Creation is beautiful;
To see something being created is beautiful.
Seeing an idea take flight.

When a poet grabs a pen, and speaks in words of ink
and lets her mind open and flow in a rhythm of expression
She detaches a section of her soul
     and lays it on a piece of parchment
     with the hopes that somebody else can pick it up
     and attach it with their souls, instead.

When a songwriter forms lyrics to let an audience ingest the world through his eyes
and he pairs up with a musician, tapping away keys at the piano
that would send chills down the spine of the most heartless human,,
and the two form stories of sound and lyrics
that ripple through crowds like the detonation
     over the sky of Hiroshima.

When the lonely author writes his sad stories,
Filled with the triumphs he wishes he owned,
he feels the need to fill the paper with more,
because he is in love with creating.
He wants to do more. He wants to be more.
He always feels his actions will never fill the space it should,
     and a vacuum will encompass all of his papers,
     and even his heart,
     so he can never fill either of them as desperately as he wants
but he creates with the hope that somebody can relate.

Even when a boy and a girl hold hands,
or when they hold each other, together, in attraction
     with the pains of the world numbed by the drug of the heart,
     crossing their fingers that they will always get a refill of their prescriptions,
And their silence says more than any words could.
One smiles, and the second can't resist,
     and the creation here is love,
the best,
           and frailest,
creation of all.

As for me: I see creation as a challenge as well.
To push yourself to be something else and make something else.
To inspire, to encourage,
to be beautiful, even if nobody is facing you.
To know that when you die, death won't take you entirely,
     with the words on paper,
     paintings on the wall,
     or kisses that you gave,
you will continue to exist. You can never fully die.
Creation is the key to immortality,
but creation isn't about living forever,
it's about allowing others to see who you really are,
and who they can be.

Creation is telling stories and lessons to others,
Creation is sharing,
Creation is helping.

Creation is beautiful.

I've always admired
the hands of a poet
fragile, yet capable of telling
the most breathtaking stories
and writing down
the most frightful thoughts
in the form of ravishing metaphors
so no one really gets
how dreadful they really are

the hands of a poet
can take you to a place
that’s constructed out of time and illusions
the hands of a poet
can lift you up
and make you fly
they can take you to the only place
that they would call shelter

I’ve always admired
the hands of a poet
because they can form the letters
so resolutely
while the words are still pondered about
they can make words look
like they’re on the right place

the hands of a poet
aren’t as damaged as their feelings
and unlike the mind of a poet,
they age
until the poet can’t write
the beautiful thoughts down anymore

I wrote a poem, just for you,
Wrought out of pain and tears.
You took the pain, and wrote one too;
It multiplied our fears.

I wrote a poem, filled with joy,
And gave you that as well.
You wrote one too, and helped destroy
Our paranoia's spell.

This poetry site used to mean
Quite a lot to me,
But recently all that I've seen
Is not what used to be.

Perhaps this site is dying,
Like the fragment of my soul,
Which has given up with trying
To love this unpoetic hole.

"Five–O-two, Bad gateway"
Is mostly what I read,
And the same **** poems every day
Appearing on my feed.

This used to be a lovely place
To connect and to explore,
But now I accept it's lost it's grace,
And this site's done for, for sure.

I hope in time they'll fix it,
And this site will be restored,
But, 'till then, I will not risk it;
So I'll leave on my own accord.

Is a poet still a poet
If they do not write?

A journal gathering dust,
But a yearning to write.
Am I still a poet
Without my inner light?

sometimes you just have to write
a super ****** poem
just to make the words
get out of your head
and sometimes your words
flow so effortlessly that
the poem brings tears to your eyes
either way, keep writing
writing trash
writing amazing poetry
do it because it’s a necessity
do it because that’s just how it has to be
flow or don’t
rhyme or don’t
use stanzas or don’t
do whatever feels the best to you in that moment
friend, just write so that
those of us who can’t voice
the pain or the joy
have somewhere to find those words
we need you to write it for us
we have to relate to you
please
I beg of you
write for us,
your fellow poets

Lately
I don’t feel close
to poetry.

It feels elusive.
Unfamiliar.
Once it spoke to me.
But now it’s mute.

It sits back
and doesn’t look
at me.

If I call out
it doesn’t hear.

Lately poetry is
like that demon
I used to want
to reappear.

We are critical.

We find flaws in
everything we see
because nobody
wants to write
about perfection,
even though sometimes
we wish we could just stay
staring into that
unblemished surface.

2. We are never satisfied.

We live our lives upon
mountains of
scrunched up
bits of refill and
ideas we gave up
trying to
express.

3. We never forget.

We write words about
eye contact made
three months ago
that we replay over
and over in our minds
even though it
stopped
being relevant.

4. We are fickle.**

Our emotions flash
from one
to the other
like strobe lighting that
disorientates us
until we feel as if
the world
will never be still.

5. We are exposed.

We don't know how
to keep our feelings
to ourselves so
we'll write them
down for
you to find
'accidentally'.

6. We are vulnerable.

We wear our
hearts on our sleeves
and won't lift a
muscle to fight back
if somebody tries
to break it
because we thrive
from the pain.

7. We will never stop.

We will never stop
feeling and
we will never stop
hurting,
we will never stop
breaking and
bleeding and
loving
even though the cycle
is endless
and we know what's
coming next.


We are addicted
to agony,
but we agonise
for the art.

Ode to a Poet(writer)
I know you,
All alone
4am is when you feel most at home.
I feel you,
Blank page, full pen,
I see you,
Looking at a page waiting for a tale to unfold,
Behold!
When it starts, it flows,
I am you,
Hiding away, writing my pain,
Escaping reality,
Day to day,
We are art,
In the way we move,
We are the dreamer's and believer's
Pad and pen in hand til our dreams come true.
C. Tyler

I know you're scared—
You're scared to write.
But I know that you're missing yourself tonight.

So just for this moment,
Forget everything you've learned.
Forget all your missing fragments.
Forget that you were ever burnt.

And just write.

Remember that night,
Where you almost lost it?
You took pen, papers, words, and you learned how to fight.
'Till this day you are still so in love with it.

You lost yourself in this busy world,
But you found yourself in the flow of words.

Never let go of who you are,
Never let go of something that loves you even with all your scars.