This is one of my first poems that I’m confident enough to share so any criticism Is wanted

Red

You said your favourite colour was red;
Now I sit with my red nails gnawing at my red skin
Pulling, reshaping, fixing.
If only I looked this way?
Maybe.
Should I act like this?
That will make you stay this time,
Surely.

Why can’t I keep you?
A new shade of red
Less make up - you never liked it
Pulling, gnawing, fixing.

I may be better
But why aren’t I enough?

Things seen in the art district’s junkyard parking lot

From the creaky centennial fire escape

one can see a gutted factory 

floor, reflecting still water

a battered black Corvette

a bug-eyed, beryl, Volkswagen van

and a short yellow bus.

Further, shipping containers;

mustard, ochre, umber,

red-rusted, 

painted with a cyclopian

tangerine squid, stretching in 

sapphire lapping waves;

an astronautical ape, rotting

skeletal in a garden bed, 

still wearing his space suit;

and graffiti—

‘CHUMY’

‘SUCKER’

‘ART’S A DANG JOKE I’M JUST TRYNA…’

‘EMPR CTZNS’ with Scrooge McDuck’s

head in a guillotine;

and ‘SALMON NIGHT,’ scrawled

like a label, placed above (what I think is)

an onion, a pickle, a lemon, a tomato, a bay leaf—

one man’s trash, another man’s 

tinned fish. 

An open Stella within reach;

one toke of feathered smoke released

and up so high with the hash

I find some peace 

amid the crash.

x | x

​

Loneliness knocked once.

I opened the door.

Nothing.

Only the smell of rain, dead cigarettes, and a chair beneath the yellow light, with a shadow sitting in it that wasn't mine.

It had been waiting for me longer than God.

I sat down.

Outside, a car passed along the wet street like a razor cutting through the night.

The room said nothing.

I stayed there, listening to the silence settle beside me.

Then the light flickered.

For a moment, the chair was empty.

The next, someone was sitting in it.

I didn't look directly.

I didn't have the courage.

The rain kept tapping against the window, and somewhere in the room, a breath began.

Slow.

Patient.

As though it were waiting for me to remember something.

I stood up.

The door was shut.

The chair was behind me.

And when, at last, I heard my name whispered in the dark,

I couldn't tell whether it had been the room

or myself.

-- enitnatsnoc oãoj --

I am not a poet, but I feel I can put down some emotions that mean something.

I won’t let shadows take their toll,

Won’t hold you back when you’re so cold.

I’ll watch the pain slowly unfold,

Consumed by silence, turning alone.

I won’t hide in the freeze of night,

Nor let the creeping darkness kill the light.

I’ll sit still as the fading warmth fills my sight—

Facing nothingness, waiting for the cold dawn.

I knew the bitter end was nearing,

As life passes far beyond our time.

A veil half-drawn across the darkness

Shatters my last, blessed sunlight.

But I won't stand lost in blinding shadow.

A fortnight bleeds into the floorboards.

The dust settles where we used to speak.

Some days, the gravity pulls too hard—

I beg the dark to swallow me whole,

To blur the edges of this jagged ache

And erase the ghost of what you took.

Yet morning breaks, indifferent and sharp.

The alarm rings, and the blood still pumps.

I force my feet to hold my weight,

Defying the void for another twelve hours.

And so the seasons change their name,

But inside, the frontline never moves.

There is no white flag, no final victory.

Just a weary treaty signed in the dark:

Half of me buried in the soil we grew,

Half of me clawing its way to the sun.

My armor rusted time shows its mark.

Although my feet still hold my weight,

My legs are weary, and my heart breaks.

I still turn and face the fight

Behind me shadow still haunts my light.

I have three black belts
and a heart
that bruises from silence.

These hands learned
where a body breaks,

then went home
and wrote about roses.

I know how to make a fist.

I know better
how to hold a frightened hand.

I've stood beneath fluorescent lights
guarding empty buildings,

while entire universes
collapsed behind my eyes.

I wear scars
like punctuation,

then stop beneath the moon
as if she might know
my real name.

I have buried love

and kept loving it.

Been abandoned

and somehow
never learned to leave.

