Read Poetry: Confessions, by Lizardin Bain

You say I’m pretty. You say I’m kind,

But does it ever cross your mind,

That you’re being awfully abusive.


Of course, it doesn’t. Why it should?

The nicest words they never could,

Hurt anyone or be intrusive.


And people think so, and my brain,

It tries to cope, but all in vain.

My heart prefers to be preclusive.


You sing those tunes without a care,

You fail to see that I can’t bear,

The notes that sound to me illusive.


I understand that I am flawed,

But all I see is brutish fraud,

Who is as rude as he’s delusive.


I do not trust when someone says:

“I fell in love in three short days.”

It’s highly doubtful and allusive.


Your words are brining only pain,

They are constricting, like a chain,

And I can hardly take your glee.


But you’re urging me to stay,

And not allowing me to say,

My desperate, urgent plea.

The anger hops up to the front,

You end up sliced. You end up burnt,

You cuss, you spit, you flee.


I ‘m left alone. I’m left unbound.

Denied a voice, denied a sound,

Like cursed, unwanted sea.


I curl inside. I close the door,

Refuse to roar and feeling sore,

I throw away the key.


And I am failing to confess,

And I am failing to express –

How love confessions hurt me.

Genre: love, relationship, hurt, another point of view, confession, sad


Read Poetry: Young Heart, by Hala Emad 

genre: Romance, Sad


The Bonbon

He took it with him with all the candies

Someone has to tell him, because

The bonbon is what this little girl owns

And whose her shadow only belongs

To his shadow, as the place she dwells.


He took the sugar,

The dream in green color,

My little toy, the beaker

And the tea’s flavor

Leaving jealousy for the boiler

Who when got jealous, did fritter.


He took my red flower,

The shells around my mirror,

My barbie doll, my laughter,

The feast scent and savor,

The dream that I just did texture,

My lipstick and my eyeliner.


He took the chocolate and its magnitude,

He embittered by his absence and solitude

Its beautiful taste and attitude.

Someone has thim: “I forgot any rude”,

As well as I decided to grow up not screwed.

By: Hala Emad


Read Poetry: Unchanging Penitence, by J.N. McGhee

Genre: Dark, Sad

Love + me will always = pain.
Disappointments and knowledge are the results I gain.
Mending gradually yet the heart remains the same.
Closets are filled to capacity with no vacancy to place the blame.
I hate myself, this flesh never seems to redeem.
Outward appearances capture strangers’ eyes; their conjured reflections evade my dreams.
I’m not good enough; I will never be seen for who, not what, I truly am.
Perfection, requirements, and preferences overwhelm me like a dam.
Scars, bruises, and blemishes leave their mark.
Constant remainders chipping away at me like tree bark.
Beating myself emotionally, physically, mentally has left sensations numb. Damaged beyond repair; I’m an invisible shadow.
No sense of place nor time.
Just a faceless phantom.
No matter what people do to me, for it will never come close as to what I do to myself on the inside.
 I’ll return to that broken mirror forever trying to piece that which I’ve lost…..a shattered image.
Refusing to accept that part of me has died.
But I’ll keep right on coming; believing the lies.

© J.N. McGhee

Read Poetry: This Is My Life, by Shellie Palmer

Genre: Life, living life, living, hopeful, joy, happy, sad, perspective

Symbols and notes I see, I see signs of what’s to be. I’ve seen hearts, wings and babies. I don’t understand them as they appear more so daily. These days go by so quick, I want to enjoy every moment as they come and go by. In my sights of life see more intolerance this is why I want to enjoy this life. These symbols could be more than just a sign, it could very well be what I’ve been missing in my life. True friendships have found me happy and sometimes it makes me cry that’s my life. So why do I wonder what these signs are about. I question it sometimes. Life is a question mark , the answers will come in time. I still have plenty of life to live to make it right. After all this is my life.

 * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Poetry: OLD ORDER by Rajnish Mishra

 Genre: Dark, Death, Fear, Friendship, Life, Love, Painful, Personality, Philosophical, Relationships, Sad, Society, Old and new.

 All old order is subject to decay,

they say and when fate summons,

old ways free fall. Heart-held loves,

friends, hatreds, foes, all, yes, all

give way to mighty time’s sway.

Indestructible, invincible,

grand youthful years, with each
passing year suffer wisdom’s

sedimentation, while marching on way,

time fills in fears, foreboding of future:

quite an accumulation! That knowledge

and fear lose all their power,
For lost is that fear –

a servant attentive.
For lost is that fear –

above head always hovering.
So, lost is the fear –

of not ever returning
As roots are cut now,

or withered; ineffective


now hardened

is drained of that terror.

