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INFP Poetry

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This is a discussion on INFP Poetry within the INFP Forum - The Idealists forums, part of the NF's Temperament Forum- The Dreamers category; ...

  1. #161
    INFP - The Idealists

    The Rivers Like Veins
    I had this dream,
    I was lying down, hovering, feet first—
    With my head up, floating down,
    a white and blue rushing river.

    I felt the intensity of the motion
    I saw a hundred named tributaries
    And a thousand unnamed ones.
    I breathed the precipitous nature of fog.

    I watched the clouds with their own currents.
    The rocks kept the river from sinking,
    A plant hovered over the dew
    And it blocked out the sun.

    The engineers saw the world a machine and not organic
    They poked, prodded, dredged, and dammed it
    They penciled and made sketched plans
    They stenciled-- paid outstretched hands.

    A rainforest once wet and dripping, dried out
    The people denied the backwoods were in drought
    The fog simmered and the sun scorched
    An ember slipped and a tree torched.
    The moss turned red and black
    A glacier broke and cracked.
    Lovely Agony, attic and janisesandgeminis thanked this post.

  2. #162


    Open doorways are everywhere,
    so don't cry over spilled milk.

    When anything could be anything,
    then you could be nothing,
    and if your nothing then you've already lost,
    or maybe you've won?

    Slip inside this panel,
    it will lead you straight to the moon!
    Because people aren't really anything other than surfaces,
    and if we can slip into sunken skin,
    then maybe there will be enough hope
    to make it through the many nights we've already wasted.

    Chase my face
    I'll erase and replace me,
    I'm going under fast,
    so step it up oh tender sun.

    Build me a rickety bridge,
    I'll make sure to climb it on my way out.
    Wave to tiny spines,
    my thunder roars,
    yours just sings songs of all my doubt.

    Apocalyptic dreams
    are feathered in my head,
    just like open dashes that weave
    throughout our legs,
    when we run run run.

    So mold me cause I'm malleable.
    My gray edges soft,
    they bend with broken fingers.

    Did you know there is a world,
    that's filled with softness
    and bittersweet colors
    It sits on the edge of the universe,
    but I'd never be able to take you there.

    I'm hidden behind the fireplace now,
    embers burning behind my flesh,
    but if anybody gets too close
    my skin will turn to ash.

    We'll always fight you know,
    that's just what we do.
    All of us erasing,
    chasing and bracing
    so who's got the wider point of view?

    I can see miles of land
    but no water for days
    and the fact of the matter
    is that climbing this ladder,
    will only lead to disappointment.

    Disjointed in your elegance,
    you will make a mess.
    Knock over my domino's,
    they end at the milk.

  3. #163

    I close my eyes and drift to a place where everything is real and tangible, and my mind doesn’t exist.

    Orange and red leaves seduce my eyes, and without a second thought my clothes are slowly coming off, as if by a set of hands other than my own.

    My depth perception changes suddenly, and I’m inside an orange and red pond, and now nothing is as it seems. The feather-like touch of the leaves against my bare skin brings me closer to myself than I’ve ever been.

    I wade in deeper until the water evaporates, and I’m now resting my head against damp, cold cement. I run my fingers along the ground, grounding myself in my senses. I lay there for awhile, and unzip my skin, carefully, like unzipping my intimacy, and set my spirit free.

    I’m now the breeze in autumn, intangible but still real. I’m untouchable but I exist, seeping into every fiber of the outside world. I can be felt, and I’m apart of everything in nature and in you.
    burningsoul and janisesandgeminis thanked this post.

  4. #164


    I long to hold the secret of the universe--
    To harness the energy released at the opening of a bud;
    The wisp of air moved at the unfolding of petals;
    The vibrancy of a tiny fern opening it's soft fingers one by one by one.
    Oh, to channel that!--
    To be the soft thing that grows in fields.
    To not be the conifer that I am--
    Holding life in capsules--
    Cutting myself off from the world which offers resources to sustain me.
    For I am not a tree-- I have the free will to move about.
    I can draw up my roots that I've burrowed deep in barren earth.
    I can pour my energy into vulnerable vegetation which withers and dies with the waning of days.
    I cannot bear to stay evergreen.

