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Sharp pencil. Blank paper. No eraser. No mistakes allowed. Find another pencil, my mind says. Don't get a new piece of paper.
A blank piece of paper, soon to be something I will give to you. I fold it in half, beginning the creation. Visualizations of what will happen flood my head. What if you don't like it?
My name's not Springsteen, But I sure feel like a Boss Haters attempting to rag on me Gonna feel a little lot of lost cause Time's chipping away at this face, Turning this ice into a sculpture
Green, white. Wood wafts westward into my nasal wonder. Beans crack and crumble away to dust As the black lake of broken dreams Boils into blight. Creators crawl the clavier, clawing
Thoughts bleeding in my head. Idea's screaming, in my mind. A single pen, in my hand. The only paper, I could find. Unused ink, written words unsaid. Inspiration,
It was dark And gloomy A drip drip dripping noise In the eerie silence A frail body
A crumpled piece of paper. The stature of things unsaid, Words unheard of. Time thrown away, Heart gone to waste. Talents unseen, Greatness unevident. Mind-filled works, Torn.
Paper is good plain as the rain. Made from wood a poor tree's pain. Creations that could your mind's drain. Exploring the would imagination's plane. paper is good.
when you feel yourself crumpling and your small body collapses in when you fold into a crooked crane and your sharp edges peek through
It was never easy. But now it is harder. Seems harder no Is harder When I didn't know, they came Like wind I was alone I was free Free and alone
Pen in hand. Blank paper before me. As my pen hits the paper, words begin to flow. As if it were a river of language flowing from my mind to my hand; And onto the paper before me. Words become sentences.
It’s a specific side. The one with frayed edges where Paper fibers are disrupted from the interwoven Pattern of rules calculated to win points. No one can see the perfect matrix.
Frail, weak, innocent You don't taste the poison in your tea You don't notice the thorns in the roses But as you begin to grow, So does your mind You see things, experience things, learn things
Emerald and aqua, then scarlet hues A streak of pink or pastel blue Colors swirl together with beauty and grace Pencils meet paper with the sweetest embrace Everyone warns "Stay inside the lines"
I hear you I hear you in the pouring rain... Words Words that cannot escape my brain. The unexplained
When I write I never ask why. I never had to think about it. It always just happened. But it wasn't until I noticed That I write to survive, I write because words can save lives.
Empty pages that stare back, So pure and clean, Untainted with words, And the markings of my imagination. Was that not how I was before? Ignorant, and in bliss Not caring for the world.
I could live all by myself, Yet never be alone. Two covers and a spine, Can make a charming home. Wallpaper of rustling pages, Songbirds warbling in verse,
Yellowed paper Broken corners and ripped cover I’m glad it’s only a book
Smile please... Really, to say the truth I don't know what to write.. I'm not a great person like you to impress... I hope there is no gifts for you, other than my few words in this four papers...
I used to see myself as a tree. One of those that come in a bag, (go in a bag,)
The pen is my compass The paper my sail They take me to new places On a see of words and dreams
oh dear little girl
I bring a crumpled paper to class, torn, shaded, but there. Alone sitting on a narrow desk, torn, shaded, but there. When collected it seems the same torn, shaded, but there.
I wish I listened. My only escape is here. This paper has wings.
Speak you mind poetry slam Who made paper? Who stole from the trees? Who lied to the birds? Who sung to the bees?
A crumpled piece of paper Has no value, has no worth It’s greatest purpose is To fill the dumpsters Burn in landfills, Die and leave No trace of birth.
My paper, Blank and voidNothing comes to mindAs I write, nothingInspire me I sayStill I have nothingMy poetic words, lost
I used to think that bubble wrap, Was the best way to go. That touching the world, Through a pane of glass, Was better than feeling the warmth, Beneath my fingers.
Invisible Knight Hefting sightless armor Decorated in gold talons Your wrath is unmatched As your peace is unequaled
We are but paper Floating through the winds of life Our skin crinkling and tearing There are words which are forgotten Carved and sunken in our flesh Speaking of our truths
Words on paper Words on paper Paper that cuts Paper that wrinkles Teacher cant teach Teacher cant teach Why am I here...
Ink tainted on paper A sword stronger than the memory of time Ink tainted on paper
Pen, Paper, InspirationTo ensure that poems flows smooth like silkOnly inspiration will doPen and paper, thats for me to write
Beauty is created on its face. Colors swirling into a symphony, Creating beauty where there is none found. All emotions are held beneath the tip, As it glides across this vast unknown.
I hold the silver over flesh and feel the sting of thorns.It seems like there was no damage.Ah, there it is.
Here I am watching the rain whip through the window The water seeps in the cracks of the thirsty hard wood floor My face is soaking wet as I stand by the window, watching you leave
You can hear the trees cry As the machine shreds their friends. All the leaves and trunks downward die They cannot speak; they are shy. They do indeed meet their violent end.
A blank page just sitting, waiting, for my words. A blank page just sitting, waiting, for an adventure.
I had a note that I wrote That started off as an anecdote But I left it in my coat And I gave it to a boy so eager and cold But he didn’t know how to float
Lately it feels like paper is the only thing that will listen. And the ink in the pen is what makes the words glisten. 'Cause the story isn't pretty. But neither is my attitude.
Paper's there to listen when the earth has tuned me out, Poetry's the pillow that takes my angry shout, And writing is the friend that never fails to say, "Hello." It doesn't need to rhyme and it doesn't need to flow--
I can only speak for myself On what poetry means it me It is a chance to let my heart bleed out A chance to let my thoughts take wing I am not a master poet I never claimed to be
I can smile and look at everythingTwisting a strand of hair with my finger,A childish expression i wear to pass the time. Until then I am wasting my time skipping and stepping on broken leaves,My toes growing numb from the water soaking into my sh
When I am hurt Words flow from my mind Like blood flows from a cut My mind is raw like my skin My mind hurts like a wound Pain radiates to my heart My hand move quick Ink stains paper
Anticipation grips the air with unearthly forceAs the opposition stands with ready armsThe goal more than to inflict just harmAn ink laden sword holds more weight: endorse
The girl sits in the corner,coddling the paper between her slender, frail hands,holding her baby as her mother showed her with her screaming brother.The paper does not scream.Instead it tries to comfort,
Chewed up, worn out, sputtering Almost out of ink, ideas faded, words stumbling Grip slipping Shell Crumbling Blunt-Force trauma and my contents come tumbling out And I realize I’m mostly empty
Millions say writing is what saved them. Writing is all that they have. And I am one to stand up, and agree. Writing saved me from the dark hole my mind was creating when I had depression.
Words swirl inside my head like pillars of light, I grasp onto the strands and wait: I wait for them to makes sense, Incoherent buzzes of truth are all I have.
I depend on this pen and paper like a crutch, Hoping to clear my mind cause my thoughts have become too much Only wanting to smile and be proud, but happiness is something I can't seem to touch
I watched you burn today. I wrote your name on a piece of paper, and told it All the things that you never wanted to hear. I watched you burn today. I spoke about all the times you made me feel