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I am the future
I am a leader
I can contribute to changing the world
It starts with me, with you and I together
The kid only wanted to be understood
by his fellow relatives and friends.
Problem was that everyone else expected
to be understood first and forget about his thoughts.
So he did what he taught himself to do,
i sat,
on the edge of dexterity and ineptness.
my heartbeat couldn't decide whether it wanted beat into an oblivion
or just stop all together.
my mind was split in two.
i wished to be yin and yang
You are not my parents
Because you layed in bed and had sex.
But because you love me and care for me.
You are not my friend
Because we share laughs and hugs.
Ducks are ducks
trees are trees
what is not here
is bothering me
Quacks are quacks
seas are nothing but simple seas
this poem is really bothering me
what is this really?
The truest pain is the one you don't initially feel Question, what happened? and was it even real?
I planted you a rose; sat and watched it bloom
the rose didn't feel me watching,
or notice that I was trying to forget you.
Who do roses grow for?
Surely mine for you,
Beauty is the beast, while Beast is the Beauty.Being Ugly is not perfect, but it is part of Maturity.
Love is Hatred, while hatred is love. If noone loved themselves then noone would love.
Silent, quiet, unable to be seen
I scream out and not a sound comes out
invisible to the eye, silent to the world
Not heard by boy or girl
No one notices the pain behind my silence
She talks to me,
She tells me things she wouldn't tell others.
Like how one day she will break free
For the girl who has to see her drunk father
For the boy who gets teased because he's gay
For the twins who are stuck together
For the child who sees his sister waste away
This pen and my thoughts...that's all I have.
I don't know how to make my words come out right.
Even if I could no one would understand.
I go without speaking about what I feel inside.
To be Heard.
To be Understood.
To be Wordless.
To be Unstated.
To be Expressed.
What is communication?
...Communication is Key.
Being able to whisper,
Goodbye to those I once knew,
those that will remain are a few,
for the train is reaching its destination,
and the time to descend has come.
To the passengers that have left,
you have made an impact,
Can you tell me you love me
Or that you don't even care
About the outfit I put together
And how I did my hair
That you think I'm beautiful
Every time you see me
And in the midst of everything
Goodbye
Such a strange word, Goodbye
We say it all the time
But yet we think nothing of it.
I'm losing my mind it's three in the morning and my mind is starting to unwind,
I'm going on auto drive and everything is so intensified,
Electricity and power and thoughts inside
Music, and wonder and time
It’s just a glimpse inside my mind
Worry and hope and tears I’ll cry
Happiness and running and learning to fly
Who am I?
Am I the person you see right in front of you?
Am I the person you hear people talking about?
Am I the person crying out for attention?
Am I the person who needs your approval on who I am?
I live in a land where the flag speaks red
A red that gives pride and shelter until my end
Yet to my Friends red Bends to displaying the Bloodshed
Of their countries
Living through the darkness of the dead
You, yes…you!!
What the hell are you waiting for?
Don’t you see all the shit that’s going on right now?
And you’re just lying there, not doing anything about it!
I know what you think about every day and night
You are special in every way
You are simply cute all round
You emergence into my world is awesome
You brought hope, peace, joy, laughter, wealth and love
When u look at me what do you see? It’ll be better if u picture me with your eyes closed. Without the accessories and nice clothes. Ignore the nakedness of my worn body and look into my soul. And what do you see?
man, who are you?
beast, what are you?
woman, why are you?
peace, WHERE are you?
I never have a free weekend to party or have fun
I work in the fields and don't stop until the day is done
From six in the morning till seven at night
They came up with this bright idea, a place of education,
or so they thought.
This place to teach us standrads and information
A bunch of fakers and liers is all I got.
Math,English,Science,History
There are times where youll do anything for someone you love
you will give up you "hoes"
you will give up being a good girl to be bad girl
You will ruin your pink lips for weed
The clock ticked
And my desk squeaked.
Bored; Bored: Bored!
I roared. Yet I could not make a sound.
He stood at the front.
His nose to the ceiling.
Not giving a thought to
While living in a refugee community for fourteen years, I saw many issues that needed to be fixed to make a better world. Many students weren't even allowed to be at school, and many those allowed, didn’t want to go to school.
Feels like I'm going crazy
Can't let these thoughts take control over me
Wanting a drink
Or a sense of pain
I tell myself I need it
It started to become a daily routine
Happening for years
I am the one who everyone calls short
I am the one who often needs support
I am the black ballet who dreams
My dreams are real
My hopes are precious
My hard work is golden
In this world, there is much hate.
Is it a coincidence? Or is it fate?
Years of bullying, discrimination, war, and rape
How much more can we take?
Peace is there, I just know it.
Everything is overseenWind blows through the treesI see the gleam from the rain drops on the leavesThe grass a shade of greenSo peaceful So siren Grey clouds stream In the sky
How would it feel
to cut open a vein,
to let the blood spill
unrestrained?
What would happen,
would anyone care
if you were to
die right there?
To drive that knife
When my soul died I felt nothing,
But the wind tapping on my shoulder.
I looked over to see the thoughts of my insanity.
They say you will never amount to anything
That the color of your skin is too dark
You’re body too curved
Skin too tinted…
The power of nature surrounding my body
Light fills each stream of air
We spend hours in our selfish habits
But we won't take two seconds to care
I live for living
not just to get by
My heritage and my background,
The color of my skin or the color of yours
the length of my hair or the length of my nails,
My hieght or my size only have as much power as i give them
Dripping from the point of my pen
Is the elixir to beat time
How will you catch the precious drops then
Stealing life from these words of mine
How does ink a man immortal make
That any word can bind time itself
I am an old soul with a new state of mind
Wondering through my mind are the obstacles that lie ahead
The wind whispers in my ear, so clearly every word is heard
Everything and everyone always has their place. Sometimes that place may not be positive, But it's all about what you do in the place you are in. Everything is what you make of it.
If I were older than I am,I would be travelling the universe.If I were wiser than I am,I would be writing countless books to inform the publicthat I am doing something.And although I am not older nor am I wiser;
When you look back at history you notice certain patterns
How people fought for rights or did things that mattered
MLK said he had a dream
Some stated what they believed
I started writing music when I was eleven.
First thing I wrote about,was the man up in heaven.
I never told anybody i was a writer,
I always thought somebody was going to hit me with the three striker.
In your life you're always judged. PRESSURED! YELLED AT! Until you're crushed. People will tell you you're not worth a dime. But giving up and crying is the biggest crime. Never stop until you're flying. Even if that means you die while trying.
For the Fame?
For the Power?
To continue
To spread my winds but
Not leave the ground
For space taken up?
For the intellectualism?
To Break through the Wind
By sitting in place
The wheels on the bus go round and round
The wheels on the herse go slow and soft
Telephone ringing with solemn news,
despite the birds chirping
Click. Great-Grandma is dead
Must it be this way
The consistent blame of 'media'
Why am I not allowed to love me?
The constant reminder that I'm still in remedial
Perhaps this is meant to be - a shell of what I used to love
Like a prisoner
The solitary black bird is locked in his cage.
Bars of oppression
Separate him from what he could be.
His feeble wings
Never have opened
Never felt the freedom of wind
You saw me lying on the floor,
Desperate to fix my broken heart.