Short Bio:

Rajnish Mishra is a poet, writer, blogger and thinker. He has published seven books, six co-edited anthologies, twenty scholarly papers and poems in various journals, books and magazines. Few of his poems can be read at the following sites:,,,,

His love for his city and his awareness of its effects on his psycho-social development led him to starting his own blog: in 2011. The blog features both his academic writing and his writing on his city: the City of Light, Varanasi. Then, as he is a poet, and loves reading and talking about other people’s poems too, he started another blog: He runs an ezine: PPP Ezine to promote poetry and poets.

* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Poetry: A Full Life of Narrow Streets by James Fitzpatrick

Genre: Romance, beauty, history, geography, love, wildlife, sad, Ireland, America, literature, books, defiance

 Beneath the broad columns of Herculean Pillar,
Weeps the springtime feather dance
Of freezing frothing blanket.
He lies on Irving’s rocks across the Henry,
Painting words of Freedom’s March across a furrowed brow,
Till tiredness creeps it’s feet on lonely eyes,
Counting mountains
As they frown down from above.

On the first crack of the distant Bell
A teary head raises from a bloody pillow,
And sings out the count, to defiant beats.
Flakes drift softly round a faraway moon,
As drizzle melts the lines of morning strollers,
With the hoofs their companions, embossed upon the heather.

His eyes close as he settles to dreams of futures possible,
Picturing rows of steaming turrets, sharpened blades
And crumbling fear, as they draw known faces on fancy paper.
He hears whispered talk of sagging brows and lobbing smiles,
Scribbling and Scripting our morning news where
New artisans paint Headlines in his head,
“Work, save, and Beg.
Make ends meet,
Work those streets,
Bare them writers, debaters,
Leaders, loiters,
Teeming with poor lice“.

Upset now, he straightens, filled with sculpted fear,
And flagging hope,
Devouring ideals of painful labour,
Darkened evenings and prose.
The Narrow Alleys echo his comrades screams,
‘They are Flogging the undesirables‘.

Cries of the deserted ring out
As sweat now pores on dirtied boots.
On A One page of women Jubilant,
Black Coffins swim across the oceans, and the Singing corpses chant the Voters Slogan
‘The great appear great,
Only because we are on our Knees’

The Parisians have embraced the soul of his youth, stole his heart,
Hardened his resolve,
And emancipated the print of the newest chapters.
He’ll fall upon the lords great will,
The ‘Singers’ and ‘Wobblies’ will call and cheer,
While unrest leaves lanes of torn and listed books.

It’s a world only make believe could make so real.
Locked in, Locked out,
Fattened Guerrillas stalking shadows,
In concrete jungles of law and lands.
Their people Long since, Ner’ forgotten,
For He hears their whispers in his sleep.

This Farmers land, had workers lead their kin to the gates of Slaughter,
Then scavenged, begged and stowed to the cloudy Hill
Of Overlooking
To remorse or return, is a question beyond the door of the living.
He must Shed not for the defiant butcher,
But more for the life now gone,
Since sold to an aging critic.

He was Born in to the Poor mans world,
But now freed from it’s chains,
Must help make what‘s fallow ripen.
On the streets where rubble were once great walls,
Where mounted high, the heavenly stag did Breed,
In fields where blight had starved their plates,
He would toil and drive and Dig and Build.

That day, That day in May,
Upon a hazy heather pillow,
A life of history filled a lonely man.
As He lay and held the hand of glories past,
He raised a fist to salute the one which had just begun.
He shakes hands in his dreams with the men of the mist,
Along hills,
And at the edge of great towns.

James Fitzpatrick
Seamus Mac Giolla Phadraig

James Fitzpatrick is an Irish Poet based in Dublin.

* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Read Poetry: MAY, by Emma Holden

Genre: Free verse, hurt, personality, mental illness, borderline personality disorder, dark, life, sad, pressure, unstructured poetry

But words are just words, and lies will always be lies.

Maybe summer will reveal the truth, and the phrases that sit beneath my scars

I bare myself before them, and welcome my feelings; they’re tougher then that, and stronger then me. So I break apart, their ignorance leaving bruises on the back of my hands; hands that I don’t even recognize anymore.

Who am I supposed to be? Because i am never enough. But I am all that I know. And if they tell me to be softer, I will remind them I am jaded, and sharp. That each piece of me has carved a hole in someone else. So if you want me to change, you mustn’t stay.

And I’ll walk the shores alone and collect shells instead of these reasons to run.