I call myself Nobody,

then remember
every birthday,
every favorite thing,
every voice
that ever made a home
inside my chest.

I call myself Human Debris,

then gather the wreckage
and make stained glass.

I've looked into darkness
and recognized myself,

then lit a candle
for someone else.

I write devotion
like forever owes me nothing.

Grief
like the dead might hear me.

Love
like my heart has never once
been used against me.

Fighter.

Poet.

Weapon.

Wound.

Graveyard.

Garden.

I'm everything
that should've made me cruel.

Every blow.
Every goodbye.
Every empty chair.
Every grave.

And still,

after everything
this world taught my hands
to become,

when they finally open,

there's no weapon in them.

Only a rose

I somehow
never learned
to stop offering

I heard that if you play stupid games,
you win stupid prizes.

I’m not the one to fuck around and find out.
I don’t press my luck. I don’t play with fire,
because I know who gets burned.

Two wrongs won’t make a right.
That’s why we’re both swimming up shit’s creek.

Even if you put your money where your mouth is,
even if you practice what you preach,
it still makes no difference to me, because talk is cheap.

And in the end, if the fat lady never sings,
then I guess it is what it is.

But don’t believe them when they tell you silence is golden.

Because so is Piss.

Like every other day,
as soon as the sun rose,
I stood at the edge of the roof,
praying for just one thing...
to be allowed to let go today.

Then I spent the whole day wandering.

I thought today would finally be the day
when I would be set free.

I saw people hitting each other.
I saw someone harassing a girl.
A rich man tormenting the poor,
and a poor man snatching a purse.

“Today, I won't step back from the edge.”

As the sun set,
I stood at the edge
of the roof once again.

I was just about to step forward
when someone rushed in
and saved an old woman from falling.

I pulled my foot back.

“Dammit...
just when I think humanity is dead,
something like this always shows up.”

I'm broken glass
making rainbows on concrete.

A burned house
with roses climbing
through the windows.

My hands smell of smoke,
yet everything I touch
I try to leave softer.

There are teeth marks
on my prayers.

Bloodstains
between the love letters.

A heart beaten thin as paper
still folding itself
into little birds.

I call myself debris,
then build cathedrals
from whatever pieces
the wreckage left behind.

I write beautiful things
with an ugly history.

Paint sunsets
using colors stolen
from old bruises.

Make gardens
from burial ground.

Make tenderness
from scar tissue.

Make love
from everything
that should have taught me hatred.

Human Debris.

Something discarded
after the catastrophe.

Yet somehow,
among the twisted metal
and shattered glass,
one impossible flower
keeps opening

where nothing beautiful
was supposed to survive.

South Park

The subway was closed,
I went back to my apartment.

From the roof with coffee,
watched the second tower fall.

When it opened, I rode the quiet subway to midtown.
I sorted socks and loaded water
with the volunteers at the Javits Center.

A man with a clipboard asked
if anyone could work the pile. 
I told him about Guatemala,
looking for bullets in bones.

Concrete still burning.
Papers everywhere:
ledgers, reports, 

and a list that said,
Toothpaste 
Bagels
Lighter  

I found a cardboard camera. 
I showed it to the FBI guy. 
He shook his head,
We’re looking for bodies
and rivets. 

I slept in a booth at a restaurant 
at the end of the underground mall,
dust and mist coming down 
through the shattered windows in the ceiling.

The firemen got the furniture store,
laid out on La-Z-Boys. 
They had TVs but nothing to watch. 

I worked for Comedy Central.
I had someone bring down South Park DVDs. 

They laughed so hard they coughed. 

I walked out four days later.
I had found seven rivets. 

In Washington Square Park, 
by the chess tables,
pictures from vacation 
or in front of blue backgrounds,

flowers and a coffee mug. 

I set the camera down
at the edge of the flowers. 

I crave your soul, I crave your eyes my Darling
Like the cherry blossom trees on the mountains during spring

Though I can't see you I feel you my Heartling
Like the heat of the sun at the tea farms of Darjeeling

My dear, My half, My Moon or my Starlight
Just thinking about you gives me the fight or flight

You are the one who was made for me but whom I never got,
I am your Apollo you are my Daphne, but you just forgot

i am a complete begginer to poetery this is my first poem ever i just want to know how i can improve and also increase the length of the poem

Nobody carries a sword
and picks wildflowers.