I was the un-fixable case, the tragic downfall.
But you didn't see me as broken, you saw me as beautiful.
Father, forgive me for I have sinned;
But worse than the others, I’ve sinned against him.
Father, forgive me for I have sinned;
But given the choice we both know I’d do it again.
“The instructor said,
Go home and write
a page tonight
And let that page come out of you---
Then, it will be true.”
You left me here in this world so cold
You left me here in an act so bold
You left me here; my soul's been sold.
I said I could care less.
I said you were meaningless
paper blank
pencil sank
hand alive
to help me thrive
paper full
pencil pull
hand tired
to get what’s required
So many think that war is the answer,
Yet is a cancer
Spell it backwards its raw
what is the cause of this nature
resources are depleting what are we meeting?
I noted today that hope oft dissipates to the cloudsIs that because it's where dreams are found?A forlon sigh that travels the windWill surely find freedom come world's end
Do you really have a heart of gold
or is it more like a cold black stone?
Do you really wish to sit on a throne and rule over Rome
or do you have no desire of leaving home?
Do you really have a heart of gold
or is it more like a cold black stone?
Do you really wish to sit on a throne and rule over Rome
or do you have no desire of leaving home?
All these DREAMS I am having.
They are all free, yet worthless.
Some seem sorrowful sometimes
And some seem serious sometimes
As if they were worth of being dreamt.
I have realized the hard way;
So you ask, Why Do I Write ?
I write because I trust no one but my self.
I write because what I have to say is closer to the truth than what another says.
I write because its a stress reliever.
The world has loads of unwanted things
Things that we think make us happy
Our trust has been broken
Broken like broken records our beloved Michael had done time &time again
Our lives have seen enough
I don’t know what got me here… I don’t know why I’m here, I don’t know who brought me… the last thing I remember is saying goodbye world.
A heart frozen from pain and hurt can have it all melt away from the touch of love and passion, the shadow of depression can be swallowed by the light of serenity, in a dream the heart follows the path it chooses in life the mind constricts and di
Honestly, where im from success doesnt come around commonly
You're successful if you survive a lifetime in my shoes
Successful if you're not related to violence and are broadcasted on the news
The world spins,
my pen twirls.
The curved hill becomes a rugged mountain,
and my fingers arch over keys.
I get slammed, I get broken, I'm stretched out and hung to dry.
I was a PB&J kid.
Yes, by that I mean
that I liked peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
But I also mean that I was, and still am,
An S Personality Type.
Lights bursting, sounds blaring, creatures form from nothing.
A world is created, a story is made, and things begin to make a little more sense.
What doesn't make sense is this, why am I here in my made up world?
04/14/13
There you sit
all alone
drentched in this silence.
As you break
shatters across the floor
the fragments scatter
and slip through the cracks.
Never to be found.
Each morning, the white sun rises over Jasper Street.
It peeks over the maple trees,
it hides from cloud to cloud,
I push myself beyond all limits, laugh doubters in the face, nothing and no one can keep me from reaching,touching, breathing you. My oath is to pursue you everyday and never tire of being by your side.
Courage, the pride of a lion. The heart of a marine. Something everyone strives to acheive, but many fail. Is courage best earned when it is ignited from love, anger, or fear. The costs can be high but the reward is sweet.
Why do I choose to speak my mind through the written word?
Well,
You could just as easily ask
Why do you breathe?
I write because my pain,
My humor,
My anger,
And my rapture
I write
A girl who lost her voice
Who was told she had no choice
In how to navigate her spirit died
A teen who was bullied for her breasts
her hips, her speech, her forhead
Even though I am desperate today,
I will smile for cheerful melody that birds sing alongside and wake me up gently,
I will be joyful for peaceful rest that a cup of coffee brings and dips me into sweetness,
You're tired.
Each day weighs heavily on your tongue.
Where do you go? What do you do? Who do you become?
You stumble into a yellowing kitchen.
Cupboard doors hang onto their hinges with tremulous grips.
Why I Write By: Cenny Ray
Why Do I Write?
Why does Cenny Ray write?
Writers Are said to be crazy?
Why would you want to be a writer; A poetry writer at that?
Words rising and falling like mountains and valleys.Letters form Heroes with passion and calling.Seas of ideas, all structured in stanzas.
I'd stop if I could.Concentration escapes me,Composing, composing, frantically,A locomotive running aground - Lay the track!Quickly, quickly!
Poetry is a madnessInfecting the heart of me.
Why I write?
I write because it is my passion,
my life, and my way of
revealing to people my pain and my dignity
that I have inside.
Why I write?
I write because it makes me feel
A dusty old book in a library is no longer picked up
It sits patiently waiting for the next hand to reach out and grab it
A curious mind walks by, makes a stop, and gives the cover a chance
WrnAmbitious Blatant Contradiction Dead Eradicator Frivolous Genius Hasty Implementor Juvenile Knowledge Lonely Missionary Nascent Ostentatious Pride Quiet Rebellious Samaritan Talented Unusual Volatile Witty Xenogenic Youthful Zeal
Heard a man say that the truth would set me free,I heard it...but it didn't register...never meant anything to me.
Sometimes I speak and lose my thought
My tongue the trap on which words are caught
Or simply I am blank in mind
and have no rebuttal for some time
I am not the most intelligent, nor can I speak on the most relevant
Why do I write? I have something to say
Words don’t come out of my mouth
They come out on the page.
Once an elder sage had explained it this way:
“saying nothing sometimes says the most”
I cannot make flowers growin the parts of myself I don't take enough care oflike my mindand my heart.
I cannot repair those who are brokenand I cannot healthose who hurt.
Poetry.
Poetry is the work of written frustration.
It's the challenge of overcoming writer's block limitations.
Poetry is the constant head slamming on the pages of a three subject college ruled notebook.
At the age of 7, I found a passion for literature that I had been raised to value. My mother new the benefits of opening the door to a positive outlet for a young woman that was destined to go through Hell and high water.
Why is this page open?
Why am I here?
What's going on?
Why am I so suddenly inspired?
After staring at my ceiling for so long
After staring at my blank screen for the same amount of time
I am not a poet. I am not a writer. I am the dream that comes and follows. I am the inevator of new beginnings. I am the time that never stops. I am the rush beyond the pen. No, I am not a poet. I am not a writer.
Writing calms the mind.
Writing sooths the soul.
Writing keeps me in line,
and writing makes me whole.
When I write, I am free
I can be any thing I want to be
Finding words that capture precise feelings has never been easy.
When a shy 5'3 introvert needs to confront someone suddenly.
My tongue bashes and rambles, cheeks flush while nonsense speaks,
It’s all gone.
You took everything from me.
(Or did I take everything myself)
My family, my friends… They slipped away.
Vanished.
Under your mind games. You cost me my life.
My future.
I write to learn
about who I am
to embrace the ugly things
so that I can no longer call them ugly
To force my attention to moments that sound dissonant in my mind
Do not tell me why I wrote poetry –
that I want to be like you, that the words move through me
predictably, clean-cut and watery
you haven’t heard my stories, our stories
I write to make a voice heard, my voice.
My voice is unique to me, and is there is only one.
My writing lets my voice be heard from the billions of other voices in this world.
