Never act like your a writer .
Or say the things you believe others want to hear.
Art is in never being certain.
The page has no time for half *** lines .

Do not be what you think a writer is.
Writers are ego driven ******* to self absorbed to see anything in front of them.
And thats just there good quality's .


Don't pen it the way you believe that will please others take it down the road as far as it has to go .

Let it get messy let it be awkward.
If your thinking bout other people your ****** to begin with .

You the page the ******* work that is all that matters .
That is what makes you a writer .

Not people blowing smoke up your *** .
Not how many people read it.
Who publishes it and if you made a dime off it.

Make that page bleed .
And **** those who dont get it.
Lemmings have often had to be told whats in .

They think there hip they want to hang around those who have it in hopes they can maybe find it as well.

They are like cancer you listen long enough to there ******* and they poison the well of your imagination.

Never take advice from someone who can't do what you can.

The world is not a play.

Never act just be one with the page.

I never act.

NAPO WRIMO

Next month is  Poetry Month
Why not, endevour to write
a poem a day from provided prompt
Stretch yourself, find new sources of creativity.
Discover new poets, new resources,
Celebrate yourself and other poets
Check out the website:
http://www.napowrimo.net/

By Arcassin Burnham

Pretty flowers...
They bloom when disasters take place in a matter of hours,
Do you run and hide when the **** hits the fan,
Or do you fall to mind control wearing pair of vans,
Kick back with a can of Miller watching your lady nag your face off,
Was this the life you were planning ahead for in the future when
Everything was so simple and now you got flaws,

Ah ah not me ! My future is solidified like the back of my two front teeth,
Talk is cheap , I don't really care about your criticism , don't bother me,
I'm still on my feet, I'm not six feet deep yet so thats a plus especially,
I'll do what's right for me, I'll find a new resistance out of life though
These trees,
There's nothing to say, who cares if I get too personal any other day,
You're all in the way, I have no place here in this dump , I don't wanna
Stay,
The sweat on my face , brings so much Shame in this existence , I can't even fly
Away,
To the place I belong , I wanna go home.

/

They say get a grip on life son and I'm already two steps ahead,
About to turn into the big two-o this year , glad I'm not dead,
Lead the strong into new beginnings where the promise will be as
Promised as tomorrow,
Lived your whole life being scrutinized in societies eyes bring so
Much sorrow,
Hi I'm a citizen,
That's wonders where we'll all be in ten years,
Do we get more than a mention?
Lying to you on the news , looking at a bunch of words like it's scripted,
Yeah the devils clever too , fighting this off like a muse,
They'll erase you like you never existed,
I was never the type to be weak,
I've been mostly living around women,
It's okay cause I stayed on my feet,
Now I'm more of a man than many men.

/

Feel The agonizing pain of being in the midst of
aggravation,
I was always someone that would go right to the hatred,
When it came down to it , no one would bust a grape and,
when it came down to it i was always yours and,

No folding of the hands while praying to a God That would
be busy anyway.

I will always think of you
When I listen to Andrew Bird,
And will always miss you
When I choose the next song.

the Hello Poetry portrait gallery
is becoming full of empty frames
what individuals had a hand
in these harassment games

we've been deprived of many
talented written contributions
the villainous mob most adroit
with their unwarranted executions

blank boxes tell of an almighty
mischief being awfully made
by they who are wanting
to garner every accolade

under a serious threat our
fraternity of poets are thus far
and of seeing unfilled cubes
there leaves a permanent scar

everything of
me was choir-song

every bolt of
air,
every summer
moon,
every drop of
cooling rain,

in spring i
melted like
a hedgerow,
in gold and
sky-bronze,

in summer i
gathered the sky
to my branches
green with shadows
of longing,

in autumn i trembled
downwards like a
girl unwinding her
hair,

and in winter i froze
on the doorstep
all black branch
and cold
rigging on
a barren ship,

everything of me
was choir-song and
i had the most
beautiful
purple throat,

i was a soft
melody of love
on a strange
moody day.

.
There is a man
     with only one hand,
in the 3rd eye of Buddha
     he learnt about clapping.

There is a woman
     with only one heart,
in the land ruled by men
     she retained her compassion.

There is a man
     with only one eye,
in the land of the blind
     he was ostracised.

There is a mind
     with only one thought,
in the land of the banal
     it treasures imagination.


© Pagan Paul (19/10/16)