Poetic.....Poetic.....Poetic
Is what everybody is now
Poetic justice is what everybody brings now
Burn the city down
Poetic
Maybe then the government will listen
Everyone a revolutionary
Poetic
Posers standing on podiums
They march for peace but plant the seed
to send you to war
Posers never on the front line
Cowards afraid to die first
Poetic
Selling dreams that don't exist like those of Mr. King
Posers afraid of death
Homosexuals of war
But far from an Alexander
Far from a Ceacer but those are who they chosen to follow since they don't lead none
Poetic
We poets don't speak up
I was going to recite with my stage name
Anonymous my alter ego
My Duo persona
Poetic
But for this everyone should see the face and now the name
Of the man who pointed out the cowards
I'm not afraid of death,
Poetic
I'm not afraid of arrest
Poetic
But the bloods the crips
The nation of islam
Should had burned down
Sallie Mae
Not mom and pop shops
Poetic
Restore the damage
Restore the damage
pay your dues
Go get your 40 acres and your mule
I dream the dream but not American
Since I live my life as if I was to die
Before being immortalize
Poetic

The whole art of versification,
the whole psychology of poetic rhythm,
the play's along with time.
Life is the volume of a poetic manual
poetic Rhythm that plays in the heart and mind
Various trials have been played in a lifetime.
The poetic heart makes a spark to
write his poetic lines of Rhythm for the world to read
To express where poetic life has been.
I am poetic at heart
with a deep poetic spark of the dark,
sometimes I write when my heart was made to bleed.
It's like my poetic music to my soul,
only a poetic would know what my heart has to hold,
I speak out in poetic Rhythm of my blues,
like a nasty Flu lost without You.
I'm outside looking at a theme
somehow it got me thinking about you,
I'm sitting, thinking, breathing
with an Ink pen in my hand
I sip at the life of the could bees of my dreams.
What a nightmare my poetic heart scream,
I must write it down in silk Ink
I could get up and walk away from my pains
But then I would lose the Rhyme of the time
of things, I could say about my poetic heartbreak.
So I sit down and cry my poetic lines
But it is like chasing dreams,
Shadows of a past that keep hunting at me,
I am a Poet at heart and soul,
Beaten down as I go,
I am not Rich, yet I am Poor,
I don't look into someones else dreams,
I've lived my own sometimes without a home,
I lost yet I have won in the long run
Because every line I write will last a lifetime.

Judy Emery © 1980
The Queen Of Darken Dreams Poetic Judy Emery

A poetic mind will never find it so hard to see the words....to feel the words...
to place the words so perfectly where he or she may want them to be...

In a poetic mind lays a soul....that has enough control to impose that words are never easy to let go...so they over flow....some darker than others...which smothered the un-uttered compact and cluttered words.....

A poetic mind will unwind from time to time....some poems will rhyme....more often than many will not....but that won't stop that poets poetic mind....day dreams of the words that fall into place in front of faces....not leaving spaces on the paper to write another un-uttered smothered word that compacts and clutters the poets poetic mind like window shutters....

A poetic mind can never let words just be...written from left to right....its just to easy to write....a mesh of words blistering the finger tips from the pen grips...and the paper scrapes...across each line because that poetic mind will find it....so easy to grind it or engrave the words...so a poetic mind becomes a slave to the paper....blank is it? to you it may be...but on a blank sheet of paper I see....words rhyming in perfect harmony....made from the poetic part of the mind of mine.....

This poetic mind won't find it hard to see....the words that I perfectly place together....whether in blue or black my poetic mind won't cut slack to the blisters on my finger tips....or let go of my pen that drips in motion that places....the words so gracious...leaving paper with no spaces to write another smothered compact un-uttered word made from a poetic mind....a mind of mine....

P.O.E.T.I.C    M.I.N.D
E.      H.         A.        E
T.      O.         T.          S
E.     M.         T.          P
R.     A.         H.          I
         S.          E.          R
                     W.          I
                                   T
                                   O
-Peter T. DeSpirito

there is nothing poetic
about the way you smash your drums in
like you smash memories

there is nothing poetic about the way you recite words
that mean everything to you

but do not live by

there is nothing poetic about how you look to the left
because the right way is never your way 

there is nothing poetic deep under your ‘skin’
there is nothing poetic about finding a better place to ‘fit in’
there is nothing poetic about the way you percieve the world or what kind of music you listen to or the way you dress or the way you feel when you are alone and looking at the stars

there is nothing poetic about the smell of camp fire or peter pan or metallica
because we’re off to neverland 