This is why I write
Poetry may be just described as words, words, and more words,
but did they really look beyond,
past the appearance,
looking more inwards,
to a place that can be unknown even to oneself,
I must confessthat it is difficult to find the proper wordsto express how, exactly, I feel.I must confess that I dread explaining myselffor fear that my eradic thoughtswould convince you of my unintelligence.
every once in a while we all need an escape
from the world where we've all been placed
to give us a piece of mind and pacific state
with getting away theres no particular way
you've got those who use
She was new
Different
The strange feeling in the pit of my stomach
I’ll never forget
But how could I let myself fall for someone
That no one would understand
So I let myself write it all down
There is a reason.There has to be a reason as to why poetry exist.As to why poetry can wrap around like a blanket.As to why poetry can unchain my frozen heart.There is a REASON FOR EVERYTHING.I have learned it.
Waking up to a cacophony of noise,
I arose to a familiar place.
A place so much like home but still far from it.
It was small, too small for four
Maybe five for a time.
Write-wash
Why do I write?
I write so that my caged thoughts can take flight.
So that my lyrical mind can unwind around the spherical bind of reality--
See, with me—I am far from the normality.
Before I step on the spotlight, I dip my pointe shoes on Rossin.
Adrenaline pumps my blood and my senses change; I am not myself anymore.
Once the melody strikes, the brain doesn't think, it feels and creates something beautiful.
Babies are born
Books are opened
Puppies open their eyes
And first words are spoken
Flowers grow
And pages are turned
Kites are flown
And wages are earned
Clocks tick on
Life hits you like a drunk driver
Careening wheels, splintered glass, beyond your control
As you lie between holocaustic metal viscera
Strewn about the black asphalt
You watch the lights dance before your eyes
“A condition,” they called it.
“Night terrors,” they said.
Back when the words would tear me up inside.
The moon travelled her pendulum line
and my eyes would follow her and turn the stars into knives.
When I write
I free from shackles
a superabundance of energy
that swells within me
stifles
strangles
closes in
I write because I’m a bird underwater
my feathers yearning for the day they become gills
my wings learning to swim
since the day that I learned the human race kills
and then rebuilds their cities with the bodies
I sat with my first love today
Together we lamented of things past
When out of nowhere a deafening crash
Removed from my trance I stared,
at a pile of broken glass
So startled I was as I watched
My universe in motion:
Words fill
The sky’s exponentially ridiculous silence
With buildings of black ink.
When you’re unsure of where to start,
the middle or the beginning;
If the darkening night sky seems empty,
with no one to hold your hand,
I.
there are threads of ideas waiting to be tied together
there are stories de varios colores jugosos to be drawn out
there is an abstract block that hides something in it
Poetry is difficult.
Poetry cannot be understood by simply reading once over.
Poetry has words.
But its words do not mean what they seem.
Poetry is simple, yet complex.
Each word contains its own meaning.
Some have asked why I’m restless.
I’m always moving, I never stop.
When I’m reading, when I’m writing,
especially scribbling on my table-top.
I promise, I’m just as focused on this as the next guy.
I write to tell my friend that I love him.
I write to tell my dad that I love him.
I write to show I miss my grandparents.
I write what I feel,
what I think,
and what I want.
I'm just another curious mind with a pen and an imagination
Trying so hard to be an individual but I'm just another face in this nation
Trapped thoughts and unspoken words that need to be heard
why do I write? I don't, not here anyways.
I don't write on this site because it's a bit of a scam.
On cold winter nights when I feel all alone,
I open up my journal.
On warm summers eves when I don't want to read,
I open up my journal.
When I'm feeling low, lower than ever.
My journal is there.
I write because not
writing is harder
than writing. If I
was invited to
speak about writing,
I would say what I'm
saying now, but it
would not be the same.
Here, on this page, I
I am a writer,
poetry is my soul:
I am a writer,
poetry came to me on its own.
I am a DREAMer,
my writing is my voice;
I am a DREAMer,
poetry runs my thoughts.
The scratches on the papers are nonsensical to me.
If there's only one set answer, you see,
With that, you could fail indefinitely.
Math..numbers, they never cease to inspire me.
As a look in the mirror, I stare back at my reflection
I see the picture of a troubled man;
Searching to find and gaze at a portrait of redemption.
His vision is fogged; amid dim depression and loss of understand.
A Poet
Mikaila Mack
3.3.12
I write because
I want to be a Poet.
I want to be the spot of fertile soil
That you seek out
My story
It starts in a budding household
Not really broken
But still in need of repair
My parents
They were young
My story
It starts in a budding household
Not really broken
But still in need of repair
My parents
They were young
My story
It starts in a budding household
Not really broken
But still in need of repair
My parents
They were young
My story
It starts in a budding household
Not really broken
But still in need of repair
My parents
They were young
Just the other day I decided to reminisce.
Nostalgia overwhelmed me as I remembered every word.
Those poems are my life.
Those poems are the words I couldn’t say out loud,
the feelings I couldn’t confess.
I know of nothing more gratifying than the artistry of steering a pen when my throat hitches
My tongue fails my lips stumble over thoughts, but then
Dreams fill our souls
Weaving, spinning tales
of love and laughter,
Blossoming hearts.
Scenes of life and color
formed not in a lens, but in minds.
Oh, the colors
I’ve gotten very good at pretending.
I can pretend to be happy.
I can pretend to love people.
I can pretend that life doesn’t scare me.
I wear make-up as a mask.
My ceaseless grin is a façade.
I write the words i cannot say. I write them with tears on every page. I have thoughts i keep to myself. People used to worry about my health. I fund pen and paper. I write down every event that may occur. I write to express.
What eats me up inside, is what is keeping me sane.
What eats me up inside, is what is keeping me insane.
Living with such conditions is not a choice, but a blessing.
Why do I write?Because it is the thing that lets me be creativeWhy does anyone write poetry?It's a song one can sing without knowing the correct notes
My father is an alcoholic.
My mother's love is harsh.
When I talk, nothing I say is heard
The only thing keeping me sane is my writing.
It's my outlet when everything is going downhill.
My blood was black
Ink outweighing oxygen in my veins
Each eye laced with blood
Tripping over every step
Clawing at the walls
Pencil lead visible on my fingers and palms
Words that dissect the insanity and gives clarity
to a torture moment, a tortured being. Feelings of a
scrambled puzzle, being put together, finally being
able to see the picture for how it was meant
The conversation in my mind is like the round of applause
that rang after your favorite band played that summer.
Spirited and wracked with resolution, except in my mind,
in strands of complicated arguments.
I sit with a post it,
Willing the words from my sophomoric mind,
And they do not come,
For I have nothing to say.
It gets me through every day.
It expresses what I cannot say.
It lets me be someone else,
or helps me to be just myself.
It is at times my enemy, but also my friend.
Just as a butterfly flutters through the air,So do the words that dance in my head.With slight sigh on my tongue they snare,Waiting for that moment they might be read.
Moral awareness, social obligation, the words that come out are domesticated.
There are euphemisms in every phrase. But deep, deep in the abyss of my mind resides my raw and restless thoughts.
Lost without an identity
Anticipation and resentment
Where will I go from here?
Names, faces, and a language that I do not understand
My face is a plastic smile
Behind the façade,
I was introduced to poetry at an early age, yet
I was introduced to my ability with it recently, and so
I was introduced to a love of doing it, and so speaking in future-tense
There is freedom in creativity,
A chance to express who I am,
Unlike any other activity.