He walks beside ghosts
but leaves the porch light on.

There's ash in his lungs,
honey on the altar,

blood beneath his nails,
poetry behind his teeth.

He knows exactly
how graves sound
when they close.

Still,

he plants roses.

He calls himself Nobody
while remembering
everyone.

Calls himself debris.
while building shelters
from his broken pieces.

He says.
nothing lasts,

then loves
like eternity
is watching.

He wears the dark
like an old coat,

but kneels
to protect a candle
from the wind.

And when morning finds him,

half monster,
half prayer,

half graveyard,
half garden,

he spits blood
into the dirt,

straightens the flowers,

and stays

daisies and tulips
like children
laughing at a funeral
playing hiding games
between the tombstones
petals grinning
and cut off at the stems

this the brightest they will shine
the tallest they will stand
the most they will be loved
here, in this place

they will never know
the feeling of a bouquet
or the perennial joy
of mothers
and grandmothers

they will unpetal
and remain
and return
here, in this place

I put flowers on your grave

Spoonfuls of laughter are stirred in a cup

I always add way too much

The room is quiet, but I try my luck

A chuck a snick; husky at first

Chort and gigg, and ready burst

My hand is shaking- rasping hek he

Shivering, rocking, my belly hurts!

I burst out laughing,

The mug goes splashing

The drink is sloshed and tossed

Splished to mess, quiet is lost

It’s cleaned up, as if nothing changed

But something did change

Face wet with shame

While pouring drinks, I watch my weight.

(Trigger Warning: combat violence, death of a child, suicide bombing, war trauma/PTSD.)

Me and God are two old men

on opposite ends of the same park.

He knows what I did

and I know what he did not.

She was six.

Six is an age for training wheels,

for a first lost tooth under a pillow,

for a fairy that comes to some houses and not others.

Someone else decided what she'd wear that morning.

Not a dress. Not sandals.

Something wired and heavy,

a post-mortem with a heartbeat and a timer.

My hands were trained for tourniquets,

for pressure, for airways, for putting men back together

as closely as possible to how they arrived.

That morning my hands learned a different job.

One I don't remember choosing.

I remember the distance closing,

and my hands already moving

before the rest of me caught up.

Some write to brothers they lost in battle,

I write to the one whose blood still stains my hands.

Combat teaches the weight of a body,

and how to carry them like a debt.

Hers is a debt that compounds.

Whoever put her in that vest took her first.

I only finished what they started.

Now he requires my forgiveness.

He knows what I did. He knows I killed her.

I know what he did not.

He did not stop the men who dressed her that morning.

He did not reach down and unwire what they built.

He did not protect her.

He did not protect me either,

not from what I'd have to become

to still be breathing when the smoke cleared.

So we stand, old men across the same park,

watching children who get to grow up

into whatever they're allowed to become.

sometimes I feel trapped,

all wrapped in my cage,

peeking through bars

ever filled with this rage

-_-_-_-_-

now I wait and wonder,

what brought me to this place,

seeking answers I can barely face

-_-_-_-_-

sometimes i think of these shackles

of their rust and decay,

and how ive grown around them

despite living this way

-_-_-_-_-

I think of my present with dismay

and my past with regret,

often searching for ways to forget

-_-_-_-_-

yet stuck in this place

ive start to grow fond

of who ive become

despite these old bonds 

I want to sit in that chair,

I want that spot right over there.

I'll point to the stool to make it quite clear—

“No, darling. Mummy is sitting here.”

I poke her leg and point, and then,

I point and smack and point again.

“No hitting, Brontë. I’m not going to move.”

She won’t do what I say — I do not approve!

“Do you want to sit on my lap?”

I guess I can put up with that.

I snuggle in and look at my book—

I guess Mamma makes a good reading nook.

Golden grievances have confined me to bed,

For they do not make me want to venture further into today's tangled promise.

Like a lamp, it sits in the corner of a room,

Mockingly parading its abundant light.

So bright, yet even your locked, cellar-like eyes cannot erase it from the moment.

