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I am meant to be a voice, not an echo. But to create echos, I first need to be a voice. Echo the passion, the message, the freedom, to anyone and everyone all around world.
As a New Yorker, it was a usual day as the rest. Meeting with clients, and ordering calls was all he had to stress. Mr. Dittmar did not expect the worst attack to come
You never know the impact You have until someone tells you. You never know if You’ve made a difference.
Writing in short form. Hidden details embedded in each stanza. The flow of words from line to line and the imagery you can convey from a simple dainty word placed upon
Look, beyond, a girl awaits,Walking through a sea of grass.She twirls and sings within the green,Her voice so clear as crystal glass.Her hands, so gentle as a dove,Around she fingers reaching stems.
Years ago, I picked up my first book and immediately I was immersed into a new world Never to be seen again, as I drown in a sea of my own imagination
Thank you for what you have done It has been loads of fun Thank you for showing me to live my life free
The spider had crawled in from the depths of the unknown The girl, seeing the creepy crawler, screamed to her bones Oh, wait a minute! Amongst the shadows in the dark Lies a man as strong as a shark
I'm small. Too small to make an impact, almost unseen. The sun beats me with her relentless beams of heat. The ground beneath me boiling I do my best, work hard against the worlds fever.
Life with its bountiful ups and downs, and times of excitement and fear, will always get better. For poetry is a path, an unobtrusive outlet, that emancipates negativity, including all its effects,
How strange That hands so gentle could touch with such fury And damage so intensely. How strange That hands so rough could touch the hearts of so many SO tenderly. How strange
To the woman who ties her long, golden hair back with a floral bandana Oh, how your silly little smile and southern impersonations have made me feel
I wonder today Or is it tomorrow When I can somehow change Anything of the world Despite bringing joy or sorrow Is it possible for me To change the story I was told Affect someone's day Maybe become a memory in their life What if I can change the
I once was a little girl Who one day picked up a pen, A notebook, And never looked back I became fascinated with words That sang and danced And told unique stories
Words cannot change the world And it will never be true that We can make a difference just by writing The written word Is not able to replace Advancing technology in our society
"And for the poet even disasters are on the agenda." - Alexander Pushkin Impact (12/27/15) Is it wrong to break A promise when
Me, myself anda piece of paperdecided to take onthe world.And so I wrote upon itsent it forthlet it fly freeout my window.I heard talk of it a year later
A young woman named Alicia Lives, learns, listens, and loves Intends to impact others for the better, but how Could she make a difference?
We are not the hormones in our blood Nor are we sex driven maniacs. There is a method to our madness Whether you choose to see it or not And we are begging you to Open your fucking eyes!
This is my poem.
I am not a fool I'm only himan And I'm bound to make mistakes Understand I've always had what it takes What it takes to love you And what it takes to stay with you Yeah I might have been hurt
There are seven billion people on this planet that I have yet to meet, and one hundred ninety-five countries I have not visited. Yet I am stuck in this insignificant town,
We are seeing in the dark Seeing a way to leave a mark Leave a mark upon this wall and guard it, never let it fall And we are trying to find a way Through the people every day
I feel as if, if I let a tear drop my body would erratically shatter. To bite the bitterness away with coldness. To repress the said with utter and complete numbness. To shiver away the sense of alone. To drift off and never return.
Ebbing in finality was the thumb of my grandfather: His eyes wavered, though I don't know what he sought after. Many years ago I asked what he could see: "I can see nothing in all of it's incredibility,"
To whom will we answer for this life we’ve received? Will we cast a redwood’s shadow with the impact that we’ve made, Or choose to subsist on the remains left by others?