Call it self indulgence.
Sometimes, when you read something
Even just a simple line or phrase
You may find
That this small string
Of carefully and specifically constructed
Letters
Describes a phenomenon
Gossamer threads slip quietly through my dreams
as well as my waking
and dance about as I sit in a world of tears
unable to climb out on my own.
You’re up in those lost hours,those grasping hours,those hide-and-go-seek, marco-polo, hands-clenching-at-night hours,and you’re searching.
When I was nine
years
old,
I defined myself the way that nine year olds do-
which is to say
that I didn't.
I could close my eyes and think about nothing.
Escape
Because a cruel world needs a safe place
Dream
Because sometimes a piece of paper and a pen can create a new reality
Emotion
Because tears come to often and tissue runs out
Love
It all starts with a letter.
Not a phrase.
Not a word.
Not even an idea.
The letter is the crack in the dam that is a brain.
Slowly the magic seeps through the crack.
As time goes on, the crack grows.
The Minnesota lake glimmers all around me
It engulfs me with its passion
The love I return wells inside my soul
An overwhelming, helpless emotion
This, I must write
Slamming words together, does it mean anything at all?
Grandfathers telling stories about men that stood 10 feet tall,
And I remember listening sweetly as the fantasy soaked in my ears,
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 write for the breathless.
For the instrumentals in the ideas of an emotion.
I place words on your tongue, in your mind, on your conscious.
Carefully.
So your heart can create.
Words, letters put together to create an idea or representation of material
Simple words, just writing or dialogue can bring tears to the eyes and joy to the heart
Words written, words typed, words printed and words spoken
As close as we were
And as close as I wanted us to be
Could never be the same,
Because I was still bound to my old ways
Just remembering the old days
When I could have cared more
There's quite a bit in my head,
Pictures from books That I've read,
Things that my mother has said.
I try and say what I mean,
But that hasn't always gone well,
At least from what I have seen.
There's quite a bit in my head,
Pictures from books That I've read,
Things that my mother has said.
I try and say what I mean,
But that hasn't always gone well,
At least from what I have seen.
I write to life,
Its challenge, struggle and stife,
I write to succeed,
So in the future I can lead.
I write to inspire,
Every thought i aquire,
I write to know my right,
To write, is to express one’s self through words rather than actions.To write, is to speak out loud without really speaking.To write, is to release… everything.
To write, is to express one’s self through words rather than actions.To write, is to speak out loud without really speaking.To write, is to release… everything.
One cold night last January
When you said my name aloud
Huddled in the shadows of my room
I dared to write to you
Stealthily I scribbled these words:
Please come back
This dark hole within my chest
I lie within.
I look up
A dot of light
Of hope.
Black surrounds me
Above me
Inside of me.
I feel chains
All around me
What happens to me when,I write all the words on a page andit brands my brain then,I watch it flow.Stuck in my own head knowing, nowhere to go.All this stories, roaring and consuming
I live to write,
to express my emotions and to empower my thoughts,
to portray the world through my eyes.
Its why I can breathe freely...
With the use of my words I am reassured that I am alive,
Ink and lead are my voice,
From my mouth to ears is not my choice,
What I put to paper is my way
The spoken word - what I cannot say.
The boy was sitting on the grass,
eyes looking past the trees.
His words played with mass,
falling. or flying with ease.
He followed the sunlight where it led
down a path for the brave and afraid.
There's a voice inside my heartAnd she's screaming at the top of her lungs
pick up the penget the notebooksit at the computerfor God's sakelet me talk
you can dream big
or you can dream small
or you can dream nothing at all!
but if you dream big
and reach for the stars
you just may succeed
as far as you need
and if you dream small
Why do I write?
I take delight,
in the sight,
of my ideas taking flight,
when words & emotions soar,
it's like I made a basket,
score.
I write as an escape.It started with letter that I would use to flood out all of my emotions.They would be letters that would be specialized for different people.I was the only girl of three and the middle child too.
Why I Write?
What kind of question is that?
Why do you breathe?
Why do you speak?
Why do you sit there and think?
Some Dance and sing
Some Do math and physics
Spoken words are often too hard to get out
Why speak our feelings when we can write them,
record them for all the world to see.
To be experienced long after we have perished from this earth,
I do what I am supposed to do.
I brush my teeth and go to class
and wear clothes that are tight
but not too tight,
There are desperate words deep inside my chest
They claw their way out through my ribs and flesh
And they flow through my blood veins to my fingertips
They take control of my hand and make me grip a pen
I write cuz it's freeing, I don't know what I'd do without it.
I might die being unable to vent what I feel on that paper.
With a pencil or a key board I have the power to change the world with my words,
I’ve words unwilling to be said
That float about inside my head.
Untamed thoughts and hidden desires,
That burn brighter than all fires.
To speak these thoughts aloud
Only loses my meaning in a cloud.
I am not important,
neither is my name,
just know that I love you
and I'll take away the pain.
Someone's always there
to help you dry your tears,
you'll never be alone.
With 7 billion people in the world,
it is easy to be just another face in the crowd,
craving attention by being loud.
We are all born with a voice deep inside of us,
which can develop over time with
Wandering Words
A violin has potential to awaken a heart with her lovely tune
Just as words have the potential
To free someone
Poetry is my oxygen.
It is the sweet sugar that enters my lungs when those cold and lonely nights threaten to scratch at my already bleeding wounds,
Like nobody is watching.
Poetry is my savior.
A perfect playlist.The spectrum of colors of a rainbow.The beautiful sound of rain on the roof.Waking up to birds singing outside.
World!
It is I, the by-standing life form you still haven’t noticed; a modestly self-absorbed mixture of carbon, air and water.
If I scream, will you notice me?
Sometimes,
Maybe all the time,
There's A Victimless crime.
Sometimes I want to just stand up and let go
Show you your troubles and all of your false hope.
Would you still love me if I pushed you away
Because it's not what I want when I say what I say.
I want you to stay and I want you to be where I lay.
When I get mad it's only fear.
I Write For
The Ones Younger Than I
A Sight To See Further Than The Sky
Happy Faces
Dream Places
Success In Me Shows Greatness In Them
Singing For Her
Sports For Him
When you find the one you love you will know,
Your eyes start to twinkle and your face turns aglow.
It's a feeling a serenity that pumps from the heart;
Like your living two worlds that you know are apart.
I’m not good at saying how I feel, but
give me a pen and paper and you can
know it all. Trust is hard topic for me
to believe and even harder for me to
give to others. Words when said can’t
I thought my heart was breaking, I thought the day was done
I thought that time was taking too long for me
Now I see
Love is infinite
And you just need me to be here
Dry your tears, I'm here
Write what you know
She says.
She inspires me, I want to listen.
But when I write
My pen is colored dark ink and leaves
Never before have I turned you down
Crumpled up the paper and threw you around
Words so sweet and feelings so dear
Don't test them. I won't, he swears
Energy inside so deep to the core
Life! is it really free?
Freedom, is the will to strive
Endure , and Prosper...
I walk through my city, full of despair
Poverty stricken neighborhoods, no freedom is there!
Love lost, None found...!
