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Anything can
look like a poem
and sound philosophical
simply by moving
the words on
different lines.

Am I doing it right?
Is this
really
talent?
Art?
Effort?

I think I am trying.
Really, I am
I go back and change the order
and I break lines
where it sounds right
But it does not take me long.
Not at all.

I try to be
intentional
and call it natural rhythm.
Instinct and style taking over
I alternate between
agonizing every detail
like When to Capitalize
and publishing free form poems without looking over them twice.

How is writing supposed to feel?
Should I labor?
or should it flow?
Or do I get to decide?

I think the things I talk of
mean something
at least.

But am I just
pretentious?

fooling myself into thinking that
using common poetry formats
somehow makes my work worthwhile?
Problems only We True Artists face.
 Aug 2018 Lillian May
BMG
It consumed my soul,
Every single day
Begun with you
Ended with you
You were so heavy to hold up,
All this disappointment building inside
Why wasn’t I enough?
Why her?
Or her?
Or her?
Each time
I kept the pain to myself
I told you I understood
Mistakes happen right?
You’d never hurt me again?
I still “believed you loved me”
I was so young back then
A fire raged in my heart,
Slowly burning it up
You tore me apart
I let you
Because I actually loved you.
L'ale scura all'aria porgo
né temo intoppo di cristallo o vetro,
ma fendo i cieli e all'infinito mi ergo
e mentre dal mio globo agli astri sorgo
e per l'eterno campo oltre penètro,
quel che altri lungi vede, lascio a tergo.
Come live with me, and be my love,
And we will all the pleasures prove,
That hills and valleys, dales and fields,
And all the craggy mountain yields.

There we will sit upon the rocks,
And see the shepherds feed their flocks
By shallow rivers, to whose falls
Melodious birds sing madrigals.

And I will make thee beds of roses,
With a thousand fragrant posies,
A cap of flowers and a kirtle
Embroidered all with leaves of myrtle;

A gown made of the finest wool,
Which from our pretty lambs we pull;
Fair lined slippers for the cold,
With buckles of the purest gold;

A belt of straw and ivy buds,
With coral clasps and amber studs;
And if these pleasures may thee move,
Come live with me, and be my love.

The shepherd swains shall dance and sing
For thy delight each May morning:
If these delights thy mind may move,
Then live with me, and be my love.
 Aug 2018 Lillian May
Orange Rose
I wrote a poem when I died...
Another at my birth.
A brand-new sonnet when I cried.
And again when there was mirth.

A song for my confession...
A story for my pain...
A painting for depression...
And nursery rhymes for rain.

My creations live inside my heart.
I keep them there in shame.
Yet you looked around and saw my art,
And smiled all the same.
When a published poet dies,
A shooting star falls.
The universe cries
And rainbows hugs waterfalls.

When an old poet dies,
A new poet is born.
Nature lights up a million fireflies,
And a ship gives a tot on its horn.

When a young poet dies,
A Crack appears in a crystal ball.
A Fountain pen dries,
And a sad poem appears on a wall.

When an old poetess dies,
For a while the wind will cease.
Petals will fall from Lillies,
And disappear without a trace.

When a great poetess dies,
Fallen poets observe silence.
The men adorn black bow ties,
And the ladies dress in elegance.

When any poet dies,
The world loses a bright mind.
Shakespeare appears across the skies,
Waving to those of us left behind.

When a poor poet dies,
Nothing at all happens.
The world goes about its duties
He goes on to rest with other legends.


#IvanBrooksPoetry
29/7/2018
A poet dies but he's not done..his words lives on.
 Jul 2018 Lillian May
She Writes
There is too much regret
In unspoken words
The quiet thoughts
Whispered only to the moon

There is too much longing
In wishful thinking
Daydreams
Can quickly become a nightmare

There are too many tears
Spilled onto pillows
Over suffering and longing
From words unsaid
 Jul 2018 Lillian May
wordvango
only
 Jul 2018 Lillian May
wordvango
fifty-nine years
  a month and two days
     seven hours
          and twenty-nine
              seconds
it
took

Here I am world.

I don't care anymore
              what you think.
This is hellopoetry
I do not dwell on
Hurtful comments
Or negativity
The insanity of the way
Humans marginalize
And hate others
Without reasons
Without merits
Is like knives in my heart
All I see is beauty everywhere
Every human on earth
Is a universe in their own right
A manifestation of uniqueness
That can never again replicated
I’m here to write and share my thoughts
With those who cares for it
Give the world a snapshot
Of my soul and it’s principles
My dream my pain
my emotion my humanity
If negativity is where you dwell
I implore you stay out of my inbox
Highly recommend you read
Motivating things
Or maybe listens to songs
That would cheer you up
I learned most storms
Don’t come to disrupt
Your life rather
to clear your path
The challenges equip you
With the necessary weapons
And tools you need to
Spiritually advance
Therefore I’m stepping
Into your hatred challenge
With confidence and much
More wisdom than I had.
Don’t let hatred dwell
In your mind and heart
For I have nothing but
Love for you my brother
If you had my life
You would understand!
love is beautiful but you don’t have a clue!
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