said, trust me.

I know we're supposed to live  every day like it's our last but how can I do that when I've got so much life to catch, so much beauty to see, so many things I could be, or not. Death, death is scary, the very thought rots at our minds all our lives so why live every day like its your last when that means you'll be living in fear, fear that everything you hold dear is going to be ripped away before you see it blossom life will be just a thought So don't live every day like it's your last no, instead, live every day like its the best, make one day better than the rest and that next day, do the same thing, instead of living every day like its your last, live every day with your heart on your sleeve because some days will hurt, some will burn but you've got to take that pain and turn it into whatever you need to turn it into to be able to walk with a smile on your face.

I know we're supposed to live every day like its our last but, that's stupid

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There's more to life than this

Theres more to life than this. 
You and her. Him and you. 
Mum and dad. Old and new. 
Things above. Things below. 
What you think. What you know. 
Education for a career in life, 
Searching for a beautiful wife,
Alcohol for the stress relief,
Looking for the true belief,
Watching porn for all that pleasure,
Treating phones and stuff like treasure, 
Updating on the latest news, 
Saving up for a holiday cruise,
Skipping school, way too cool. Having kids while still a kid. 
Looking for a place to stay, watching all the anime, playing games and wanting fame, gossipping about our friends, shopping for the latest trend, all the things you think of life, open your eyes and see the strife. A spiritual war we cannot see, a struggle for the life of you and me. The signs are here, they were prophecied. Theres a reason why our Lord Jesus died. The world today is getting worse, most of us are under the curse, of Satans devices. Open your eyes and reminisce. There's more to life than this. 
Seek and know your saviour and creator Jesus

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Mystery

Folder: 
human beings

What is truth?

It is timelessness.

Infinity. And yet, it is that which is always new,

Constantly creating, changing,

Experienced in quiet and solitude.

Emptiness,

Nothingness,

And with all of its anticipated fear,

Mystique, and intrepidation, 

We seek it....endlessly.

And when we think,

The truth no longer exists in our experience.

 

What is a mystery?

A mystery is the unknown.

The innocence of a child's mind is open to mystery, and creation,

And what is known, creates the death of a mystery.

 

What is LOVE?

LOVE ... is the most powerful entity in the universe.

It is presently undefined in a way all human beings agree upon.

No science can define it.

 

Ahhh...but we all "speak" of love. We tell our children we "love" them,

We tell our families we "love" them...

our friends, sometimes even our co-workers,

and even sometimes those we do not even know, or have never even met.

We sign cards and gifts with fancy closing statements signed:

"Love, Me".

 

We're eager to talk about the latest gossip column,

Judge and ruthlessly criticize the "love" of another,

Labeling it as "worthy" or "unworthy".

And yet, when all the outer layers are peeled away from this word,

This "entity of energy" that has moved mountains,

And summoned armies that have slaughtered millions of innocents,

We really do not understand it.

We do not know what it is!

We only know what the minds of history past have said it is.

Words. Words written.

We have yet to define it in such a way that we all agree upon,

And strangely, in some magickal way, 

Many of of us seem to know what it is on a level that is untouched in a tangible way.

 

What it is, is a mystery. 

LIFE and LOVE are mysteries, and perhaps, 

Even one and the same.

 

But we...scurry along through our hurried and cluttered lives,

Mindlessly injecting our man-made answers into love,

And so for many, it is no longer a mystery.

It has become a tightly closed capsule of 

"He said, she said, History".

 

And the species lives on,

With eyes that do not see,

Ears, that do not hear,

And voices that speak of a "love" and a "truth",

They can only claim unto themselves is "known",

Rather than face the TRUTH of the mystery 

Within us all.

 

And to me,

Strange and delusional as it may sound to some,

To me...it all sounds like "God" is talking.

 

Kindness is no mystery.

It is like a seed planted to grow a tree full of LOVE,

And when I leave this earthly experience,

Perhaps the small seeds I plant

Will grow into trees that bear the fruit for others

With faith --

Not in histories,

But in beautiful mysteries.

 

 

 

This poem written in dedication to the late great Maya Angelou, who often wrote of life, and love.

 

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written for spoken word in #periscopeartchallenge on September 10th, 2015. The theme was "mystery".

Life

Everything in life is relative

If it wasn't for the bad ones we don't appreciate the good ones

What if there were no bad ones 

Then would the average good ones turn into bad ?

Life doesn't distinguish good and bad 

Life just is. As it is. To live. To die. 

 

~bani

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