The pain that I felt over the years
The kind that brought those silent tears
The more I saw my heart break
The less of a women in myself I thought I could make
Many times I thought I fought my love
that bad boy you love so much
hardly anyone you know seems to like him
they don’t seem to understand him
quite like you do.
he’s fun, light, and charming
he’s dark, soulful, and brooding
i inhale.
knots.
there are knots in my Chest.
tension runs through my veins,
snApping at each curve.
my bones,
oh, how They scream so loudly!
i will quiver.
seizing limbs,
I can talk a lot, Now.
But it was poetry that taught me how.
Before my sentences were jumbled up phrases only I could understand,
With with minimal explaining.
I write for you.
I write for the, " I know what I want to say I just dont have the right words to
say it." kind of people.
I write for the voices.
I write to make my words come alive
to see the rhymes flow together and fly
to write what i cant say out loud
because deep down no one hears a sound
My words move when theyre heard
Ideas are illustrations of the mind and I am the artist
Why do I write?
I write to shine light on those stuck in the dark
To give a voice to the voiceless
And hope to the hopeless
I was in your shoes once
Sometimes more is said with lessThe lengths increase; the depths regressAnd some are too shy to converseAnd speaking more just makes it worse
Fiery red was the rock
It was boiling, scorching, blistering sizzling, burning, searing rock.
It is going to explode
To blast through the earth with incredible power, strength, and force.
And yet
My name is Hannah
I write.
I write because that’s my way to explain
Without (verbal) words.
I write because then I don’t have to talk.
I don’t have to say the words
Asking why I write is like asking why I breathe
There’s a scripture in my mind that I have to set free
A verbal picture froze in time that I just have to see
The meaning gets deep, but to put it simply
The voices all scream down on me,
they are all screaming my name in agony.
This is why I write to release me,
to set my soul free of thee.
Their voices begin to shout louder,
so I begin to write faster.
What is a word?
or a sentence?
or a phrase?
Why does it have any meaning whatsoever?
Why do people take the time to drag a pencil across a paper?
What is there to write?
It's all emotion, feeling the power escape when you let it free
i love that feeling, the feeling of marking down who I am, feeling like me
me and nobody else.. Just this little pen and paper
Poetry is music, art, and expression put into words. Poetry is a little girl thoughtfully thinking of a rhyme to 'love'. Poetry is a way to feel powerful and passionate. Poetry is cleverness and wit disguised with beauty.
have you ever slipped,
on a step,
in the dark,
and you stomach drops,
and you can feel,
feel yourself falling
f
I approach poetry as a teenager approaching the first date,
as a 12th grader approaching the SATs,
as a spelling bee-er approaching a word she's never known
I write poems because poetry is my specialty.
Without it, I wouldn't be me or even complete.
I write because my handwriting is neat,
And the material that I write is written to intrigue.
Broken streets mind is forced to travel,
Empty soul enforced to search.
Trembling hands hunt for redemption,
Merely paper they unearth.
Lips begin to quiver
As crystal escapes at last,
Poetry is my love
Poetry is a talent
Poetry makes me move
In a direction of balance.
Finding harmony inside
Expressing feelings hidden
Finding love from outside
And not hiding thoughts given
I’ve had a lot of ups and downs, a lot of trials coming at me.
That is why I write.
I’ve had people come into my life and then ones who just left me.
That is why I write.
Why do i write poetry ?
I write because no one else knows my story
No one knows what I've been threw
No one have been threw what I've been threw
Lets start by saying my mom is my reason
Through my mind run many
Lines strike across the sky like
Shooting stars fade quickly to
Blackness runs across
Pages fill with dark
Ink can capture the
Light refracts through a
Carlyn Frye
Why I Write Scholarship
08/10/2013
Troubling Inspiration
Married, four kids, a big household
Working for a company with a huge work load
I write to show what I have to say
Things my mother told me I should hold my tongue for
Things I feel I cant share because I got trust issues
The paper can say what words can not speak
The lost and the restless; those in doubt
People who can't ever get themselves out
Tied up by bonds forcing them back
Can't make up for anything they're said to lack
Emotions on high; tears in streams
From the twinkle twinkle little star
I always wondered who eye are
Perceiving life the poetic way
This form of expression had to stay
Showing how im up to par
I write because I am free to DREAM,
I can be no one else but ME,
it helps me to ESCAPE from REALITY.
I am a DEEPER REFLECTION OF ME.
I write what I FEEL,
too afraid to SPEAK UP ON WHAT IS REAL,
He writes poetry,
He writes art.
Poetry brings out the loud voice within him,
Poetry was the elation he needed during those dark moments in high school.
Yes, poetry was his anti-depressant. His drug.
Inside my head is
A fountain pen
So I put my thoughts
On paper
A fountain pen
Of my inky thoughts,
Bottled in the well of
My mind
But sometimes the ink
PoetryIt's reality.It's a pressure in my chestA dark shadow in the morning.It's a friend,About to whisper their darkest secret in my earIt's words on paper,It's how I'm heard.
The 5 senses I was blessed with became my curse
I saw, I felt, I smelled, I heard, i tasted what my life offered me
My hopes, thoughts, and dreams became deflected
I write poetry for that pain I get in my hands.
I like to write for the sleep I lack.
It makes me feel like I'm accomplishing something,
because "no pain, no gain!" someone once said.
There is a universe in me andThis is not a metaphorEach string, bound by a common insult
It was unstopable.From the moment I reached out,to let the thoughts run from the tips of my fingers
to the unending horizon of white.Time ended that moment.Breath ceased and the world paused on its axis.
In my heart there were feelings
That I never really showed
In my mind there were thoughts
No one would have ever known
In my lungs there was air
That would have never breathed words
Why I write
My words aren’t just words
That are thrown into a sentence
But you must uncover the mystery
Of what I have written
I write for those who can’t
But want to be heard
Days pass by
and yet I can't stop
continuous contemplation.
Financial Crisis
College problems
combined these cause
pain and distress
continuous contemplation.
I choose this road
to write beautiful free verse
a pretentious dream
to peel away clunky prose
find rhythmic words clean
mechanical pencil, weapon of choice
to write and write, uncover a voice
It's banging around,to and fro,inside my chest,i begin to swell.These secrets left untold, known only by pencil or pen,parchment and my fingertips.The foundation of my soul,
A poet knows There are one thousand ways to tell a lieAnd only one way to tell the truthA poet knows That sometimes a lie makes a better storyThan any truth ever wouldA poet knows that people speak Sometimes without thought or purposeBut simply b
Poetry is your therapist. Your way of saying what you want Without a judge. It's there for you Without saying a single word back. Poetry is your fulfiller Taking away all the empty space Making you wh
I am from a big city to a small town.
I am from the green eyes of my broken hearted mother.
I am from the epileptic father,
taken hours after my birth.
I am from the drunken, broken promises of my step father.
sometimes there’s nothing left to do but write.
write in rippling circles with no direction, until you’re half-delirious
With words I can open the eyes of our people
The young, the old, the weak and the seemingly strong
The ones who don't believe that they have a voice,
An opinion, a choice, after they remove all the noise
They say life's a stage and we are its players.
Well, I'm putting my mask on to fool the crowd.