only, you’re off to nowhere 

there is nothing poetic about you

there is nothing poetic about you

Poetic,
Thy beak can speak words of sensual charm,
But canst thou speak of what's to cometh?
Poetic,
Thy words do flow and run,
As a waterfall, tumbling hummus!!
Poetic,
Thou canst shape lives by thy wittled crippled fingers,
Yet canst thou show thy action? Like thy hero's and singers?
Poetic,
Thou canst bringeth life to thy surroundings,or death to thy foes,
Yet wilt thou giveth all thou haveth from thy back? Or steal poor men's troves!!!
Poetic,
Thineself can waketh one to splendor,or putteth them to sleep,
But cans't thou heareth them? Rub their bones when their weak?
Poetic
Poetress
Poets
Tis I do believe!!
With thy words,
Thine self could make seeds to eternal beautitude,
Or everlasting damnation!!!!

I'm a stoic,
For mine words art mine action's!!!

Art thy own?
Poetic.....

"
"nor is this a fact," nor is my syntax the 'true.'
i can't use quotations in the way i'd like to,
to allow the paradoxical to seep through
in the sly act of revising 'this' honestly--
merging truth with falsity, to silently see--
grammar become a means to shatter certitude

"i can't tell the 'truth' with these ["i can't tell the 'truth'
with these{...} very words"] very words"; i really can't...
it's somewhat unfair to communicants, this rant.
let me bolster your trust by not telling it slant:
in fact, it's not poetry, not from this angle.
maybe when you read, this 'this' will be poetic?
meh, i'm relying on telling, not showing. so...
quiet's often better than such entanglement

but this is not about value, it's about truth.
sincerely, i doubt i'll keep those two separate

perhaps... if you pretend i'm a prolix parrot,
who happened through some acosmic accident
to be the transmigrated daimon-soul of Sappho,
or Hypatia, Gertrude Stein or Plath even...
(yeah, i'm like a Cretan for going on): they weren't,
'your gobbledygoo,' or 'Sweet sweet sweet sweet sweet tea.'
stripped bare at the Caesareum, being murdered
for the crime of godlessness or female wisdom
spoken in the scapegoat-hungry rule of Rome...
this is not what they were, not the whole truth, at all
and though from winds of ****** she spoke in verse
that her vast poetic fame 'was no delusion:'
and that, 'dead, I won't be forgotten,' i fail,
painfully fail, to trace into a verbal womb
the seeds of those that transformed all, yet now entombed...
for to remember them in me is to revise,
reduce, sadly in that poetic untruth found...

"this" is a gestalt, i guess i'll have to say,
a "figure-ground," a floating 'shape' in some context,
one that you embody too, somehow, not in text;
even through a distant sharing, it's realized
(hold onto the random metaphors you find,
they're probably better than what's in my mind)
and to share this with you now, to hypocritize,
it's lunacy. i mean, the moon, the poetic moon
is not a meme, is not a custom, is not a poetic fact,
in fact, it's not in this poem, and if it were--
being televised with some authentic ontic pixel-space--
here between the lines augmented mOOn for you
it would prove how unpoetic the poem is, and how
very true the moon is, if it were here, right quoteunquote"here"
ineffably punctuated
            -- well, let me try
and fail again to make Erasmus proud:
the quotes would hang about romantic beams
parentheses to echo adjectival spectra streams,
an underscore horizonal and asterisks for stars.
but not these * asterisks,
or those_types of underscores--
better (parentheses) and far more "quothy" "quotes"--
the punctuation would literally ^punctuate^ the sky of my text.
time would stop.                                                            ­                   and that would be poetic.
you don't need to breathe, even; not this 'you,' in this moment
(the one i've failed to capture):
'i will put you on the moon' i say,
'and sit you buoyant by the buddha-astronaut, who,
in answer to the question sprinkles moondust in slow motion,
symbol-guiding realness, my "finger" for solution,
to present to you again, what is present to me now.
the Russian names, the rest of names, the 'face' some say cries, "sweetly,"
as if we could use the moon's sympathy,
or as if we should feel it for the white rock that elliptically defines us,
dances to our rhythm, (the tides, the ****** huntress)
the one that taught us to dance,
the one that taught us to yearn darkly in surreal eclipse
more hopefully for the chance of cataclysmic doom
some Greeks thought it was a disco ball, after enough *****, that Dionysian night,
some Greeks thought it was a disc,
like a coin that flipped just right
to match it's dance about our pearoid earth
in synchrony's anachronistic mirth.
i would lick each Bacchant clean to learn the mysteries of poem
i would lick each Bacchant clean. period. no music or noema known
this 'poem' is not a "poem"
in a very real sense
i did not make this,
nor did i compose or create it.
if you're not following it's ok, i'm barely there myself -- i'm trying to refer to...
the elliptical shape that certain publishers use
to refer to fundierung
the double-founding,
reversibility,
the flesh of passive
the flesh of active
enfleshed perceiving
the common meaning we contribute
but can't attribute to any source we express!
(however distorted) after the fact, yes! --
either all that, or the meaning you get from "this" act
doubly-enfolded, with two pairs of hands kneading the same dough,
two pairs of eyes weaving the same lOOm,
another Indra's net to sew,
in meaning you give now,
the techne of your reader's mind
and the meaning i'd wish to know,
if i were still writing what you are reading,
doing my best to ignore the title
and to write something worthwhile...