* * * * *

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Missing Home, Poetry by Anyasi Ray

 Genre: Hope, Hurt, Rhyme, Sad, Society and Kids

Home is gone, stolen by our enemy.
Home is broken, and nothing left for me.
Now I live in the wreck of an old van,
And my pillow is a soiled baking pan.
Sweet home, can I find another one new?

Home is not a place there is an army.
Home is where there is daddy and mommy.
Daddy is not here because of a gunman.
Mommy is not here because of a masked man.
The gunman and the masked man, shame on you.

Home is where all my friends are around me.
Home is where I can play with Salami.
I saw a pretty boy in a turban,
I tried to play with him here but he ran.
Why his mom won’t let him, I never knew.

Home is where I always fill my tummy.
Home is where my hunger makes me happy.
I can’t follow mommy’s nutrition plan,
When my meal is from the Bantus’ trash can.
Taste and hunger, my companions anew.

Home is where the cold will never catch me.
Home is where the insects will not bite me.
The sun has given me more than a tan,
And blisters I wear like a cardigan.
A pain more than this is only a few.




    * * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Little Girl Lost, Poetry by Patricia Poulos

Genre: Death, Family, Hope, Hurt, Inspirational, Love,  Painful, Philosophical,  Relationships, Sad,

Little Girl Lost
Diana – Princess of Wales
Patricia Poulos


She was shy

But beneath that ‘little girl’ exterior

she was strong

She was only nineteen

She did not know how to react

to worldly situations which

involved her heart

She had not the experience

of older women

Nor the manner

in dealing with the experiences

she would encounter

as a married woman

The Fairy-tale Princess

She could not have envisaged

the torment she would suffer

Her father departed

The only person

upon whom to rely

for every aspect of her being

would share his affections

with another

She would have no one

to help carry her load

Yet the other had two

men to satisfy her desires

She had

nowhere to turn


like a small animal in a cage

held high

for all to see

She was so young

She could not have seen

the murkiness of the waters

which would eventually engulf her

Waters in which

she would eventually drown

There is no precedent of decorum

for those

whose hearts have been shattered

No right nor wrong written

to guide the broken hearted

Just a stumble and fall

with no one to hold

Only the lesson

after the act

All too late

She was vulnerable

The weight of her burden

caused her to hold

onto any attention given

She would be


again and again

Coerced into telling

… if more people knew

the burden would ease

But the children

would be left

with the burden of life

without her

The kiss and tell lover

revealed the intimacy of her trust

Now everyone knew

their inner-most secrets

Once released

the burden grew

An uncontrollable monster

which cannot be re-caged

A dictator

which commands response

She was left naked

Her soul was bared

The lessons were being learned

All would sympathize

But sympathy is hollow

it contains no substance

it provides no sustenance

The whole world knows

the shame has now spread

But this was not the intent

She knew not

what next to do

She craved for the promises made

Not to be kept

The Fairy-tale end

was not so to be

Then God

took pity

on this Little girl lost

and took her to Him

Perhaps now in death

she will end the tale

and live
Happily Ever After.



    * * * * *

Deadline: FREE POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:

Watch Poetry performance readings:

Watch Poetry made into Movies:

Wishful Thinking, Poetry by Norma Passarell

It took me thirty years of suff’ring mourn, oh dear!,
To tame the fiercest beast, my dreaded loneliness.
A lifetime of gregarious wildness ’twas indeed.
I was drunk every single night; there was no light.

Genres: Delusion, Hope, Illusion, Indifference, Love, Relationships, Sadness, Sorrow, Wishful Thinking.

Wishful Thinking
by Norma Passarell

It took me thirty years of suff’ring mourn, oh dear!,
To tame the fiercest beast, my dreaded loneliness.
A lifetime of gregarious wildness ’twas indeed.
I was drunk every single night; there was no light.

With time, I learnt to be in my own company.
I then saw you and in a whisper thought, to me,
I swear, you had the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.
Hence you became my greatly loved Glaswegian prince.

Incertitude lifted me towards the sky, couldn’t sleep at night,
Then daydreamt ’bout how’d it be you kissing me throughout.
I asked you out. You said: “Why not?” But soon I knew
All was a figment of my brimful fantasy.

How ignorant I’d been! How couldn’t I see that you
Were not interested in me?! Now that you are gone,
You left me wondering how I will be alone.
Again, but even older, rejected I have been.

For now, I’ll loathe your accent on every mouth,
Even though I know it isn’t you to blame, but me,
For being too naive, and having forced you to love me.
Go away! Go away! With time, I’ll be okay!



* * * *