A smile on the outside, painted bright;
but behind the spotlights, behind the facade,
A needThe emptiness of a soulThe desire to be wantedA hopeless caseWanting to be heard
A messageHaving so much to sayBut no one to listenHating myselfAnd everyone else
I once came upon a poem, it was like no other. My teacher asked me why it was my favorite, I told her it was because I understood the pain. Now I write for all the lonely hearts, I write for the misunderstood, I write for comfort.
You ask why i write/ I don't just write/ I speak on paper/I let my pencil be the tongue/ And I let the paper be the mouth/ Saying what i may not always have the courage to/ I let these words spill out almost as if natuarl/ I speak what ways heavy
Like how the wind was meant to blow the tree leaves
And my lungs were meant to take in the air I breathe
Like how my eraser is meant for mistakes I write
Your either writing your feelings down or writing what's on your mind.Many write it down as a verse, like a journal or in stanzas,but I'm one to write what I feel, or when I'm bind.I write because I can not always speak the truth,my mouth is sewed
Words swirl around in the mind,
bringing meaning to an otherwise
dreaded and foreboding existence.
Words on paper or on screen
keep the dark at bay for me.
All that's needed is a pen
To feel in control
The ability to free your thoughts
No holding back
No fear of hurt
No concern of judgements being passed
Ideas float across the page
Holding truth
Pent up passion
As I sit in my room I ponder the many reasons why I write.
A ponder and wonder and think for a moment.
I have many reasons, and I shall try to be contrite....
I write to escape.
Poetry
What it meant to me before
Just words written in a stanza
With rhymes and patterns
I knew that they’re art expressed in words
Contain the emotions,
We use,
For expression,
Unravel the meaning,
In every letter,
Word,
Sentence,
Breath as you decode the rhythmic pattern,
See the fine printed words among the page,
I write poems because . . . I enjoy the challenge!
Trying to rhyme words that well, just don’t rhyme.
Have you ever tried to rhyme with the word ‘awkward’?
A voice inside a soulThe emotion, the strength, the hidden confidence That sometimes never releases; or is trapped on paper By the pen that squeezes out the voice onto a sheet ...Then another sheet, another sheet!It becomes journal of dreams we wa
Poetry is a flame,
Consuming our thoughts as a forest fire would the trees,
Flickering our feelings as a campfire in the breeze,
Burning with compassion for a veteran’s safe return,
Pen
Paper
Black on white
Flick of the wrist
A moment’s goodbye
Swimming in my own mind
I can get lost in this world
Other’s voices, other’s own ways
Broken art, puzzle, music – all pieces
The last time I even tried to do this, i didn't finish the story I intended to share.
Though it seems to be a little less than a year ago, it felt like centuries.
I mean everything is just so different.
A single lasting impression,
The hinting lack of discretion
He poured into each word he never said to me.
I am simply letters from a father,
The aching heart of the waters
I hate the looks I get
When people read my words
my writing makes them uneasy.
It makes them doubt
who I am
If only they knew how writing
takes the pain away
I did not grow up with poetry.I grew up with music.Yet, to me, the former is no different from the latter.
Toes waving in the pool of words beneath me.
I write to see the things I've never had the courage to vocalize
To expose the truth of society
I write to get my thoughts and opinions onto paper
To say what others and I are afraid to say
Poetry and Me
By Colleen Preston
Poetry and me
Just simply came to be.
Like wind beneath my wings,
Emotions are unspeakable
An intelligible blurt
A gargantuan pile up
Writing is my release
Life is tough
More so when lonely
Darkness looms
Writing brings light
When I was younger,
I used to try
to jump off of tables
to make myself fly.
But when my bones were all broken
(and my dreams were as well)
I came to realize
why I always fell:
I write things out.......
so can express, all of my stress
Just trying to work things out..........
Like a bench press, getting weight off my chest
No need to speak
Once upon a time, there was a girl with a broken heart.
She had no one to talk to, no one who understood.
She turned to pen and paper, writing, writing.
The paper listened, never judged, never argued.
Asking me Why i write is like asking me why does the wind blow? Asking me why i write is like asking why the sky is blue? Why? Three small letters yet so broad and detailed. I ask of you this Why do YOU think I write?
Put it on paper
Don't let fear
Cloud my mind like vapor
Writing makes it clear
Motivates me to stop staring at blank walls
And to write on blank sheets
When I'm unsure of what to think or do, I stall
He spoke with silence,
the smokers lived there
Back in black alleys
with blacker, burnt air
But he was trapped
his chords rotten red
with his huffs and his puffs,
he left his voice dead
When the walls are closing in
And my spirit is shattered
Or I've surpassed my level of tolereance
Though to most speech is soothing, for me that is not the case
In a pen and paper i vent
There’s darkness.
And colors
Like rainbows
Like orbs
light
life
Inside of this corpse
But I can’t get it out.
I can’t claim it
There was a song written that said
"I sing because I'm happy
I sing because I'm free
For his eye is on the sparrow
And I know he watches me."
I sing for boundless joy
I sing for terrible sorrow.
I write because I have no words.
I write because I have too much to say.
I write because I can be myself.
I write because I can be anyone.
I write to be heard.
I write to be silent.
Hello my friend
It would seem that we've met again
This time under different circumstances
You understanf most things that others dont
You listen when other simply wont
Why do I write?Well, why do birds fly?Upon the updraft I take wing with pen and paper,Releasing the power within me, giving it to the world,No longer am I in control, deciding I stand here;
Poetry is a living, breathing organism that haunts my every waking moment.
It thrives in the darkest recesses of my mind where it waits to be found.
It is my shadow.
Green valleys lush with beauty,
Mountain ranges and forests as far the eye can see,
Seas, the ports of Akyab, and rivers flowing magnificently,
However, all of this is contrasted by the inhuman cruelty,
Frightened whispers slip soundlessly, silently into the mind.
Spoken words haunt me quietly; they’re beginning to unwind.
Thoughts and feelings fight inside me as I try to fall asleep.
I write to bleed emotion on this blank piece of tree,to connect to the depths in my mind understnading why.
I write for those who can't. I write for those unheard. I write for him,her, she, he, but especially Me. I write so that the deaf can hear, the blind can see, the unheard be heard.
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
I could lie down on a small black couch
to fill the air with all my petty cares.
Or keep it bottled up inside
and let smolder,
until my face is lined, grey, and older.
Instead I use a pen, blank paper
Darkness leaks into my head, As if Demons were pouring it in, Mumbling silent incantations. The world, as we know it, is on the move again, And I am often alon in heightened frustration. Why does everything seem to leak into my brain? Where can
I let the ink flow
Freely across the page
Intending to paint but
Feeling an uncotrollable urge
To draw words
To make sense of
A worlds that seems so much
Like a big inkblot test.
Why do we write? It's obvious, it's true Forming coherent thoughts Tangifying them onto paper, No complications, No restrictions. Why do I write? Less obvious, more trueI'm not a nervous wreck on paperI make bold statements, No regrets,No forgets.
Writing lights the path of ever darkness
A darkness that consumes all emotions
Feeling has ceased, sight has ceased, taste has ceased
Senses taken over by the evil
A beast that knows absolute no loving
It is not in my nature to be honest, not with myself that is
Not until I hold the pen and burn upon the words I wish to overlook.
I am the heart of my house now, i've become the very soul of this dark place.
