'what poetry means to me'
Learn more about other poetry terms
Dreams die;
some after the dreamer deceases,
some before.
Perhaps this is because the world,
restless and translucent, demands great things
from every individual.
What has been taught by poetry?
I have learned much about the person called me.
I have learned how to express myself creatively.
I have learned how to set my thoughts free
Poetry is like, A deep understanding of the unknown, Written with pain or love, It all starts the same way, With a pen and paper, With an Idea, Poetry can make or break a person, And poetry has taught me, To unleash my thoughts out on paper, And o
I run from the world
I hide, not so old
My pen and worn words
Young poet, old swords
Both shield and offense
I count in my tense
To fight is a lie
But with words I try
I now write
Poems to ease the pain
All day and All night
My thoughts become more tame
I've wished death
Upon my own brother
To take his last breath
For stealing my mother
Amongst a crowd of people,
I am always the one furthest from reaching the sky.
In other words, I am short.
Petite.
Vertically challenged.
Believe me,
I bash my head on the walls until it cracks open
I let everything pour out soupy and thick
like egg yolks
Put my feelings into words,
Teach me lessons I've never heard.
How to speak with authority,
Help me to better understand me.
Describe the world through my eyes,
Create something one of a kind.
What's in a poem
Words that sound so sweet
Bending our perception
Where vision and passion meet
Words are the beginning
They create new realities
Bending the shift of our mind
Poetry Is a Dream.
Poetry is a dream
It begins when you close your eyes and let your unconscious imagination take over.
There are no impossibilities, only the possible.
I'm nine years old
and what do you know?
I got these feelings,
how do I show?
At the computer I sit
and out my fingers, poems flow.
One, then two, four, five, ten,
A Modern Woman
First I was a Mother. 1
Then I was an Old womb tied up in ropes.
Then I was sold to give a Dopamine rush,
My words are my weapons
My words are my power
They give me strength
In my darkest hour
When the world seems big
And I feel so small
Thoughts in my head
ebb and flow as do currents
Waves upon waves, wash ashore
but my mouth–it rarely opens
This pen and paper
To crave action and to think of stars
To cry diction and to sing of words
To silently speak the happenings
Of Carl's good and dead grandmama
To eat passion and to write of moons
Saturday morning again, and the bees are wanting to settle into our c-l-a-v-i-c-l-e-s.
. . . so hush, little baby
Baby, don't you cry. . .
Hey, Hey, now, Mr. Harvey!
Lookin' all sharp and sweet, you do, sir!
Yes, Sir!
O o o h. . .
