emnabee 9h
Wildflowers...
Why do you bloom so free?
Is it for me?

Wildflowers...
So petite, so sweet.
Do you bloom for me?

Wildflowers...
Small, but strong.
Beauty, you are where you belong.

Wildflowers...
Free as I want to be.
You and me.

We are right where we need to be.
Wildflowers seen on a nearby walking trail yesterday.
https://instagram.com/p/Bn1XHSSD84J/
My heart is an affliction,
an illness
an infection
a disease
oh please,
keep your distance,
my heart is a sickness.
my heart hurts
Why do we debate about
The validness
Of sadness
When we could
Be moving forwards
Instead of falling backwards
We could be helping each other
Holding those who've lost another
If we let ourselves be held down
By harsh words and disapproving frowns
How will we ever get back up again?
And I know someone in life will tell you 'no'
Saying that they've been through worse, fifty or some years ago
But they don't know what you've lost
They don't know who broke your heart
No they don't know you, and they don't know me
So instead of being what the world wants to see
Why can't we just be?
Sadness should not not be compared and measured
It should be accepted.
emnabee 2d
I’m not a poet.
I’m really not.
I’m just someone who thinks a lot.

So I just write the stuff down.
To make room for new thoughts
To crowd in.
And then I need to get rid of them.
So I write them down, too.

And it all ends up rhyming,
Kind of.
Not very good.
But that’s ok.

Because now my head is emptier.
Yay!
And I can go on with my day.
Written deliriously.
Please don’t take me seriously.
(But thank you anyway.)
Every poet has a truth.
The truth is, poets can lie.
Poets can lie and hide the truth.
Poets can also disguise a beautiful truth as a sinful lie.

We poets don't back down easily.
We poets want to win every conversation.
We very much prefer to raise our pens
To record our artful manipulation.

We write about our sorrows
Our nearest and dearest know nothing of.
We write about our joys
Our greatest challengers want to dispose of.

Do we know someone who knows us better?
Do we know someone who knows who we are?
Do we know if we are anything else but poets?

We are all the same.
You are human, as am I.
You see it straight, I see it in rhymes.
You like it easy, I like it fly.
You hear it quick, I take my time.
Do you know why?

'Coz every poet has suffered a lie.
A lie that ignites a fire for truth.
Poets can write the truth whilst hiding the lies.
How can we not, when -
We poets can disguise a painful lie as a beautiful truth?
Poetry comes at the end of the day
When the lights are turned low
And the sun goes away

A poet writes best in the mid-afternoon
With birds in the trees
and mud on the boots

A poet rises in the morning
Even if it might be storming
Oh we write in the rain, if it be pouring

A poet thinks in the evenings
Because we write better when dreaming
And because sometimes
it's better than sleeping

A poet cherishes every part of their day
Beacause each one is never the same.
Writing poetry means you can leave the ground
And never have to come back down
The days are filled with silence
I spend sunlight on finding answers
Waiting hours on end for night to fall
Hoping another day will carry chances

I used to sing my heart out
When I was left alone at home
Now I fear that someone might hear me
That someone is me, oh no

How did I go
From melody to nothing
Years of dreaming
To losing everything

How will I rise
From nothing to something
Years of learning
Have I forgotten to sing?

The nights are filled with demons
I spend moonlight on finding angels
Waiting hours on end for the morning
Hoping I'd wake up to a sequel

I've only lived half of what I can
I've only dreamed half of what I am
I've only sang half of what I understand
I only, only, only... just began...

How did I go
From melody to nothing
Years of dreaming
To losing everything

How will I rise
From nothing to something
Years of learning
Have I forgotten to sing?
I've been undergoing some low times lately. It may just be a simple case of writer's block or something similar, but after a turning point in my life, this poem defines how I've been struggling to find myself again. Maybe I'll never find my old self, but I hope to find my new self soon.
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