i do wish i could show it to you the way i love it in your own poetry,
but you would know that, already, without my love

without my unpoetic lack of facts, my rhymes.
free of poems, free to flout the literary sea.
free to be unwordly, and let the contradictions fly
"

As I view my world
I stood from a far distance
Left to my unused Wisdom
With an open mind
Accessing the great treasure of this
Poetic picture
It worth is unknown
Clerify with deep peace
Which clear sorrow and give inner joy
Never the less I gain wisdom
Each time I view my poetic picture


Each time I view my poetic picture
Grace is made available
Like the blue sky mixed with white and gray clouds
Dew locating it resting place
As I allocate myself terms to it
Fruitful tresses beautify with drip of water
As it dirp down on green grass's
Finding it way on earth
Watering the earth
I could feel the air
powered with purity
The enrolling sound of each bird
Made substantial harmony
The sun rise
Titled with glorious ability
Edifying the field with enrich satisfaction
Each time I view my poetic picture


Each time I view my poetic picture
My poetic picture could be
Me, you, man, woman, words
Sure as I gain wisdom from it.
My poetic picture is the voice that address me in different picase for the moment of reality, existence and truth

Wisdom is profitable to direct
If I may ask
What is your poetic picture?

Normal
The word pertaining to the behavior of the majority of the masses, yet I refuse the title like unmixed blood cells, pushing the average in me back until I’m taken by my higher self, my true form.
But you wouldn’t know much about that. You can’t wait to get home to watch TV or play your video games.
It’s normal.
Higher
Whether through drugs or levitation, getting high is easy. However, the average cannot reach this level, they cannot display this power. Only we can, us being the lyrical miracles that the world has once craved and the world being those around us that give us our inspirations.
Higher.
And I guess I’m a space shuttle. Yet I have felt no high in chemicals, no uplifting in elevators, just the heightening fuel that ignites in my brain. Yet some can’t take the heat of a burning mind filled with questions. But can you?
We are poems, poetry, poetic expressions. But it’s a dual edged blade of which we have all found. We’re all special, from A.D.D to suicidal, we have the experience to write tragedy. From love to loss we have the reason to write about romance. Love, fear, heroics, sadness, strength, all poetic expressions to us.
We are poets
The people who everyone looks at for supporting. Some of us are tough, some of us are pushovers, and some of us are pacifistic. Yet the reality of our gifts open up a new world for us.
We are poems
Our writings speak to our souls, that’s one more connection from our brains to our hearts and the entities beyond. I write about it and you understand where I come, my point of view. My pain, your inquiry, yet to hear it being read is poetic justice to our emotions.
We are communications
No, I don’t mean through phones or emails. I’m talking through spirit. You see a poet down, you help, period, as we are one and the same in heart.  A symbol of independence to those who forget the meaning of the word. But we’re a community and a family, so I love you like a brother or a sister because of the natural familiarity between us.
We are poetic.
Our lives are filled with instances where we simply need to express. Oh, the sweet and sour irony. Our day to day experiences speak for our poetic natures. Whether jamming to Taylor Swift or Tracy Chapman or Migos or even Luke Bryan, musics tell our moods and words tell our stories, our tales, our liveliness and oneness with our selves.
Poetic beings are we, and we are
Poetic

When the tides crash and the waves retreat,
Doesn't the salty breeze make you feel poetic?
When the lightning clashes with its own kind and the thunder chases it,
Don't the sparks make you feel poetic?
When the wind blows and the leaves dance in the air,
Doesn't the autumn season make you feel poetic?
When the clouds disperse and the stars appear,
Doesn't the galaxies make you feel poetic?
When the rain falls and the mist forms on your skin,
Doesn't the nitrate smell make you feel poetic?
Because when i look at you,
and you look back at me
in the same way,
I know i feel poetic