r/poemsbyreddit

For the last 250 years lady liberty has worn the ole red,

White and blue, symbolizing the glory of freedom,valar

And virtue,where our four fathers built this nation on blood,

Sweat and tears,having faith,having faith over fear,for the

Last 250 years the old red,white and blue has been flown

For me and you,the threads of tattered flag has stood the

Test of time,threads of a tattered flag at home or behind

Enemy lines....

Threads of a tattered flag just as vibrant today as the day

It was made,threads of a tattered flag in all its splendor

And swag,flying high like a beackon of hope and true

American pride,from the Atlantic to the Pacific side,from the

Gulf shores to the mountains high,well the threads of a

Tattered Flag still touches the sky in all its splendor and

Swag,threads of a tattered flag,threads of a tattered flag...

Just like it was 250 years ago when George Washington

Came to Betsy Ross with the sketch and the idea of the

Strips and stars and hence thereafter has lived in every

American heart,in the good times and when things seemed

To be falling apart the U.S.A. never lost its way even

When things got a little dark,just like it was 250 years ago

When George Washington came to Betsy Ross with nothing

But a sketch and an idea of the strips and stars....

Threads of a tattered flag,just as vibrant today as it was

The day it was made,threads of a tattered flag in all its

Splendor and swag, flying high like a beackon of hope and

True American pride,from the Atlantic to the Pacific side

From the Gulf shores to the mountains high,the threads of

A tattered flag still touches the sky in all its splendor and swag

Threads of a tattered flag,threads of a tattered flag!

#9 from the songbook collection "Nitty Gritty"

99% of you don't actually read poetry—you dissect it. You obsess over the wording, the grammar, the metaphors, whether it "flows," whether it's technically good. That's the most boring way imaginable to read a poem. You've become critics before you've ever become human. I'd rather read a messy poem written by someone who's actually lived than a perfect poem written by someone who's only studied poetry. So tell me what you think about mine. Not whether it's polished. Not whether you'd give it an A in English class. Tell me whether it made you feel anything. If your first instinct is to critique the wording instead of asking what it's trying to say, you've completely missed the point. This poem is about trying to find the goodness I was born with after life taught me to carry a sword. It's about wondering whether people love me for who I am or for what I can do for them. If you've never questioned that, maybe this poem wasn't written for you. And if all you saw was a flower and a sword, you proved my point. All love you irritating fucks. I love love and hate hate!

This poem isn't about a flower or a sword.

It's about the fact that every man carries both.

The world only notices the sword, then acts surprised when it forgets the little boy underneath.

The strongest men aren't the ones who never became soft.

They're the ones who never let the world kill that softness completely.

If all you saw was a metaphor, you proved my point.

A warrior in a field of flowers

A flower in my left, sword in my right

I have scars on my heart,

too deep to make things feel light.

Im not a warrior, I just forgot how to put my sword down

I look down, at the flower, at the blade. 

And I wonder 

Before I became this stranger I no longer recognize

I was just a boy, with these huge endless EYES

Now I stand here before you, divided in two:

A flower that remembers softness…

and a sword that remembers the whys

Last train

Did I miss the train again this night ?
Trying to catch it during 5 long hours
It stopped 4 times, but I didn’t take it
« Why?» you might ask.
I have no answer, now it’s 3 am.
Not the first time I’ve waited alone at the station
I’ve been here before, it started at a very young age
When the only question you are supposed to have in mind is « what should I do with those 2 euros Mom gave me ? »
Now it’s either late or early,
Depends on your perspective,
Another train is slowly coming,
Will I take this one ?

Feel free to comment on this poem or share yours (with or without explanation)

As I cried into your chest,
I felt something inside me begin to loosen.
Not my love for you.
Never that.
But the anger I had been carrying.
The frustration that had settled into my bones.
The sadness that had made a home in my heart.
The pain I had hidden for far too long.
With every tear,
my words of anger and self-hatred settled like dust.
They no longer stormed through my mind.
They simply drifted downward,
covering the silence between us
and the parts of me
that had forgotten what peace felt like.
Every tear felt like I was setting
a little of it down.
Then I looked up
and saw you quietly wipe away your tears.
You kept patting my back,
softly repeating,
“It’s okay.”
But it wasn’t okay.
It wasn’t okay
that I had to cry like this.
It wasn’t okay
that the safest place I knew
had become the place
I brought my deepest hurt.
It wasn’t okay
that the person holding me together
was also the reason
I had fallen apart.
As you held me,
I realized I wasn’t crying
because I wanted to punish you.
I was crying
because my heart
could no longer carry
everything it had been holding.
I wanted you to see
what I had never found the words to say.
Not so you would feel my pain
but so you would understand it.
Because I never wanted
this moment between us.
I never wanted a love
that needed tears
to explain itself.
As my tears began to dry,
I stayed there,
my head still resting against your chest.
I closed my eyes,
not because the pain had faded,
but because I didn’t have the strength
to keep looking at it.
For a moment,
the world became quiet.
All I could hear
was your heartbeat,
steady beneath my ear,
while mine searched
for a rhythm
it no longer recognized.
I wanted to believe
that your embrace
could stitch together
everything that had come undone.
I wanted to believe
that if I stayed there
just a little longer,
my heart would forget
what it had learned.
But deep down,
I knew it wouldn’t.
Because pain like this
doesn’t leave
when the tears stop.
It settles.
It waits.
It lingers
in the quiet spaces
between heartbeats.
I knew
that when I finally
lifted my head,
the pain
would rise with me.
It would follow me home.
It would lie beside me
when I tried to sleep.
It would greet me again
when morning came.
So I closed my eyes
for just a little longer,
trying to memorize
the sound of your heartbeat,
hoping that somehow
it could quiet
the ache inside mine.
I only wanted
the kind of love
where I cried
because I was overwhelmed
with happiness…
Not because I was mourning
the future
I thought
we were already living.

