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how do you go about it
when you write a poem
scribble on a piece of sheet
then think about a name?

or do you just tap the keys
seek a clue to start
your way to save the trees
yet find a vent to heart.

do you sit tightly stiff
intent on the screen
or shuffle in the strong belief
they would pour the way you mean.

how do you find the time
or do you have enough
to betwixt work catch a rhyme
grab the thoughts by scruff.

do you write all alone
without a soul around
in a place quiet to the bone
but for your clicking sound.

or you have but little choice
to be by yourself in a room
yet bud a poem from the noise
grow it to full bloom.

my mind ponders the questions above
but the least I can do is to brood
how you pen a poem of love
that makes me feel so good.
 Nov 2014 Stevie Ray
JM
Consuming
 Nov 2014 Stevie Ray
JM
Cold night, razors edge;
Changing paradigms, by force.
Life is violent.
Are we hiding behind a mask
not willing to come face to face
with ourselves, and others
why hide behind a face
and not reveal the heart
no heart to dwell
and fear of facing
or have we created
a world around a world
which should have been
now the only reality
hiding behind our lies
or the reality we perceive
why, how and so many questions
not yet found the answers
perplexed by the paradox
are we not allowed to know
or live in the dark
and just continue as it is
we are not what may have been
as we are not aware
of what we actually are
so, the mask
always with one
for different occasions
never the real face
 Nov 2014 Stevie Ray
Turtle Eyes
10W
 Nov 2014 Stevie Ray
Turtle Eyes
10W
Mmmmmmmmm,
I love smelling you on me
The next day!
 Nov 2014 Stevie Ray
unwritten
she was a poet,
and he was her pen.
in him,
she always found words to write,
songs to sing,
thoughts to think.

he'd smile,
and kiss her softly,
and say,
"write me a poem."

and she would.
she'd put poe,
and whitman,
and shakespeare to shame,
and she'd write a poem that made his eyes water.

she'd compare him
to a rose with no thorns,
a book with no end,
a world with no poverty --
the things we all wish for,
but can never attain.

//

he asked her one day,
"what am i?"
and so she picked up her pen,
and began the usual:
you are the shining sun after a hurricane,
with rays that open the eyes of the blind.

but he stopped her after those two lines,
and said that this time,
he didn't want any metaphors,
or similes,
or analogies.
he wanted the truth.

and so on that night,
as he slept,
the poet picked up her pen,
and she wrote.

she wrote,
then thought better of it,
then started over again,
and this cycle continued well into the early hours of the morning,
until suddenly,
she wrote, frantic,
if i can't love you for what you really are,
have i ever really loved you at all?


this, too,
she thought better of,
condemning it to the trash.

the next morning the poet was gone,
her final work a mere two words:

i'm sorry.

(a.m.)
this is more of a story than a poem but i like how it came out so leave thoughts & comments please
Perfection* is
accepting,
all that
imperfection*
truly is.

And
so maybe
we're not
perfect...
But then,
who really is?

Because I loathe
moments of silence,
our tempers,
the rage that lies within.

But just as
we are dying,
all the time
These bad
moments
too
will meet
their **end.
it wouldn't feel quite right. Would it?
 Nov 2014 Stevie Ray
PrttyBrd
Within
 Nov 2014 Stevie Ray
PrttyBrd
Filled with the beauty of your essence
My soul sits in the sun
My heart smiles
And I am free



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