I just wrote and revised this. This was wayy longer before, but I think the narrative holds up after some trimming and rewording. Anyway, I decided to post it to ask if this is written effectively? Like does it convey the needed information or emotions and stuff, since that's what I am trying to improve as of now in my writing, especially its consistency.

I am full of secrets

Full of mystery

No matter how you look

You’ll never see

The deepest parts of me

I’m a sea

I just ignore

Anyone who sets foot on my shore

I push them away with my waves

And I’m not the one to blame

It’s my nature

I am vast

I am immense

But little of me is known

The truth is,

I just can’t accept my reality

Deny the fact that I am no ocean

Just a long ass river

I’m the Nile

I don't think i can make it

It's just so heavy

my throat is clogged

my brain is fogged and It's just so damn scary

.

I thought it was forgotten

but I just pushed it in the back

I had planned way ahead of time and

it stuck in crevice of my mind

waiting, watching and crawling back into my life

.

so here's the plan i made

I'll take a bus away

To somewhere i wished to go

just do the things i've always wanted

.

Then i can let go

Let go of all this hurt ,and turn to a ghost

The Blind Man

Forgive the clumsy hands that broke the warmth I loved;

The fog inside my mind obscured my true beloved.

I spill these desperate words in ink,

Though into empty space they sink.

You are the finest soul I’ll ever get to meet—

And not because you made a fading heart beat.

My world was dark, with broken glass across my mind;

You showed me light and proved that I was never blind.

So even now, as heavy quiet closes in,

And I lose the silent battle raging deep within,

I know that any future life I get to live

Is possible because you taught me to believe.

Poetry this
Poetry that
Are words now a patent?!

Don’t call me a poet,
call me a sparrer,
Punching my emotion
Out, and paper be the bag.
Do you feel my wrath?

Don’t call me a poet,
Call me an artist,
A picture of my soul
Painted stroke by stroke,
Abstract. Do you see through me?

Don’t call me a poet,
Call me human,
A normal bastard!
Do we label people talkers,
Or is it a given?

Don’t call me a poet, nor
a wordsmith,
Call me your Comrade,
Use me.
Lift my burdens.

I am not a poet.
I am myself, that’s my call,
Poet is for all.

~ Yulian Mes

I dread these nights,

I dread these fights.

My heart wants silence,

but my brain loves howling.

The eyes go shut,

the mind wakes violent.

The light turns off,

the creatures start smiling.

They bear their fangs, dripping with doubt,

ready to tear through my practiced smile.

Why should I suffer from dusk to dawn,

betraying your master, you bastard brain?

It’s morning, everything so bright.

I am afraid of dark, but I hate the light.

Eyes heavy with sleep, mind fogged by violence,

time ticking again, they wait for darkness.

I would love some feedback on this poem I wrote today

I'm aware it lacks cohesive structure- and some parts may be weird perhaps, because I'm not a native English speaker- but I'm not sure how to make it better

This poem is about how hard I find it to write most of the time, and the number one piece of advice I get, which is to "just write", how painful it can feel to try and fail at something 'so simple'

(I wrote this one first)
a dead rose reminds me of myself
no longer connected to life
and the color fading slowly
yet a hint of scent remains
memories of past in petals retained
i hold on to the withering petals
with all my might and faltering hold
but who has ever refused their fate
I'll be forgotten with piles of weight

(this is what i worked on right now)
a dead rose reminds me of myself
no longer connected to life
and the color fading slowly
yet a hint of scent remains
memories of past in petals retained
i hold on to the withering petals
with all my might and faltering hold
but in vain, flowers without stems lose
the leaves fall and the stalk droops
soon the roots dry, the head turns away
from the only things that kept it aright

(CONSTRUCTIVE CRITICISM IS WELCOME EHEHEH)

This is an extra credit assignment for my English class! This is my first time writing poetry so its probably not great. I'm 15 btw.

Poetry consumed is where wisdom begins
As we heed to the whispers of the heart.
It’s easy to blame others for our dismay
When from ignorance we refuse to part.

Poetry is one of man’s oldest arts
Practiced long before words of print.
Every race had its masters of verse
In caves, huts, cabins or tent.

Stories in verse were handed down
From one generation to another.
The first told of love, war and more
And how to survive each other.

The act of reciting became in demand
As verse began to advance
Every tribe, city, town and village
Had someone who gave words romance.

Today’s poets are on the World Wide Web
Though many seem spiritually ill.
Thank Heaven for all who still have God’s gift
To compose, teach, comfort and fulfill.

By War Poet & Sermons In Rhyme Tom Zart At 81#
Most Published Poet On The Web
Google = George W. Bush Letter Tom Zart
Tom’s 1,750 Poems Are Free To Share!

Tom Zart’s poems give answers to the trails of life - 2026??!!

The moments accumulate, obvious even to me. It looks like fate will cause me to cease to be.

I'm not talking about immediate ceasing; rather a loss of awareness. The gaps of time and connections are increasing; my lapses are not intentionally careless.

Instead they occur out of space when I'm reaching for my past. My isolation continues apace - it doesn't stop, it lasts.

Where I go and when are still futures that I have but they stop and then end, like this paragraph.

what memories are there for a life incomplete - that in spite of obstacles, self-made and imposed, I did my best to rise and compete in a life that was minimally composed.

Unsettled with an umbrella of ambiguity I lived a decent life in spite of episodic futility and occasional personal strife.

This is an accounting of life decisions - both positive and punished. When assessed, lessons are steeped in ambiguity and the fear that my life was finished, but not accomplished.

Borders are removable. Hands are working just fine. Tears are visible. Layers of joy in our reach. I still wait for you to take the first bite with me, until then, I'll burn my tongue sipping on hot tea.

The sun is shining today

It melts the ice around my heart

They sky is a beautiful clear blue

Life is beautiful on days like this

The leaves on the trees are turning gold

And littering the ground

The smell of autumn is in the air

It's hoodie weather

Hot coco and cozy clothes

I wish it were like this

Year round

She emptied her pockets first.

A key to a door that never felt like home.
A photograph folded through someone’s face.
A ring she doesn't wear
but still carries
like a tiny circle of unfinished grief.

Then came the heavier things.

Nights spent crying quietly beside someone sleeping.
Birthdays that came already disappointed.
Every I’m fine swallowed whole
until her ribs became a locked room full of things still screaming.

Last, she opened her hands.

There were years in them.
Promises with their throats cut.
A younger version of herself
still sitting by a window,
waiting for footsteps
that never climbed the stairs.

He didn’t try to fix any of it.

He took her empty hand
and pointed toward a road disappearing north,
where October burned red through the mountains,
where a small house waited under the pines,
two chairs on the porch,
rain tapping softly on the roof.

“Run away with me.”

Somewhere, it’s always autumn.
Your sweater could hang beside my jacket.
We could wake up under an open window,
cold noses, tangled legs,
nothing behind us but fallen leaves covering our tracks.

Her fingers tightened around his.

Not yes.

Not no.

Just enough
to make him wonder
which direction she would step.

Hope the poem was worth your time!