and how shall i love thee

for the fountains of glamours and bees

and all that's best and bright

and she shan't dare to leave a sight

a sight she's married but a ghost and so rookie

and a woman i pleaded and her bangles kissed me

but a marriage she was into was just done so dimly

and i stood there at her door

like a bee who just hadn't had the privilege to be her owner

and she claimed me through the parts of herself and i

like she didn't belong to the man but just i

and our story evolved to be a story of wilted flowers

how could i love thee and didn't dare to commit

how could i leave thee and dare to wilt

a peom i wrote about him but will never get courage to send him.

its called " just friends"

You came into my life when I had convinced myself

I didn't need anyone.

You stayed so quietly

that I never noticed you had already built your pillars

inside my heart.

Wasn't it just you being curious?

Just simple, innocent questions

and me answering without a second thought.

Somewhere between those ordinary conversations,

you began living softly in my mind.

You made me speak of things I never thought I'd reminisce about,

have opinions on things I never thought I cared for.

Then when did those questions become something more?

When did your words start lingering

long after our conversations ended?

I told myself it was only a phase.

Another feeling that would pass.

But you never held on loudly.

You simply stayed.

Somehow, that was enough.

On the first day, I said I only wanted to be friends.

The truth is ,I wasn't looking for anything.

Not even friends.

Yet somewhere in the little things,

without either of us noticing,

you became someone I found myself praying for.

Your daily good morning wish.

Your quiet good night.

A constant I never noticed I had grown used to.

I smiled because of you.

I laughed because of you.

I cried because of you.

Maybe I started liking you.

Maybe it was attachment.

Or maybe it was just my foolish heart

falling for someone who existed only through words,

so close on my screen,

yet impossibly far away.

Sometimes I wonder if confessing was the right thing.

Then I wonder something even heavier ,

was staying friends afterward the right choice?

I never asked my heart whether it was ready for that.

Every morning I promise myself to talk a little less.

Every night I realize I've broken that promise again.

I don't know how much longer I can keep calling us just friends

while my heart keeps forgetting that it's supposed to be.

Some days I fall asleep with tears on my pillow.

Some days, one message from you makes me smile for hours.

Some days I felt everything.

Some days, nothing at all.

I thought I had learned my lessons.

Then you happened.

I don't want to call you a mistake.

You never were.

But somehow you resemble one

because without ever intending to,

you tore me apart.

I know your intentions were never wrong.

But intentions don't stop hearts from breaking.

Every time I tried to pull away,

my heart took another step toward you.

How do people silence a heart

when all it wants

is someone it can never have?

Sometimes I regret meeting you.

Then there's that stubborn corner of me

that would choose meeting you all over again

even knowing how this story ends.

One question keeps returning.

Should I finally put a full stop

to everything I feel?

Will that make me happier?

Or is letting go simply the kinder thing to do

for you?

I wish someone could answer that.

Because I don't know how much longer

I can keep carrying these questions.

Strange,

how a heart can become attached

long before two hands have ever met.

the problem with 99999999999% of you all is that you never have been through anything forreal, I have lived more than you and your grandfathers throughout my 17 years pon planet madda earth. Another huge problem is that all you focus tooooooo much on the poem themselves as in the words, how they sound, how they look, all so superficial.

please, kindly what do you think about my poetry. ALL LOVE! it might not be so well-written but it is incredibly real, the real ones will know what i mean, if you dont like it you are not even meant to read it. the central focus is how I trying to return to the goodness I was born with, while asking to be seen and loved for My soul rather than my accomplishments, wealth, or scars. ONLY real men will relate to the feeling of not knowing if you are loved for what you are providing or for who you are.

LOLLL, my poem dont have a title fuck you english teachers:))))))

I don't want gold, or silver, or bronze.
I don't want medals at all.

The only man I wish to outrun

is the one I was yesterday.

All I ask is simple—

to live in peace, 

and to be met as an equal.

You see,

I was once a boy with warm, innocent eyes.

Now the lenses between me and the world are made of ice.

