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Quixotic Mar 31
The trouble with writing original poetry
Is that there are guidelines--
But you have no standards to go by
Except those inside your head.

Sometimes you have no inspiration
And just stare at empty white.
Other times your inspiration
Sounds silly once it's typed.

Once you start to write a poem
Your brain often shuts down
And distractions from the world around you
Keep your creativity blocked.

The trouble with writing original poetry
Is that there are so many variables.
The task that's hard is lining them up
And getting them to play nicely with one another.
Spring 2011
Quixotic Mar 31
Here I've stood for many years
Holding the same stance.
People pass me every day
And give me not a glance.

Sometimes they'll come visit me
And giggle as they talk.
Other days they color me
With rainbow-tinted chalk.

Several times I've listened in
On children as they played,
And many nights I've enjoyed a
Guitarist's serenade.

My frame is stuffed with memories
Of those I've seen glide by.
As seasons change I watch them
With a smile and a sigh.
Spring 2011
winter sakuras Aug 2019
A world confined to only black and white
is wasted of all the diverse, flowing shades of gray in between---
the areas that aren't so easily or willingly acknowledged;
the variety of tangled truths and in between slips of moments that paint life on an individual level---
all hidden by an outer layer of generic black and white,

whatever the color people decide to assign me---
the way I live my life;
everything that encompasses it---

it will never do me justice in representing
the entity of the person of who I am.
Daniel K Apr 2019
After the two, I underestimated you.
Time was wasted till four days left to finish.
Piece of cake drove me insane.
All the more did I rip my hairs out
When you gave me that smirk
Daring me to complete you if I could...
Ever.
The more I tried the more I knew,
Petrified before the reality
As I scrutinized at my reflection in the mirror
With saggy eyes that lost its light
And back at you; unfinished masterpiece of Frankenstein.
Chained down by the inscriptions of nightmare
I give up all hopes to be free.

The last 2 days I perceive to be
Long yet way too short.
Truly the hands are moving forth without mercy
As I am writing this poem instead of
My 3rd ten page paper.
Cardboard-Jones Jun 2018
Her exotic gaze caught my jet lagged eyes.
The bar was filled with drunken banter
But I heard her loud and clear.
She approached me like a lion approaches its prey,
And the trap was set.

We didn’t speak each other’s language
But our bodies did the talking.
“Come hither” it said as I followed.
Her hips led the way as my hands followed.
She smelled of Juniper and lust.

She can’t take her hands off me,
And I can’t take my lips off her neck.
Her body says “Let’s get out of here”
So I obliged.
She’s taking off my tie in the taxi,
And my hand heads further up her dress.
We left a trail of clothes from the taxi
To her condo.

Ecstacy and cigarette smoke filled the room
As we caught our breaths.
The midnight moon crept in through the curtains.
“Come back to bed” her eyes said.
Her dreamlike state quickly faded
As her eyes locked onto the barrell
Of my gun.
Her eyes said “Have mercy.”
My lips said “You’re just an assignment.”
We couldn’t understand each other,
But a bullet sounds the same in any language.

A single shot echoed into the night
And gently disappeared into the wind.
Her once vivrant body was now
Lifeless and cold.

I’ll collect my check in the morning.
Luke May 2018
"You're wasting your time."
Familiar line, I'm sure;
Leisure, time you take pleasure
In wasting, fighting off chores

With scores of swords forged in
Words, nouns and verbs, you argue
"I've nought to do, work's been,
I've earned it!" The frayed border between

Toil and sleep, 'spare time',
Your crime is laziness, sloth;
The clock – time's warden – watching
As your lies thicken like simmering broth;

The monitor melts your eyes into half-smiles,
"Wasted time, your pastime,"
A degree in procrastination, hesitation
To face – "the clock, the time!"

The moon hides behind the horizon,
Your fingers flurry, too late to hurry
Out the piece you left so late.
"Wasted time" stinks like left-over curry,

Let it permeate your nostrils; exhale blame
As you **** in the shame that you've failed.
Cradle the melted clock, warm butter,
Spread it onto toast, yellow trails

Crying "why?" Place it between guilty lips
And chew; the taste's bitter.
"It's raining today."
Pitter patter, patter pitter.
A poem about procrastination.
SoZaka Apr 2018
A stationary set for my 21st birthday
going the right way since I turned wrong
one other lover than the one I've got
my head and my heart have fought
like this before

a mistake to hit the gas off the cliff with a
soul made of glass
I fell out of my mind and right back in
no way to stop from going your direction
fly butterfly on a railroad cloud
through a one way sky
my train is on to your station
in just a moments time
addiction,  self love following your intuition and guidance self development growth transformation
SoZaka Apr 2018
you, a western film
with the lights down low
beautiful to look at
while moving slow

come listen in,
and lean back
a pillow for the soul
in a campfire story

it was all I could do but to ride to town with no place to be
hoping this street would lead
through a long winter night

seasons changed,
but love remained long within
to tell a story
time and again
of an eternal flame

so hold me close,
and your skin won't feel the snow
no matter how much skin might show
that's how the best
campfire stories go
true love passion warmth trials and tribulations and lasting memories
Jikai Zheng Nov 2017
I blame you for making me write all these sonnets
I tried to make the best of it, but five?
How in the ******* world am I supposed to write five?
Doesn’t each sonnet take the course of a week?
And it definitely seems that we don’t have five weeks
To write five pristine perfect sonnets
I’d rather read fifty poems than write five of these stupid things
I’d like the meet the man who decided these poems
Had to be fourteen lines, stylized rhymes
I’d say, go to hell with you and this torturous format
Instead of making me write these many poems
All in the same style, all droaning on in my mind
Like an endless treadmill of poem-writing
I say I’ll do better on the next assignment, but truthfully
I’m improvising
Kayla Aug 2017
Her eyes to me, they glisten sweet
Like 800 metres below.
In caverns deep, sapphire clean
Highlights of wave and shore.

Carnation petals in the sand,
Delicate, untouched.
Wind come by and blend them in,
To match her sun kissed skin.

Those beach wave curls that light the sky
Bounced perfectly at the waist.
Of blonde and brown with slight pink flicks
They set her eyes on fire.

Those eyes to me, spread kindness and see
The beauty that life desires.
With those lips that twitch, although flaked and dry
It's her soul that's content with mine.
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