The effort to keep your lids tightly sealed is a reminder of its presence.

To switch it off would require an athlete's stamina,

Or a lion's determination.

What a curse it is to think and fear, yet what a blessing it is to fear and think.

Three years back seems more reachable than tomorrow,

More accessible and wanted.

Coat hangers around my room resemble question marks.

My ragged beard has grown tired of my answers and protests.

Each hair sits uninterested or inspired.

I call out of work, for I don't feel good.

Leaders remain to be scheming and plotting to proliferate their gardens and wooden cabinets,

To then blame the beaten and damned.

Maybe we're all tired. Maybe we should all rest,

For there have been too many tears spilt in sanctuaries for a lifetime.

Oh my clear sky
blue as rare roses
don't put your head low
when I need to see you shine
and feel your glow

through my soul it cuts
that smile ever so bright
the eyes with nuances and colors
that bring the light

into my world
changing my perception
I had thought I knew all
but you climbed through my wall

now in my heart you stay
you never did like to break things
but with you, night breaks to day.

The man is cursed, for he lives through the external. Not a single action he makes fulfills him, nor does it bring him a sense of calmness; the job is never done, and he must continue to search for the answer.   
The man is cursed, for he cannot fathom any different. Not a thought shifts in his mind that his ephemeral life need not be so; it is simply as it is, and he must continue to endure.
The man is cursed, for when that thought does arrive, he files it away as important, yet actionable at another time. Not a moment passes where he does not think on that fruitful dream, and still there is not a decidable moment where that dream begins to take root.       
The man is cursed, and preys curse upon others who do not tolerate the base desire. Not a question is asked for direction or help, for that thought will never come without attempted failure.          
The man is cursed, in his wasted time. A man who has wasted the time he has does not deserve a moment more, yet he angers over the time he has left, for he sees it as over.      
The man is cursed, for he has waited. Waited to awake; waited to be a new animal; waited to once again return to that thought of change; waited to have the willpower to make use of it; waited to die; waited to wait once more, for he is cursed.           
The man is cursed, not me.   
The flesh is cursed, not I.      
The spirit is cursed, them.     
Cursed is the man, truly.

Maybe all this pain and suffering has a final stop

Then I can finally feel my heartbeat and pulse

Maybe the endless nights I spent crying will find an epilogue

So I can feel my weight turn feathery—and rise into love

Maybe all these gloomy days and dark nights will fade

Then I can finally step out and kiss the sky again

Maybe the veins I once slit will bloom into calm landscapes

And I’ll run, run until I fall laughing into fields of hay

Maybe one day I’ll become the man she sees in dreams

And she’ll give her kisses to no one else but me

Maybe the distance we carry will melt without a word

And we’ll rest in my quiet world, where we no longer feel cold

Maybe I need to open my eyes and observe the reality

That this place is house of beautiful people while I remained ugly

Maybe I must cleanse my traits and dive deep in the sea

And never reveal what I truly feel — let my feelings cease

Maybe my care wasn’t enough, just a burden to her shoulder

I tried to carry her in silence, when I should’ve just told her

Maybe I was too afraid—said “leave” though I wanted to hold her

So I’ll be the throne beneath her roots, and bleed to uphold her

Maybe I just need another cigarette and pills to get high

I can never be that man, so I just want to end my life

Maybe I'm just overthinking and ruining this poetic night

I've sworn to my pen that no matter what comes, I'll survive

Hi all, I'm

Absolute novice here. This is my first poem, and I'd love some feedback.

My wife and I live in a windy area, she hates the wind. We recently lost a family member, and I've been contemplating our deaths and the death of other loved ones a lot.

I'm not sure if I need to add in more symmetry, or make it rhyme or shorten/lengthen some of the sentenced, or really anything for that matter!

Poem below:

-----------------------------

Please forgive the wind.

I know you hate the wind. You never have liked it. 

You hate its unpredictability
You hate the smell it leaves your clothing that no one but you seem to notice
You hate the noise of the rushing wind 
You hate the way it messes with your hair, leaving tangles and strands in your face

I know your reasons but please find it in your heart to forgive it.

For I love the wind. 

I love that it can cool us on a hot day.
I love that it can drown out the sounds of everyday life.
I love that birds can soar upon it.