Do not see me for what I have.

Gold only gilds the bars of my cage.

See me for what remains
when everything that can be counted is taken away.

Habiba,

I will give you everything that I am—

In return, I ask for almost nothing.

To be appreciated.

To be seen.

And maybe—

if such things still happen—

to be loved.

For I was born knowing how to love.

The world taught me hatred,I refuse to become its best student.

The fathers before my father

were warriors of the Aït Iznassen mountains,

But me, I grew up in the warmth of women—

my mother, and her sisters, whose love was stronger than any blade.

My love—

they say you only live twice.

I have already died once.

Now I exist somewhere between worlds—

between the edge of a sword,

and the softness of a girl's red lips.

I still speak to you

In unfinished sentences.

In thoughts that arrive

With nowhere to go.

A sunset.

A song.

A joke you would have ruined

By making it even funnier.

Time did what neither of us could.

It carried us forward

Before we had learned

What we meant to each other.

Some people leave with goodbye.

Some leave without a sound.

You became the quiet kind of absence

That lives inside ordinary days.

I no longer ask

What we could have been.

I only wonder

If somewhere, for a fleeting moment,

You remember me

The way I remember you.

Not with regret.

Not with longing.

Just with the soft ache

Reserved for people

Who once felt like home

Without ever becoming one.

So tonight

I leave these words

Where they can never reach you.

And perhaps that is enough.

Because love is not always

About being found.

Sometimes

It is simply about

Having existed.

I thought this might resonate with someone here. It’s a meditation on the stories that survive us, the ones rewritten in our absence, and the quiet violence of having your reality dismantled long before anyone realizes it has disappeared and the perspective required to become whole again.

Found here: https://open.substack.com/pub/lollirae/p/the-final-eulogy-a-poem-everyone?r=6fn278&utm\_medium=ios

but i have no pen to write

I have no keyboard to type

oh what a cruel fate for someone so bright

to have their hands bound so tight

this is a maddening feeling indeed

my ideas starving and yet I can't just feed

my mind slips from my grasp like summer day

the ideas I that I had just slip away

it's sad because I am not cunning as a fox

I can't even put a Pen to a paper and draw a ox

I yearn for this feeling to set me free

but it will not trapped I will forever be

​

Te estará rondando
hasta tu último aliento
cuando penda de un hilo toda tu vida. 

Cuando mueras vendrá
riguroso, a reclamarte
las promesas no cumplidas
las palabras no dichas.

Recuerda tus promesas.
La muerte no tiene injerencia
tu alma fue primero mía

y te será requerida ese día.
la muerte no te buscaría
como yo a ti
y caerás por tu peso

el día que deba ser así:
un puma aterrador
ahogándose impotente
en el mar de mi amor. 

[English]

it'll haunt you
till your last breath hanging by a thread
all of your life.

When Death comes
severe, to reclaim you.
the unfulfilled promises
the word unspoken.

Remember your promises.
The Death won't have any meddling
for your soul that was first mine.
And it would be required that day.

The Death wouldn't have looked for you
as I would
and you'll fall due to your own weight
The day it may comes:

Terrifying giant bear
drowning powerless
in the sea of my love.

Big words,
for my big poem,
about big love.

I am in a limerence of besotted devotion to you my love.

Enraptured and captured by your endless adoration.

But in my heart I want to say something like,

I want to see you in a dark room crying by yourself,
and stroking the tears out of your face.

I want to see you try and keep it down,
keep quiet so that nobody can hear you,
but the whimpers grow louder and if you hold it in any longer you’ll struggle to breathe.

I want to see you hurt,
in pain,
angry,
but most of all I want to see those tears.

I wonder how far you let them run down your soggy face and neck before you pick up your thoughts and decide to clean up.

Or do you lick them into your dry mouth,
Recycling your sadness.

I wonder if you stare back at your baby blues in the mirror after it’s all done and ask yourself who you are,
if you have a place in this world.
Your wet lashes add a touch of sweetness to your song.

And which part of your naked body do your fingers fall onto first when you lay on the bed after a hot shower?
Beads of water drip from your long hair,
I want to catch them in my hands and lap them up.

I wonder how many people you are going to touch in your life,
and if the circle will ever come back to me,
fall at my feet,
make a perfect loop.

And I hope my voyeuristic tendencies dont turn you off,
if your eyes ever fall upon this poem,
Which I know they won’t,
I hope you get to read the first rhyme i ever wrote about you.

I hope the next time you cry,
the time lords create a portal to your room for me to step into and observe,
binoculars in one hand and pen in the other.

Making notes,
my muse,
my degree.

On every game show,
every quiz,
i would be a millionaire
if I could choose you as the specialist subject.

And I hope this winters chill isn’t too harsh on your skin,
I hope you have a good Christmas.

Really against all of my wishes,
I hope the only tears you ever cry will be from the harsh chill of the December air,
creeping itself onto your pretty frosted face.

I’ll be sure to make a wish for you as the first snowflake falls.