Check Out This Post… "Do You Know Graham Greene? ".
Check out this post… "Do You Know Graham Greene? ".
More Posts from Danladisauri and Others
Wish you would come back And whisper one more word.
Your absence is the starting point of Agony.
Indulge me to profess my inner intent to you
Gimme more love than I need so that I am stone as though a bird haunted by innocent kids
Gimme more love now,
more than a heart can contain,
till I turn to stone.
Stone as a lost bird,
winged yet weighed down by the sky,
drifting without flight.
Haunted by soft hands,
children chasing with laughter,
shadows full of light.
Hold me till I break,
warmth that shivers in my bones,
silent echoes loud.
Punk FRIDAY
Hello, I am a poet, connect with me to discover more
Poem is when you write a unique piece in an elegant style.
You don't have to be subtle, just play with words, that's it!
"Spikes and Shadows"
He laced his boots with threads of spite,
A rebel heart, a flickering light,
Mohawk sharp, dyed crimson red,
Echoes of rage inside his head.
Leather jacket, patched and torn,
Symbols stitched of nights forlorn,
Chains that clattered, boots that stomped,
Through empty streets where shadows romped.
His mother wept, his father roared,
"This isn't you—you're something more!"
But "more" was chains, and "more" was loud,
A voice that shattered every crowd.
"You're lost," they said. "You'll fade away."
But fading wasn't punk rock's way.
So with a snarl and fists held tight,
He vanished deep into the night.
City lights like jagged scars,
Graffiti hymns, and broken bars,
Friends with names like Ghost and Snipe,
Living lives carved out of hype.
Yet in the echo of each show,
A shadow whispered soft and low—
Not from the crowd, not from the stage,
But stitched between his stitched-up rage.
The echoes grew, as echoes do,
“What’s freedom if it’s haunting you?”
No answers came, just static buzz,
A question left for who he was.
Years rolled on, and posters peeled,
The vinyl scratched, the anger healed.
But in his chest, beneath the ink,
A softer beat began to think.
One winter dawn, with breath like smoke,
He penned a letter, words bespoke:
"I left to find what I could be—
But lost myself to feel free."
No home he had, yet home he found,
In ink, in scars, in silent sound.
A punk, a son, a soul unbound,
Spikes and shadows, safe and proud.
The Writer's Vow
Ink stains fingers, pages fray, yet still, they struggle through.
Morning light creeps past the blinds, a pale and fleeting glow,
Coffee cold, ideas thin, but on the words must flow.
Each letter drips with restless doubt, each sentence feels contrived,
Plots unravel, characters shout, but none feel quite alive.
The cursor blinks, a steady pulse—a metronome of dread,
Marking time in silent taunts within the writer’s head.
But habit binds with iron threads, forged in sleepless nights,
Discipline, their bitter bread, consumed beneath dim lights.
The muse is fickle, fleeting fast, like shadows on the wall,
Yet duty grips them to the last, though passion dares to stall.
Afternoon fades, the word count grows, though hollow feels the gain,
For not all seeds the writer sows will bloom without the rain.
But still, they press with weary hand, through paragraphs and prose,
Chasing meaning, bold and grand, in lines nobody knows.
And when the final word is penned, the day’s great battle won,
They close the page, their thoughts unspun, though restless minds aren’t done.
For in the silence, whispers start—new tales begin to play.