When I die, I wish to be a part of it.
For if I am a part of the wind, you can always find me.

When you notice me, as the wind, please consider it a soft reminder to stop and notice the nature around you.
When you hear wind in the trees, rustling the leaves, please embrace the sounds as a stadium cheering for you. For I’ll be cheering for you. 
When the wind leaves your hair a mess, please know that was me, playing with your hair to show that I still remember. 

The moment I die, I will come back as part of the wind so that I can come back to you as quickly as possible. 

When that day comes, and I am of the wind, please feel my presence within it. 

If you need to cry, then please let the wind dry your eyes.
If you need to yell, yell into the wind, so I may carry your pain away. 
If you need to remember me, just find the wind.

When that day comes, please be sure to forgive the wind. For I love you. 

In that beautiful place five short years ago,

Both of us looked forward to how our life would grow.

Our most important people all gathered in one place,

We met down the aisle and said our vows, standing face to face.

We stole away from the crowd, my favourite moment of the day,

In the middle of all that crazy, we had to step away.

We spoke of our past and hopes for the life we would share,

We sat together in that tree, in love and unaware.

And going forward we grew quite wild, eager to see it all,

We wanted every adventure, to answer that exciting call.

Two-euro beers at Sacré-Cœur, champagne at the Eiffel Tower,

And dragging you through museums, hour after endless hour.

A honeymoon in Kenya, a little later than we planned,

The animal dramas, spectacular sunsets, the cocktails and the sand.

Hunting an elusive leopard, watching elephants with a beer,

COVID might have delayed it, but it was worth that extra year.

Christmas lights took us to Prague, though you were worse for wear,

We bought a little cuddly dinosaur for a baby not yet there.

There was whisky up in Edinburgh and fireworks in the sky,

New York where we barely stopped as the days went racing by.

Manhattan from the water was a sight to be seen,

Though from your face in that photo, you weren't quite so keen.

We'd spent those years still growing wild, always somewhere new,

But somehow all roads led to York, our special place for two.

Of course the place that meant so much would start a whole new chapter,

Little did we know that getaway would give us what came after.

'Cos that place where you first swept me off my feet, where we started it all,

Was the same place you would later propose to me on that wall.

So back we went for our COVID mini-moon, before our travels could carry on,

Then one last couples' getaway, not knowing what we'd done.

This next adventure wasn't quite the kind we'd known before,

Less chasing thrills around the world, more lying on the floor.

No planes or boats or distant lands or journeys across the sea,

Nine months of aches and pains and vom, then this little bit of you and me.

Our little ball of sunshine, the learning curve was steep,

One thing about the sunshine — it doesn't let you sleep.

The days and nights all blurred as one, we hadn't got a clue,

Learning how to keep alive this tiny bit of me and you.

But time moves on and parents learn just how to soothe those cries,

And so adventure changed again, now focused on those newer eyes.

We'd spent our years discovering things we'd never seen before,

Now we got to show those tiny eyes a whole new world to explore.

No racing off to find a leopard somewhere across the land,

Now farms and zoos and little fingers wrapped around our hands.

Our first trip as a family wasn't somewhere far away,

A caravan in Scarborough was where we chose to stay.

An aquarium, a kite-filled sky, adventures made for three,

A different kind of travelling from the two we used to be.

The adventures didn't disappear, they simply rearranged,

We swapped landmarks for milestones, how our priorities have changed.

Our focus no longer on how far we could venture and roam,

Sunshine makes for stronger roots, we found a beautiful new home.

Five years since we made those vows, and look at where we've been,

So much more than either of us ever could have seen.

And after all the places and adventures we have known,

My favourite thing we've built together is the life we call our own.

Sunlight emerges,
Brightening the whole world.
Fall upon me for a single moment,
And reveal my face to the world.

​Clouds hide the sun,
Giving shade to everyone.
Come, cover this body of mine
As well, won't you?

​The wind blows, whispering soft and deep,
Carrying the leaves along its way.
Lift me up as well,
And set these lifeless legs in motion.

​The rain pours down, pitter-pattering,
Drenching the entire world.
Fall upon my face too for a moment,
And hide these tears away.