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Braulio Romero Dec 2014
She laughed with disapproval
Glittered motion sickness I grabbed a her head
tossed her hard enough so I can be dead
The **** came on-a charging angry I took his limbs
he discarded all my paperwork tons of scribbling
years of failing

Weakened from dreaming
Wandering in the dark while the mice weren’t making any peeping
He said I can’t breathe but my lungs were blacker than his death
I’ll let them shoot me in the back and maybe I wouldn’t mind it
I figured it would be allright  I don’t have tryophobia

****** so many ***** but I didn’t get the job
The moon is bright in the sky yet you’re not smart
I keep writing on trees but please believe me I already have arthritis before thirty
Standing and eviscerating
I keep writing on everything they try to stop me but I hold back

They were chilling and waiting
on his death bed
Said the last rites but he already knew they loved him
I don’t know my write from the wrong doing
He’s finally accepted how life jerks you off the wrong way
I think I got graphomania
JDK  Jun 2015
Graphomania
JDK Jun 2015
I've spent the majority of my life developing the body while ignoring the mind.
Wait, I mean it's the other way around.
I get confused sometimes.
I can't stop writing!
Qualyxian Quest Aug 2021
I think they might call this graphomania
16000 poems

If they wonder why I write
I'll just have to show 'em

Edgar Allan Poe
His young wife named Virginia

The terror and the snow
Both are found within ya

Richmond, where I go
Bust with bleak black roses

Promised Land yo **
Lead me Holy Moses!
Dreams of Sepia Aug 2015
I will not write any poetry tonight
somewhat colder is the night
the cedars sleep
the cat is right
to curl up in dreams
so I will not write any poetry tonight
besides, how many can you write
(unless I want this graphomania,
that some say is our life)
the cedars sleep
the cat is right -
I will not write any poetry tonight
but watch time creep
until the dawn
Qualyxian Quest Oct 2020
Kierkegaard, alone in Copenhagen
Up late at night, writing
Today, they call it graphomania
But I call it love

To reach just one reader
Not the herd, not the millions
But rather...


                That single one.
                     Individual.

— The End —