The water of the dripping faucet is my tears and the lifeless broken mirror is my face.
I am the walls, plain, worn, and bare.
The judgemental glares
The critical stares
They all think they understand
But how is that possible?
Have they felt a mother's death?
An ache of the stomach
Yearning for a snack--
When I sit down with a paper and a pen,my mind starts to assemble a puzzle of words.I paint a picture in my mind, over and over again.Sentences for brushes - my imagination is the color palette,
For the justice of humanity.
For the justice of Fong Lee.
For the justice of all casualties
of racial ideologies.
For the killing of Trayvon Martin
who had a bag of skittles
I looked death in the face once.
He tried to pretend to be my Abuelita,
but I wasn’t fooled. Death had taken
hold of this woman who wasn’t afraid
to fight for her freedom and turned her
When I was young I used to think.
That girls were blue and boys were pink.
That imagination ruled but what it seems.
Is that I was stupid and dreamed a dream.
So I wrote down my feelings that were wrong.
"Why do you write?"Write what?"Words, girl.Why do youwrite words?"
I don't write words.I write stories.
I write to release my demons that
have held me captive for so long
Sucking the voice right from my mouth
They told me to keep silent
For years I lay quiet
and weak
scratching at my throat
Writing is my escape;
To a different world it takes me.
Any character I can personalize,
Any event I can create.
Writing is my savior;
Changing my bad mood into the happiest.
Words are uniform,
Everone has some,
Yours could be the same as mine,
But without my emotion behind them!
I say the first,
But then I burst!
Unstoppable like a hero!
When words of mouth couldn't explain, I chose a different road. Frustration builds and mountains rise, seems like a heavy load. I went upstairs and stared ahead, Unsure of what to do.
I write not because it makes me feel special,
Not because it makes me feel scholarly,
But because it’s my one bit of air that I gasp in
Before the tidal wave comes crashing down over my head,
Drowning
You say you want to know my heart
But when I give it to you,
You turn it away.
These words I write are more than words
They are peices of my heart.
These stanzas and lines are all I've got
A meaning shown, (not said)
A picture perceived, (not seen)
A feeling portrayed, (not hidden)
A path forged, (not found)
No longer words on a page
The true definition of beauty is a definition that can’t be defined.
To describe the beauty of one is rather difficult because everything that holds a purpose, holds a meaning which holds beauty.
This pen I hold tight in my hand,
Will play out till the very end.
This paper that is displayed quite so bright.
Will hold a life.
Just scribbles and lines that I have created,
Writing is a release of tension
Chipping away at the block that weighs down on my shoulders
Placed there by a father who expects too much for too little
Who only knows my face from the distorted view of a bottle.
People feel.
They laugh, They cry,The scream.
Whose job is it to solidify these feelings?
Who is it that proves their existence at all?
It is the Writer. It is the Poet.
Sights of empty faces crawling on the fences
Who can reach fate with a license plate?
It's the long road of a sad soul
Where seeing is believing, seeing is for grieving
In this mind full of clutter, this mind they called crazy.
The memories still live, yet the image is now hazy.
This paper understands me, it puts my mind at ease.
With a deep breath, I write and the voices suddenly cease.
Simple, little words
They are the only sure way
To express myself.
My terrific words
They hold infinite meaning
Portraying my life.
My humble, small words
You ask why I write
I ask why don't you?
Poetry is my thoughts
Poetry is my feelings
My inner self
Expressed so vividly
Through every stroke
Upon each and every sheet
Why do I write?
See here's the thing, other's do not understand my poetic spring. Reason Why? They judge me for my Skin. Reason why? They judge me for my Grin.
words that I want to remember
words I cannot say outloud
words that you cannot handle
words that noone will understand
words that make me
smile
laugh
reflect
hurt
burn
I write to express myself
To show that there’s more
To what you see on the outside
Inside there is a girl
Who has been through hell and back
But keeps a smile on her face
Start here.
Ready GO!
I begin sprinting down many different paths,
one leads into the next and suddenly,
I've fallen;
into a pool of creativity where the possibilities are endless.
Why do I write?
Perhaps it is the true
expression of inner sentiment,
The meeting
Pencil upon paper,
I sometimes think that people are put here to be something. But they later find themselves in the odd position of being nothing. Why?
The truth is often tainted to fit ones perception of what they would like to believe. And whether you believe this or not, here's a few words of advice for you : Dont let you mouth deceive your heart.
It’s the end of summer, 2005A little girl stands amidst a seaof strangers, flowing around her,unobstructed. A thousand voicesmutter around her tiny, ten year-oldform but her voice, no matter how small,
Actions speak louder than words,
Unless the words are beautiful
Like black ink on a white page.
Writing is my action.
I want others to read my words,
And listen to my thoughts.
But if they do not,
I write simply because Im messy,
I cry and tears land on a white platform,
I yell and sound waves move my pen in type of tango,
I love and my heart beats rhythm into the words I write,
What exactly does poetry mean to me?
When I believe it’s a totally different world to see
Where you express your deep thoughts in words to please
Your wandering mind that must be set at ease.
I write because it frees the words my heart has hidden. These words hold onto my innocence and contain emotions I can not express otherwise.
Poems capture beauty
They describe a living scene
They talk about the real world
Things everyone can see
If you've ever seen a sunset
Splashes of color in the sky
Or gazed upon a rainbow,
Writing is liberation, it's freedom, it's experssion, it's talent.
Writing is confidence, intelligence, it's inspiration, it's power.
Writing is a mask, an outlet, a safe place, it's scary.
I write because the ink bleeds
Even when I don’t
They tell me to speak my mind
But childhood taught me that I am to be seen
And not heard
As I stumble alone,
I help myself up.
With a pencil or pen
I write "don't give up".
It's my escape, my passion,
that's why I write.
In the arena of Life,
my pen wins the fight.
Everyday we walk through the Air.
We hear things,
See things,
in a way that others don't.
Everyday we walk through this Hell.
We feel things,
taste things
in a way that others don't
He makes me sad
He makes me love him
He makes me feel
love for life, music
Stirring up something
so gentle
Feeling grace is a blessing.
I long to make
Fearless, Gentle, Lively, Powerful
On a grey day filled with rain that never stopsAs my heart screams but can't be heard, time continues to clockI have news--good, bad, happy, and sadYet I have no one around to tell them as they're too busy musedWith their pleasures and ecstasy, y
Why do I write?A questioned that's plagued me since puberty.
Why do I write?
I'm not very good.
My woulds aren't flowing or detailed.
:There was a small, scared girl
who was trapped in her own world,
frantically searching how to escape.
In a desperate day her life changed.
She grabbed a pencil and paper
and began to write.
Have you ever seen a baby?
Have you seen the way it's newborn skin scrunches up at a funny smell?
The child's immediate reaction is to make a fuss.
It needs it's mother to hush it back to sweeter smells, sweeter times.
Out of my way
Out of my skin
Fire flows through my brain
Let me go back to my time
The time I went to fly
Fly higher than the sky
Where I met strangers
They were neither red nor black
I have always helfd
A pen in my hand
Weaving tales
I am never sure
Which ones were already there
And which ones will become
Mine
I feel that one day
I might wake up
And be a part
I open my mouth to speak
But the words stick to my throat.
