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japheth 46m
our love is poetry:

a series of rhymes
of words with identical ending
having different beginnings.

an assonance
of words totally unrelated
but were fit together as intended.

a consonance
of words that invites a trance
as if urging me to dance.

an alliteration
of words i hear that ignites a flame
but soft and as warm as fleece.
i read this book and really tried hard to understand the different ways to write and the word association. miss u guys.
Omnya0 1d
Before I sleep or when everyone around me is asleep,

I go to an empty street. I wear a coat to protect myself from the cold.

It's a nice cold.

The type that kisses your cheek makes you shiver a little and fills you with giddy.

In the middle of this street is a lamp post; I like to weave words and art from this lamp post.

But I need to go back to slumber

But I need to  go back and play with numbers

And when I don't have these things to worry about

The light goes out

I wait for it to turn back on

Most of the time, it doesn't

I play with the wires

Or maybe perhaps I should go looking for other lampposts and fires

I try to call friends

But it all leads to dead ends

The light of the lamppost will not come back

So I try to make in the dark

And it is excruciatingly hard

All that comes out is a horrible chord

Outside the street, everyone tells me the song is beautiful

But I what I still hear is bad and inexcusable

I'd wish that what happens on that street

Stays on that street

Because the darkness of that lamppost seems to follow me wherever I walk

So, I decided to pause and stop on the sidewalk

Maybe the solution to this darkness is simply changing a wire

Or moving on to find another flare of light

writer’s block
creator’s block
artist’s block

what blocks the creative , artistic flow of a poet, a writer, a speaker of the truths of the heart and soul of humanity?

if you , my fellow artists, dreamers, poets, writers, soulful people, should discover the answer to the question we all ask , please do share; for I am weary , bewildered and discombobulated; and all the metaphorical, ephemeral, infinitesimal words trapped inside me are scratching and scrambling to come out .

with love and raw honesty from a fellow blocked writer
by Angie Christine on 12 October 2018 at 8:57pm
Art derives in an array of forms
Mother’s art is in dancing
Father’s art is in drawing
Sister’s art is in drawing
Niece’s art is in drawing

But where is my art?
Do I lack skill?
I cannot draw
I cannot dance
Am I just genetically flawed to not be artistic?


My art is in my writing
My art is in the ability to take apart a computer and rebuild it
My art is in education
My art is MY ART

Art is the freedom to express oneself
Art is being able to put emotions to what you are doing
My art just isn't at the same level as others
My art is MY ART

The passion
The flow
The elegance of writing

So if you ever cast doubt on yourself
If you ever wonder what you have to offer
Just remember
YOUR ART is what you love to do
You are an artist in your own way
I used to compare myself to my family. I used to think I had no artist skill, but I really sat down and learned my art is in my writing
Sad Boy 3d
Do you wanna know what happened or are you good?
Is it cool that I tell them what I did?
In order to get over you I had to be like...
Collect their hearts and put them in jars like
You, boo...
Brandon’s song Verse 1
Maya 4d
Wake up with a jump and a start.
This isn't just prose,
this is an art.
To weave your stories, through and
through, with
broken pen and missing shoe.
With mixed conviction,
perfect diction,
convicts swoon at your traditions.

As long as you believe
the lines make sense, they'll breathe
your soul and lack pretense.
Self-defense from knives to words and songs to birds,
o'er the roar and o'er the dives,
through the skyscraper's windows, break a floor and seek to strive.

Words are not just words,
I've heard many a stern voice
attacking a sturdy herd of
wavering wordsmiths who have
forgetten that they have a choice.
Alliteration counts as craftful creation
and the tale of poets shows it: these
sentences are paintings of a nation.
Decorating time and space
and all its stations of making a

