Learn more about other poetry terms

  I have explored the lowest of lows. My hands have scars from mountain fronts. My wrists have cuts from when I slipped. Although, there was only snow at the top I still saw the sun.
A friend once told me that we don't die, we're just simply at rest, like a music notation and the energy never dies.  I still feel like this was yesterday, though it's been sometime now since we part ways.
He stands one hundred feet above ground, on top of some  abandoned building; perched on the edge of life.   His Arms bend in wicked ways, and
It’s cold here, all alone. The fan is off but I’ve never felt so cold. Am I destined to stay here, wasting away? Spending my days cold and alone.
The cheers, the applause, the cries  And I ask them to indulge in this moment  For it will fade  Like a distant memory   
Inspiration has to be courted,  But, like a person infatuated, I lack patience.   I am easily frustrated By the lack of her favor, but  
When I was in the ninth grade The school wanted us professional in how we dress and how we behave A certain day of the week Which they called a bit of a treat From the normalcy of uniforms of khaki and navy
Before my very eyes I was driving, On my own path, in my own car, On the road away from home. No destination in mind, Only the street lamps casting shadows
The caterpillar parable Has never seemed to fit Some people grow up naturally, but I’m too old for it Those fables clatter to the floor
It's been too long since I wrote an actual poem. Phrases, lyrics, verses, whatever they're called, they just don't come to me like they use to anymore. Burdens, mistakes, curses, whatever my excuse is,
I stare at you, the sweat on my palms making it hard to grasp the conversation. Your lips form spiteful words. I feel my eyes glaze over. Disbelief and distrust threaten to spill out as waterfalls from both our eyes.
Let no man be lesser. For all Are mere specs on the backdrop of the void. No, they are particles Inside an expanse of nothing. We are Merely the reality of our
The drawer squeaks as I open it up covered in cob webs and dust as I peer inside to see what it holds Pens and pencils, barely used too yet seem worn, so they're tossed the action seemed long overdue
Subscribe to 'metaphors'