observation
Learn more about other poetry terms
One of the beautiful things about nature, is that nothing feels as if it were looking down on me, passing judgement. It stands with me by my side. An oak trees wisdom is that it is still and embraces me without having eyes or any of the senses.
You are right
And I’m wrong
Like a bad song
I keep my lips tight
And my face as long
As I can all year long.
The third and last poem in my final project assigned under the ELA 12 poetry unit.
Dated 10/22/2019
Strolling, walking, ambling
So many ways to just say walking
People go through life, focused on themselves
Not noticing those few who sit and watch
Even blind eyes recognize real lies,
Her real eyes soon and surely realize,
That these guys can't provide,..
what their boasting and bragging describe,
I have discovered the perfect plan. One that will keep thoughts and others at bay. I will learn their ways, their ideas, and emotions. I will be the perfect victim. I will learn to talk and say what is expected.
A moment frozen
A single glance
An observation made
Of a boy's concentrating face.
Golden hair tousled,
Fingers cupping bangs,
Rosy lips slightly parted,
The time that one takes to stop and look around
Observing all of what the human condition can achieve.
The amazement and wonderment of a child I have.
For all that we're yet to discover and that of which we have.
You're tired so very tired
I travel by train and I look out
My window, my legs are too close to the grey-man beside me
Headphones in, power chords, progressions
I am progressing, and my knees
Need a shave; they catch on the silk of his suit.
Some people say I’m selfless.
That I wake up and put myself on the back rack,
But it’s definitely not that.
When I wake up
I look in the mirror
past the dried slobber and nappy dew
A place of students
They come for two things
Desks and internet
To relax, to study
To pick up textbooks from a cubby
A place of modernity
Glass and concrete
Microchips and metal
Quiet is the observer
Motionless in kaleidoscopic torment.
I thought until thought was meaningless.
“Grab the pen! Grab it, you coward!”
A ceaseless voice streams
Through an intravenous drip.
Away from my body,
Exiting the mental noise.
I observe the feathered edge of light
Surrounding these form-bearing objects.
What is the meaning of meaning?
The stem-held nerve endings sway
Existence lies creation
Of the world with extreme variations
My breath is gone away
A kiss that's long to ever stay
My delusion of my farther reach of the cosmos
I was going to start a poem about this topic
But seriously fuck you if you think I write for anyone but myself
I am
You’re afraid of what could happen
So you constantly keep up a wall
You are in a constant battle
But aren’t we all?
hanging from a petals poredrying slowly above the floor,of yellow roses and red sunflowers. paint a florist affair as birds outside shoot ray-guns to the sun.
Beneath the HemlockI am at easeMy heart calmAs my mind.
Beneath the HemlockI am at peaceAs I sitIn the soft grass and shade.
Intrigued, intrigued by life I see everything surrounding me. I feel it too. I went from learning to tie shoe to being able to choose.. Choose who it'll be I'll see in front of this country.. Ain't talking U.S. when they talking bout Us man..
In this mind full of clutter, this mind they called crazy.
The memories still live, yet the image is now hazy.
This paper understands me, it puts my mind at ease.
With a deep breath, I write and the voices suddenly cease.
I write to express myself
To show that there’s more
To what you see on the outside
Inside there is a girl
Who has been through hell and back
But keeps a smile on her face
Everyday we walk through the Air.
We hear things,
See things,
in a way that others don't.
Everyday we walk through this Hell.
We feel things,
taste things
in a way that others don't
He looked as if he was transported from a Druidic circle of stones during days long past.
In New York City, you’ll find two kinds of people;
those who see something and say something,
and those who see something and assume nothing is wrong.
As I walked to the South Street Seaport one weekend last Summer,
Intelligence used to be a virtue,
Ignorance used to hurt you,
But in the past few decades the roles have reversed . . . I though about rhyming but now it's a free-verse,
Passing by their faces show,
The ignorance hidden deep below.
I read their faces like a book,
Absorbing every dirty look.
Fear and guilt consume their eyes,
Unconcealed through pretty lies.