    Cicada Man

    Cicada man!
    Returning once every seventeen years.
    Cicada man!
    Shedding your skin;
    Leaving ghosts of yourself to marvel at.
    Cicada man!
    I hear your hum in the distance:
    The reverberation of you
    Fills the space around me.
    Cicada man--
    Let me hold you, you strange creature.
    Cicada man--
    Show me where you hide,
    Where you disappear for so long.
    Cicada man!
    Your wings are a gift:
    Your mystery suits you in the most enchanting way.
    Cicada man--
    I wistfully wait for your return.

  5. #165


    I live in waking sleep,
    And see with sightless eyes,
    I walk in rigid step,
    With the shadows at my side.

    Trapped within my dreamless shell,
    I live in atrophy,
    Patiently I wait to fade,
    Like a raindrop in the sea.
    Shrodingers drink and The Smiling Heart thanked this post.

  6. #166

    Jesus sometimes spoke of birth
    Maybe for men the only time they cared to scrutinize a mother’s mind
    Could a woman forget the child she bore?
    Could she forget the suffering for the joy?
    Yes, He said...and, no...“Yet I will not forget”

    I wonder if the opposite can be asked of women experiencing death?
    With the shorter life-span of men , you would think this question would have come up, but no—
    Can a woman forget Death?
    Can a woman forget joy for suffering?

    I looked into my child’s eyes and the dear pucker of her forehead
    The strange hesitant muscles of his eyes
    The gurgling she made
    In each small wrinkle planets of dreams are created
    And internally the swirls of his hair became the great swirl of me and the grasp of her tiny fingers is the way I will always think of my fingers
    Each hue changing in their eyes denoted miracles and cities of spires, tiny veins veneration, plays of poignancy, strong skins of skill and speed
    Everything larger than the tiny helpless life

    But when this died between us, man. When there was an abrupt end, what used to be your pretty curls and the reedy voice whose any stray opinion I adored in high Bohemian style with you has now grown small. The possibilities of us racing to rescue all have shrunk
    All the monumental traits that you might make me vaguely recall with sharp goading have been removed far to the background— and once, surely I knew they were the bulk of you!
    I only remember the littleness, the littlest parts—the whiff of bitterness, the handkerchief of nonsense, the hard stone pebbles of force and immovability.
    I only remember clearly the fist-sized rock you held as you struck the death blow and named my spirit which you once knew was always so indomitable an insubstantial ghost.

    So no... and yes.... God, it’s well that you never mused on this. But I wish there were words to explain where all the good goes when it’s the end.
    Mary Christmas and burningsoul thanked this post.

  7. #167

    First of all I am not certain if INFP is my closest match regarding MBTI but here are a couple of my favorite and more recent poems and the first I have shared online. So of course, if anybody would even so desire to spread my garbage, please do not share my content without first reaching out to me and without due credit and reference back here to its original public posting. I do value my works.

    This first poem is only appropriate on Halloween Day

    A Death in Autumn:

    I tell this tale of twisted love
    That you shall tell no more thereof
    Where witch and werewolf had made known
    A land no grass has grown
    Her silver shot; his blood had clot
    And his soul became her own:

    In the beckoning howl of Fall
    When oaks weep & bleed of leaves
    Whom does the silver Maiden call?
    Who kneels before Her there & grieves?
    With lunar face & maiden's bust
    All in all, Autumn's lust
    Sends a chill in Death

    Oh the screaming jack-o-lantern
    Instills nightmares of Her cause
    To brew the howler's blood & churn
    His withered legs collapse to paws
    With steady wit & silver shot
    All in all, Autumn's rot
    Bathes a kill in Death

    A murder of crows paint the sky
    With silver & black & woe
    And murder reeks Fall winds with wry
    When wolf-boy lays his heart down low
    His hollowed form the Maiden nursed
    In Autumn, two souls come cursed
    Till & still in Death

    ----------------------------- Next Poem ------------------------------------------

    This next poem is very personal and involves a significant event in my life. It is interesting how detached I feel in creating this, as if I have become more so the distant observer of my own life than the participant of its shattered path. The creation of the poem was inspired by the song "Lightning Crashes" by the band Live. You may see some similar themes in some parts of the poem.

