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japheth Jul 18
brainstorming

i sit down on a bus ride home and there’s this idea swirling in my head. i thought to myself,
“this actually sounds right. i should write this idea down.”
i took out my phone and wrote the first few words this idea in my head gave me.
i know I’ve written something. i know i’ll get back to it when i get home. i know there’s more to this idea in my head that will turn this few words into a sentence. to a paragraph. never ending word structures until i see fit.
i know i’ll finish this soon.

i put my phone down and stare outside the window. the view is nice. thousands of cars passing by as the traffic goes smoothly. another idea comes to mind. this time, it’s longer than a few words. it’s a jumble of thoughts. thoughts about cars moving, sound of traffic, the love of movement, and time passing. as these thoughts swirl like storm in my head, i pulled blinds of the window until only a slit of light passes through, a line of moving light flickering, i reach for my phone and open my twitter. i scroll through my timeline until the storm turns to rain, to drizzle, to quiet raindrops and at last, to a calm sunny day. thoughts i wish i’ve written, now long gone thrown in a heavily locked safe inside my head with the password written in a paper inside of it.

i scroll through my timeline again and i came across a poetry slam. as an emotional person, i cry at his words as if it actually was meant for me. as i continue to listen, the sunny empty day inside my head starts to create dark clouds again. it growls and rumbles, spewing lightning bolts down and i quiver. i am afraid. i know it wants to be heard but i try my best to ignore it. thunderclaps. it spoke. it rang my head till it couldn’t be ignored. i gave in.

i wrote. this time with all the words this dark cloud in my head gave me. there was no order. no structure. no idea. just words and pure emotion and i wasn’t stopping.

my fingers became a whirlwind. the storm in my head in sync with my whole body. i tremble. i am the storm. i stormed down the emptiness of a blank note page with thunder of words. rainstorms of emotions. lightning bolts of phrases, of sentences.

as the storm inside my head slowly turns to white, wringing its clouds to drizzle light rain. i add the finishing touches. the storm knows our work is done. it bids goodbye and gives me the calmness of white clouds and sun. i became calm and the bus stops.
Blade Maiden Jun 2018
Make sense of me
Unwind me

       Define me
       Don't decline me

                         See through
                         Make due

          Find me
          Don't bind me

                               Shake me
                               Don't fake for me

               Feel me
               Don't kneel for me

                                   Make sure
                                   Take me pure

         Don't hesitate
         I won't separate

                        

        
         I've come to evolve
                                                                                

                                                                             Don't let me dissolve
Hailee Dilworth Nov 2017
we need, in our lives, a way to express ourselves that is more than just emojis.
this constant need to type out our feelings
instead of expressing them for how they truly are.

and it seems to me
that we crave the intuition;
the creativity;
the imagination
that no child is being taught.

we’re building a nation of people who are living inside a box instead of thinking outside of it.  
a nation in which we beg for a mental capacity
and tell people to, “dream big!”
while we sit them in front of a screen
and remind them that it is...

only a dream.

so how do we blossom our youth
when we water them with hope,
and then plant them in a world
in which they cannot grow?

how can we ask them to express what they feel
and dream as large as they want,
when we are the ones
who put the screen in front of them
and cut away their individuality
until creativity is only a talent,
not a need.

we are the ones raising the next generation
of those who do not understand
that life is not the green
nor the work that comes with it.
but the exciting dreams
and the what we learn from it.
it’s irritating how the world pushes for creativity but wants everyone to be the same at the same time
no one is the same and we never will be.
CautiousRain Nov 2015
Why is it* that I hold my breath,
and my heart stops beating?

My skin runs cold, and I wonder,
how much patience do I have left?

Why is it that when I think I've made it,
that I can finally exhale,
I find myself frozen in time?
Food for thought. I'm just rambling at this point.
Dot Nov 2014
I hate the night and it's untimely creations.
The avalanche of loose words
doused on closed eyes,
begging to be assembled
into flowing images or
melodic alliterated sentences.
Adjectives lurk under sealed eyelids.
Verbs implore the body to respond.
Mocking my stillness they urge
limbs to act out in their name.
Verses arrange and rearrange
of their own accord.
They ebb and flow.
I'm too tired to grab them all.
Why now, when I crave nothing but sleep?
Why can't I conjure this brainstorm
in waking hours.
I grab a pen to write; semi-conscious.
It all jumbles into nonsense.
The dream state draws me back
to act out unconscious intentions.
I hate the night and all its promises;
Its lyrical musings
behind twitching eyelids.
I woke up one morning having written the bones of this poem during a really disturbed and unsatisfying nights sleep!
Invocation Jul 2014
Spinning high to Fiction, a7x. the speakers' lack of bass is thin wailing across wood floor over bare feet slapping varnish surface twisitng in maroon boxers and 90's LOVE striped tank, coffee cooling with a pound of sugar next to pretzel rods salty and orange tiger bowl
don't judge the odd hair, i shed like a retreiver

The creature feeds on special spokens, tasting the air for more she realizes the brainstorm has passed her door. Travel the day with luciferin trails as you gleam fairly in the lowlight
shower is needed on this continent as well
love is itchy

— The End —