You're a poet,
perfectly pathological,
hurting through rose- colored
opticals and bleeding for something
beautifuly better, just getting lost calls
but keep searching for the right letters; don't let the sands of time make you hate your written desert.
It's worth your weary hands.
silly rhyming poem for myself and all the others out there.
It’s all art,
everything that surrounds us,
no time for the hate life’s to short,
it’s all good no stress,

all bless,
this is God Sense,
not Common Sense,

there’s a difference,
and it’s significant,
we operate off instinct,
the connection’s intrinsic,

that it,
nothing else,
it’s all art,
if it’s at all felt,

it’s all art,
everything that surrounds us,
no time for the hate life’s to short,
it’s all good no stress…

∆ LaLux ∆
to the art I create,
I know I should go out,
but would rather stay in,

on pace to become a legend,
already are even though I’m still livin’,
it’s interesting when you witness your self,
in all the glory of your own bestowed blessings,

no priest but lots of confessions,
no niece but lots of relations,
no family tree no fresh air to breathe,
but lots of friends that’re all refreshing,

and speaking,
of them,
I should probably be out,
being sociable,

but I can’t pull myself away from these words,
as I write them out of me compulsively,
acting like it matters at all,
like maybe these words will help change our society,

because right now,
it all feels fckt up,
either we’re regretting Last Night’s ending,
or we’re too anxious and awkward to touch,

what the fck,

would rather not curse,
but it’s hard to hold back the verses when it hurts,
so bad sometimes I’d rather leave this place I’m in,
but I don’t because suicide is worse than any day on this earth,

so no matter what I do,
I don’t kill myself,
so no matter what you do,
don’t kill yourself,

we need us here,
the most beautiful souls always seem to leave the soonest,
and that’s honestly a shame my dear,

so instead of picking up the gun,
pick up the pen,
instead of picking up the pills,
pick up a mic and set a trend,

switch your addictions up,
go from giving in to giving a fck,
see we’re all addicted it’s just a matter of what to,
some are addicted to hate other’s are addicted to love,

to the art I create,
I know I should go out,
but would rather stay in,

on pace to become a legend,
already are even though I’m still livin’,
it’s interesting when you witness your self,
in all the glory of your own bestowed blessings…

∆ LaLux ∆

Venice, CA.
October 10th, 2018
Sol oh paniter of visions, curator of those under your light. Your passion is easily confused with fury and your momentary absences are known to be a time of danger and chaos
Basting the blessed and decimateing the damned,a infernal bliss.
General of the soil, those born from it follow your call under you they toil. maestro of the bloom and birds their harmonious notes in the air ,smelled and heard, from the plains to the berg but at the coast is when that celestial sovereignty ends.

Enters,a vision, Oh Luna; soft yellow dipped and dyed in the honeied hues of the horizon or a radiant alabaster, stark and chilled. cut from the heavens, apart of the city resting on that which scratches the sky but only visitors in the sights, you Nobly looking over. Teach me as you are, not as they say ,cold but ever observing seen every day.
You the Choreographer of the waves they dance by your direction, beautifully and brutishly birthing rainbows from their violate bombardments, for the birth of Brilliant ideas they have been the midwife.we lose and find ourselves in your teachings

Raising higher as you we age, as one should, on the path of the sage.
Stayed by the sea for a few days and got to know sun and moon a little better
The way I conceive of enlightenment in my mind is as follows:

Picture a landscape with many people staring into the sky. The sky is filled with light. Each person looks up at this sky of light. You see a light swirling in each person's head. The light beams up toward the sky. Some beacons of light go higher than others. The very highest merge seamlessly into the infinite sky, an ocean of light.

Whether that infinite light represents everything or nothing is a matter of perspective.

Does merging with that infinite light symbolize enlightenment or death? Fullness or emptiness?

What is the directionality of the light? Is the light shooting toward heaven, or is the light actually shining down from above into the minds of humans?

Or perhaps even this image is suffering from a false contrast. Perhaps everything is light. Or everything is darkness.

Poetry, art, and love are when you are soaring up into the light and trying to communicate your experience back to earth in a way that makes sense, but will always pale in comparison to the blinding barrage.

Enlightenment is climbing steadily higher up your beam of light until finally merging with the infinite light of heaven eternally.
For more poetry and essays, follow my blog on Medium at https://medium.com/words-ideas-thoughts
Thanks for reading!
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