    An Angel with Closed Eyes:

    Oh Mother how your eyes reveal
    Stars that twinkle seem unreal
    How those stars breathe of their own
    With light only yours have shone

    In the passage of your time
    With Corona, salt and lime
    Many a tear and laugh I shed
    Then and now; alive or dead

    Oh Mother how your eyes release
    That spark for love and peace
    That soon the storm comes a rest
    And further brings of life your best

    Oh Mother, whose eyes grow pale
    As I utter final verse from Hell
    As beauty is sought from pain
    To what ends we make this gain?

    Oh Mother, whose eyes have stole
    The price be paid and death her toll
    And the baby makes first gasp
    And for Mother her hands clasp

    From death, life reaps a hefty sum
    From Mother's sweets her sugar plum
    Ill fortune yet deemed and sworn
    When mother dies and daughter born
    Fennel thanked this post.

  8. #168


    The night is dark and cooling
    but a lark is chiming
    Telling me light should be here faraway
    That red roses should be painted white

    That cleansing doesnt just happen on the moon
    Its my doom for trying to pretend im a real person
    How can I be if I am trapped inside an invisible blue
    If you can't see then its not real so how is it going to get destroyed in a
    fiery flume

    But if that's true why when I try to get out
    Does the red sear on my leg and my mouth

    it happens inside
    And its truly impossible to truly hide

    But is it wrong to want to turn the red roses white
    That somehow in the endless void I can be a Knight?

    Trying to befriend your monster?
    But how can I even prosper doing that with my youth?

    Is anything going to spark something ?just waiting for the rust to spark ?
    Can lemon take away the watermark you left on your hips?

    I just wanna light up this whole service
    I want to deserve it

    But it may not make a mark
    and that will just make the dark forever long

    and is it wrong to paint the roses white
    is to trite?

    walk on the moon
    Even give someone a balloon?
    What if somehow im wrong?
    How we sure if someone truly strong?

    even to help a friend?
    could this be the end to my light?

    Am I taking a freedom an animal impulse
    My pulse quickens

    Where is the line?
    Nobody cares
    No one dares question the endless revolving
    so why do I dare speak my mind?

    Even on ice skates I fall flat
    Because I can't see my spark where is it at?

    But deep in
    A dove leaps

    It tells me what is beauty
    but is this my duty?

    Imperfection so wild
    I am so young I am almost a child
    but its it okay if I buffer some lines?

    Is it okay to speak my mind?

    new poem
    Fennel thanked this post.

  9. #169

    That's amazing! :-)
    Pinkieshyrose thanked this post.

  10. #170

    Sadness climbs
    Like invading vines
    Intertwine my soul, my mind
    Stains each thought, each memory
    Disintegrating old beliefs

    Guilt and shame
    Flow through my veins
    My heart aches and darkness pulls me down
    I don't resist
    What fate has fixed
    Inevitably, I ride it out
    And every breath
    Burns my chest
    With thick emotion choking me
    Until I don't recognise what's left
    Searing pain, infinitely

    My soul aligned
    An endless bind
    To that which life instilled in me
    Within time
    The pain subsides
    And temporarily sets me free
    I stay a while
    In the stillness of eternity
    I find comfort in the silence
    And solace in the peace

    My ascent
    Back again
    Back towards "reality"
    The world has changed
    But they can't see
    The world has only changed to me
    SilentScream thanked this post.

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