My mind wills me to say something
But my voice is lost in the roar of the crowd.
It is then that I pick up a pen,
'tis a wonderous thing to be a Poet
To dream, to write, to be as yet we have known it.
The sensual pleasure of that last letter that was written, O ye I've been smitten.
I sat in a crowded room, lonely inside
Sinking into the background, trying to hide
All at once people threw opinions around
Yet I sat in the corner quiet, resound
Sure - I had thoughts
WARNING,
I am about to share with you
the views of an escapist,
Escaping a brutal reality.
Freeze.
This is no tale of a civilian in a
zone known for gang war. Ya see, this
Middle school
Back in the day
Wishing I was someone else
Built another way
Pen and paper
In my hand
Creating a new place
My own land
Being so suprised
Poetry is useful.
It's for the rich man and the poor man.
For the man who cannot see,
and the man who cannot hear.
It's for the man who has no voice,
and for the man with plenty of one.
I write to prove wrong those who doubt my intellectual abilities without having to use my physical voice. In the end there are some words that should be left unsaid.
I write because I write.
It’s who I am.
I have loved rhymes and words since I was born.
My eye see critics all around me. So, I stay hidden safe in my notebook where eyes can not see me. My words are safely locked away, the words I wish I could say. Anxiety... A curse to your life. Fear of the outside looking inside.
They wonder what goes on, can't see, even with glasses, thoughts of what I can and can't be, preach to be free from the masses.
I'm rocking in my rocking chair. I'm rocking here and there,I'm looking out my window wondering what is out there.Oh my, it’s my ex-boyfriend; he got another girlfriend,
It is hard to say with my voice,
putting pen to paper just makes my feelings easier,
easier to understand,
easier to communicate with others if they read what I have written.
Words that show how happy I am,
At first glance, one might question,
“Why bother keeping such a book?”
I’ll tell you why-
This book is special.
From its leather bound cage,
That still holds the scent-
A tree.
A rock.
A laugh.
A smile.
So ordinary, and yet so charged
With meaning, breathing depth and life and pain.
I look.
I gaze.
I blink.
Why do I write poetry?
To express myself.
It's an escape,
an adventure,
a looking glass into my life.
I never truly knew who I was...
until I picked up a pencil and paper..
I write because I can,
I write because in the consitituion it states,
"Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech",
I write because the most powerful inborn tool is speech, your words.
I write to speak the words
that my mouth won't let me say
I write to reveal the goddess
hiding in my soul today
I write to release the hurt
caused to me by those around
I write so I don't cry
When or why did it start? I cannot say.
The words have always flowed so naturally
From pencil to paper so much smoother
Than from mind to mouth and so it is
That I write. It is not a choice.
A writer thinks differently.
Sometimes we think so loud,
our brains are like thunderous, dark, and heavy clouds.
Sometimes we think so quiet,
we think of silence.
A writer must always think,
How can one not create
When devastation lies
In the heart
The mind
When one’s thoughts are ravaged
By oneself
Inconsolable
If it is to be an endless stream
Is it not best to
A poem is food for the soul, on paper or spoken.
It can make you smile, mend a heart that's broken.
Some poems rhyme, some poems do not.
This particular poem is a lesson taught.
Stories take you places.
Everyone knows that.
I learned it so early that Time-Outs became playtime.
Bits and pieces fall together.
Stick onto each other
A glob of ideas
Not writing is like not being able to be heard.
Not writing is never being listened to.
Not writing is trying to scream underwater.
Not writing is standing on a stage but being invisible.
It’s the feeling of the ocean,
when you’re not really there.
It’s an idea, a thought, a notion...
Some clandestine affair.
I write to breathe better
And to see more clearly.
I write in the hope that
Someone is gonna hear me.
My hand just yearns to move
Across an untouched page,
Like a bird wishes to
I’ve been listening to a lot ofSpoken word, lately.Been losing myself in the heartbeatsOf fellow writers, much stronger than me.Who hoist themselves up, in frontOf a crowd full of people and spill
Private thoughts turn to expression
Releasing opinion of a bystander
Making a connection between this world and yourself
Standing anonymously.
You think of what you see and
Rush to put it on paper
Writing, Isn't just simply putting something on a piece of paper, it's a power that everyone is given. The power to be able to express yourself, in your own way.
My ink flows like the surface of our ocean-front views,I make waves when my mind surfs but will this make the news?My aim is at our built-up walls of sanity.We mask the truths of this world but I welcome us to reality.
I wallow in my room
What looks to be quite mere
Like a rose my mind blooms
And an audience appears
People I would like to meet
And all who I adore
All applauding for me
Behind my closed door
The complexities of chemistry,
seeing Spanish in written form,
music falling into a beautiful structure-
all are engaging but none of them compare
to the beauty found in the English language.
I write for the sake of expression. To put myself at peace. Because while I write, my pen, it dances out my speech. Such elegance is rare in ordinary words. I like creating beauty for the rest of the world. I write for future reference.
I am a poet this is true this is why i write this little poem for you.
I write for the freedom for my mind can escape and create a new world in very few words.
I write to realese so that when im in pain my heart can be at ease.
To any given person the black or blue ballpoint pen, varying in color with my mercurial temperament, hidden within my backpack might seem insignificant, amateur even, but not through my eyes.
I write, therefore I am free
free to be me
i live in a country
with freedom of expression and
I choose to use it.
I need no therapy sessions,
write my own questions
The relaxing of souls after someone has spoken. The ceasing of anger after love has spread. The rekindling of broken hearts after showing your other side. These are the results of poetry, so when I grow up, I want to be a poet.
My mind contains a world of its own.
I live among things natural, familiar and known
Yet yearn for those lands of magic that I must leave
With those gateways to fairies, witches, and miracles
Writing is the calm after the storm
The rant after the fight
The memories after the moment
The shoulder that I cry on
It's an escape from reality
I write, To hear the crashing of the stormy sea Against a rocky shore To capture the sound and the power Of nature's majestic, defeaning roar I write, To feel the ecstasy Of moments with loved ones shared To joyful times I give these lines Of ha
Creation.
The Simple
Joy
In creating
something
of
your
very own.
Mine.
My words,
What I say,
flows across the
page.
Like blood from
wounds
My pen to paper is beautiful
As lines turn to curves, and brings beautiful life
To simple words
For me they tell a myriad of stories
From troubling circumstance
To some of glory
Slowly fading, soaking into the dark dim wall
That once held the ingredients to aid mankind.
You realize: everything was for nothing.
No time. It’s all an illusion.
A poem is very much like a person. A poem can express happiness or it can express sadness. A poem can be quick or it can be slow. But however you look at it, each person can relate in their own way.
I write because I can escape. I can feel what it's like to be free. To release all of the stress. To run in the wind and sing with glee. Writing makes me smile. It gives me peace of mind. Gives me courage to run that mile.
I write for the sake of a generation lost in their own wandering.
I write for the purpose of humoring my own pondering.
What am I? Why am I here? Where is my voice?
Should something so truthful need fail?
Does one live with prospect and ambition?
As the immortal sun should burn bright,
and as the moon should light my way.
These feelings, these fears I have.
You are the sun that shines my mornings
The moon I howl too at night
you are the instrument to my soul
The vocals in my veins
You are the remedies too my pains
That you are...
