Probably Obsessive Poetry

A blog for poetry of any type. I plan on posting a new poem each Monday but if I get an ask or request of some sort to write another one I will.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Wind

I saw the wind come at me.

Like a racehorse out of the sky,

Come to bare me to infinity.

Like dust in the wind.

Going on and on,

With no end in sight.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

It falls

Crimson it falls.

Running down my blade,

And down my arm.

The arm of a killer.

Crimson it falls.

Staining all it touches,

My white shirt,

My pure soul.

Crimson it falls.

Marring my past achievements,

And my future opportunities.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

At Night

During the day the sun gives us light,

But at night it leaves us.

Then the moon comes out,

And it calls out the creatures of the night.

Beckoning them out of their hiding places,

Reminding them of their power.

The power they hold over us daywalkers.

While we stumble and fumble in the dark,

They see clearly.

While we hide from the darkness,

They revel in it,

During the day we hold the power,

But at night the world is theirs.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Little

Little there she stands

One hand on the stone cup

One hand holding the yellowist of daisies

Little there she stands

Grey from the bottom of her dress

To her tippity toppity head

Little there she stands

With her gift of color and drink

Do you gentlest of giants accept?

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Poetic Ponderings [Christopher Thompson, Jade Parker] on Amazon.com. *FREE* shipping on qualifying offers. A seemingly random gathering of p

I finally published my very first book of poetry! And I am so excited to share it with you guys! It would mean the world to me if you guys could support me. It’s only $10 for a paperback, and $7 on kindle. Even just giving this post a like and a reblog helps, and it’s full of some amazing poems. I really hope that you all enjoy it.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

The Screams

The drums are beating

The screams

The horns are blaring

The screams are

The bells are ringing

The screams are throttled

The voices are singing

The screams are throttled by the noise of the world

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Death, Our Dear Old Friend

Rich or poor,

It comes in the end.

Unbiased and Uncaring.

It comes to us.

No matter what we do,

We all meet it in the end.

We must say our goodbyes,

We must be ready.

To go hand in hand,

With Death our dear old friend..

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

The Story Teller

There on the page lies a beautiful painting of a unicorn.

As the story teller sings their tune,

The unicorn shudders to life and out of the page it comes.

Stomping on what was once it's paper prison,

Now roaming free as a living representation of its beauty.

For once the story teller sung their entrancing song  everything that once layed on the page came to life

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Each Day the Same

We wake up and go to sleep,

Each day the same.

We go to work and come home from work,

Each day the same.

The tide comes in and goes out,

Each day the same.

The sun rises and sets,

Each day the same.

The world moves ever closer to the end,

Each day the same.

And then I realized

Each day is another with our loved ones,

Another on this beautiful planet,

Another for us to cherish.

No matter what, there is always something to cherish.

Each day the same.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

The Flip

That feeling that makes you help the stranded girl late at night.

Is the same feeling that makes you pick up the lonely hitchhiker on the side of the road.

____

It's the feeling of heroism that surges up when you see someone in need.

____

As that girl puts a knife to your stomach.

As that hitchhiker ends your life.

___

It's the same feeling that flips on its head as you become the victim.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Judgement

From the beginning to the end,

You have been judged.

For your rights and wrongs,

You have been judged.

In this court without a sense of arbitrarity,

Without heart or mercy.

Your judgement has been passed.

As the judges gavel rains down upon its stand,

You see the end.

And the executioners axe comes down upon your neck.

Your end is here.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Waking up

Early in the morning.

The bed is my favorite place.

Nothing in the world seems better than that bed.

But then I see you, and I remember it's not just for me anymore but for us.

For our dream life.

With that I vault out of bed and I am ready for the day

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Her Pride

She loves me,

No matter what she loves me.

Even with that I want more,

Because even though her love brightens my day.

Her pride lifts me up.

It sends me high and flying.

That smile of pride on her face

Is everything to me.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

The Crimson River

In out throughout.

It flows up and down,

From blue to red and back.

Never ending,

Now matter how much we give it away or lose it.

It is essential and yet such a terrifying sight.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

That Endless Pool

From afar it is merely a colored pool,

As you approach it gains depth.

The details come alive, the colors flow and change.

The orb itself expands and beyond it is another world,

A world of color and synapses.

A world ruled by a conscious and unconscious master.

It is unending,

It is so beautifully confusing.

It is us.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

Clouds

Up in the sky they fly.

From dark and scary,

To light and fluffy.

They are essential,

Yet they seem so frivolous.

From a white and energetic puff,

To a dark and angry harbinger.

They bring water,

A necessity.

But they also bring lightning and thunder,

A destructive force.

______

They go on and on,

Just like this poem.

______

As they can bring both life and death,

They can also remind us of a creative and nostalgic time.

Of laying out on the grass and finding shapes in those ever changing forms.

From life to death to nostalgia they are but a font of interest, need, and nature's wrath.

[probablyobsessivepoetry]

What is Poetry?

Aagh I don't know!!

Is it a specific style with strict rules?

Is it a fucked up train of thought blurted onto a page?

Is it an outlet for my pain?

Is it a free form of writing?

What could poetry be but all of these and more!!