you say life
has beaten and stung you.
you say it’s left you
without a breath.
you say the rain
keeps falling
that sunlight never comes.
you cry yourself to sleep
every night in bed.
you whine when things
start getting rough
because you really
just don’t understand
that pain is sent
to shape you.
to help you grow,
and blossom and bloom.
for those beautiful flowers
that you see drenched in sun
were once pruned too.

Tonight poets will find the words
to color their life and dip their pens
in wounds that aren’t even their own
and some will stare at the moon
seeing an empty plate, hungering
for something without a name
or a clock with no numbers knowing
time carries a dagger and a sword
for the hours that wound and nights
that cut throats, arrows that pierce
hearts fiercely until they lie still,
cold and bled out on a bed all alone.

It went in so easy,
meant to be.
Swollen and throbbing,
deep in me.

I slide up and smile,
slam down and gasp.
Filling me up
and stretching my ***.

I scrap my nails on your chest
and leave a mark.
You got this now
from light til dark.

Your motion makes me explode,
hard and fast as it gets.
We are not done,
I want to be ridden hard and put away wet.

Why do I write poetry?

I've never though of it
like that.
Free verse is my preferred style
that's because these words
are my diary.

I give my emotions and feelings
on a plate for no fee.
I like having the ability
to just express me.

I let the words rip...
just really as simple as that
sometimes I can rhyme
other times eh... why bother.

Whatever comes to me
is what I put down.
I know I'm finished when
my chest isn't as tight,
when my breathing
is easy...

I know I'm done when the last
tear falls down.
I know... when I feel relieved.

Yea I love to write poetry, it's my therapy.

I don't know why I write poetry
all I know is that writing poetry makes me rich
enjoying -- not possessing
the ever-expanding universe
without fear of inflation

in the sky --
white clouds
singing larks
whispering wind
the tender moon and twinkling stars

on the ground--
mountains hills plains gullies
lush green red brown yellow
oceans streams lakes ponds
splashing gurgling burbling
the blooming flowers
the vacillating leaves
children's innocent laughter
cats dogs chickens ducks birds
jumping chasing croaking singing
all are parts of my life's fortune

of course, there too are
ferocious dark clouds
harrying eagles
howling storms
withering flowers
roaring guns
and piercing screams
the shadows that lend dimension
to poetry and life

In fact, I don't write poetry
poetry writes me