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 Jun 2015
poetessa diabolica
Men are mad dogs,
 women, finessed felines
we'd no sooner claw
    your eyes out
than admit you're right,
we'll undoubtedly,
without hesitation - -
use our feminine wiles,
to get our own way,
and you bloodhounds
   best get used to it
or no ***** for you
    tonight, or any given day

We've got the upper paw...MEow


And, if you're a bird dog
   well, that's a whole other story,
no telling what could happen

=^;^=
Okay men, don't get your boxers in a flurry, it's all in fun! ;)

My inspiration...see, it was hardly my fault!
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"Women and cats will do as they please, and men and dogs should relax and get used to the idea." -Robert A. Heinlein
 May 2015
Just Melz
Poetry is art
      Poetry is visual

Poets can see the words

The way a play write
Can see the actors on stage
       with every line he writes

The way a musician
Can see the notes dance on air
       with every key she plays

The way a sculptor
Can see the final sculpture
       with every cut of their knife

The way a painter
Can see the waves of the ocean
        with every stroke of blue
                  on a blank canvas

Poetry is visual
      Poetry is art
            Poets are artists
       They write **from the heart
 Mar 2015
Rachael Judd
BUT YOU ARE A WRITER
AND YOUR HEART DOESNT
FEEL THE WAY YOU WANT IT TOO
AND YOUR MIND DOESNT
WORK IN ONE SPECIFIC WAY
AND YOUR MOUTH DOESNT
SAY ALL THE RIGHT WORDS
THOUGH YOUR HAND SPEAKS
THEM FOR YOU
BUT YOU,
ARE A WRITER
 Mar 2015
Mike lowe
Poetry is like spider webs. Each word has so much meaning. A spider prefers to spin its web at night. Maybe this is because thats when they have the most on their minds or when they feel safe.

Each web a beautiful creation. The time it takes to create it and the little appreciation it gets. They say a spider will eat its web when moving on, every poet will eat their words one day.

Cob webs, are webs that have been abandoned and left to die. Our bodies will one day be left to die.

This moment, this one right now, is all we have. We will leave our poetry behind to turn into Cob Webs. Maybe one day a child may stumble across these words and bring them back to life.

Poetry is the most powerful thing we have and we need to give it to everyone. So the next time you see a spider web, appreciate it a little more.

Think of it as, poetry. Something or someone spent a lot of time making it. And put their soul into it. Because what is poetry if not a spiders web in the corner waiting to be realized?
 Mar 2015
Born
Sometimes I write words that I think are perfect and mighty

but when I read your words ,they ******* me ,they make me feel like a nonsense trying to make sense

They make me Wonder, why should i call  me a poet
With words that don't rhyme  
or flow

But again I believe that this words are perfect and mighty
they gave me hope
I found peace whenever I wrote them
I floated like a feather and forgot my permanent scars
with these words am a Knight and a hero
what are you with your words
 Feb 2015
Amitav Radiance
A poet thinks beyond
Walking along that
Extra mile
We pervade through
Boundaries
Beyond the realms of
Known
Imaginary it may seem
Every word
Carries the truth
Thoughts seeded
In the fertile minds
To sprout
Into exotic flowers
Alluring aromas
Mesmerizes the soul
We exist
Between the words
Filling the spaces
Between the lines
With our imagination
 Jan 2015
Devon Webb
I won't let my
heart be broken
by someone
who doesn't know
how it was
made
Who is this poet?

Is he faithful to his poetry
as good as pretends to be
or his heart is ever on the darkside
nowhere near of what he writes.

Who is this poet?

Is his hat real or fake
he’s weak and easily breaks
he aims only to teach
never follows all that he preach.

Who is this poet?

Is he really that sweet
joyous and good as his wit
does he expose truly his heart
or the real he hides behind his art.

Who is this poet?

Does he have in him
all his painted dream
the lover’s happiness
he does profess.

Who is this poet?

Is at heart he's that pure
what with words he conjures
or all them are just his arty wile
he's merely spinning tales in style.
the lens turned to self.

— The End —