inspirational
Inspirational poetry is just the thing to lift your spirits or rejuvenate your creativity.
Aster In The Snow
I took a deep breath into the freezing winter air. Walking through the garden, covered in snow, I noticed the death that took over. I stopped in my trail to admire the loss of beauty that was once there. I closed my eyes and imagined what they looked like blooming in June. They seemed more beautiful than usual in my mind. I sat in the snow and stared at them with bliss, but then I opened my eyes and saw it.
By Vic Grantling5 years ago in Poets
The Mountain
The top never changes, I’ve never seen it. The bottom brainwashes you, victimizing you. It forces you into denial. It possesses you like a decrepit demon, turning you into a host. It’s a parasite that can’t be separate from you. I don’t want to share my dreams with you. I want to climb, hand over fist. Fingers then knees. The rope burns but I seize the strength to persevere. Monotonous average ruin is not on my list. Mediocrity is not my forte. The ladder swings like a noose but I hold the line. The defenses are stable but only just. I am one breakdown away from total immobile psychosis. Giving up is easier than trying and failing. Or even attempting and perhaps achieving. The odds we never know, the pendulum is on its own. No stopwatch, no magic lamp. The finish line is a mirage. I don’t want to be born again. I am the eater of wishes, the collector of hopes. The spirits have haunted me with their futures. I have no plans to travel to the past. Seclusion has made a spot for me, a corner with no walls. Solitude has become me, we hold hands underneath the stairwell. We ascend higher somehow. There is only one way to go. Pavement and concrete do not exist. Dirt and grass are beneath me. My grave will be met with such a fury. I will have conquered the North Pole. I will have salvaged shipwrecks in the South. I will have erected monuments in the East. I will have joined the lava in the West. The air is heavy and light-headed. The agony and pleasure have combined. Will it cost me everything? Will it give me a reality check or give me back my insanity? My suffering is not freeing. I am the vessel for continuity, I will go on. The clouds scratch the surface. I’m exhausted for having settled. The intersections turn into crevices. Chasms turn into self-fulfilling prophecies. At which point do I turn back? To which direction is my advantage?How many substantial errors will aim to reign over me? How many conspiracy theories will endeavor to rule over me? I have planted my seeds. I have ventured, I have strived. I have sought, I have sprouted. My beanstalk will soar, my branches will extend. My astral plane will arise, I will walk with giants. I will keep up pretenses, I will claim asylum. My vision is bitter and intense, I sink even lower but I intend to keep going. I have to finish my climb and not delay my inevitable
By Anna Torres5 years ago in Poets
