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Melanie 4d
for hours, agonizing over every succinct detail,
in my mind, a finely crafted story comes to life

a poem, you see, takes more than adding figurative sprinkles into a cake of esoteric, thoughts that only i understand
perhaps, not. i could write about topics that everyone else is doing to "fit" in. perhaps, not. i'm just overthinking it?

i'm after becoming a poet, but not after fame
i'm after becoming a poet, but not after making a living from its craft
i'm after becoming a poet, but not after proudly holding copies of my own works in book stores, to sign them

point is, i'm happy. i call myself a poet because i breathe my creative breaths into this life of poetry

for hours, agonizing over every succinct detail,
in my mind, a finely crafted story comes to life

a poem,

my brainchild that i nurture.
Frankly, I'm not sure about how I'll come about becoming an independent poet. I know that I'm not the only one struggling with feeling like my poetry submissions to magazines aren't going anywhere. With time, I'm positive that I'll make it since I ain't giving up on my dream. It's hard to tell what works magazines want, but I'll keep writing. I feel liberated from life's oppressiveness when I write poems. Certainly, it's an exhilarating feeling.
rgz Jan 26
An old watch with no face
Shaking hands at a slow pace
I seem to recognise this place
But everything is displaced
The walls have turned
The cold burns
I've no faith
All I know is what you say
Now I need to get away
Learn to live the right way
Inhale deep the tight air
That permeates
The atmosphere
Sight impaired
A new day sheds no light here
In this nightmare
I can't fight fair
I just lie there
And stare
I recently learned this type of sound is called assonance
like the opposite of dissonance
for a song and dance
Steve Page Jan 6
The right way to say something
something important, something of emotion
is a gift and a craft.

The right way to tell your story
is your's to decide.

So decide.
I envy the writers.
My heart wants to go in many directions
Unable to choose a path to take
Endless possibilities and personas
Each piece of me wanting to separate
I want to master each craft
Yet be the jack of all trades
But how can I, when I am born
With mortal's time until decay
Each passion in me burns so bright
There is no obvious lit way
I am unable to choose which path to pursue
A confusing conflict that ensues each day
My heart wants to explore each one
But I am only born with one heart to play
Can anyone understand this yearning
And burdensome feeling I try to convey
How spoiled am I to be burden with choices
Picking one should be mere child's play
Yet when I do I'm still not satisfied
I want to do more to my dismay
If I could, I would break my heart
So each piece could have their way
To fulfill their inner purpose
To live how they were made
Lynnia Nov 2018
Write me like a rose
Soft petals built of prose
Carve me like a keyless lock
Whose secrets no one knows
Draw me like a dream
Who isn’t what she seems
Mold me like a polished mirror
Who says just what she means
Craft me like a crime
Who stole all of your time
Paint me like an endless youth,
Never past her prime
Form me like a fire
That never, ever tires
Lull me like a legacy
That stays when things get dire.
Lyn-Purcell Nov 2018

I simply read to rewrite
the history and future
of my life

Another short poem.
Mentally I’m coming out of that dark place. Slowly, steadily but surely.
I’ve just been mentally asking myself one question: why?
I feel like I need to confront my truth
of who I am...
Thank you so much guys for being so patient and supportive of me.
I really appreciate it!
I’m so sorry if I sound like a broken record but I am very humbled and grateful for all of you.
Thank you so much for 260 followers.
That’s so insane that my page has even gotten this far. I never thought it would!
I love you guys, Kings and Queens of Poetry!
Petals weaved and laced for limbs,
   Infinity intricately at his feet,
Arrows of lobster clawed feathers,
   Shooting lanterns up the street.

Four corners in black,
   Multiplied with moving tints,
Grey flowing into the endless drift,
   Scissors slicing ribbons,
The final trick played by twins.

Redly lit and pink warmth of a bird's statue,
   Emitting frozen tones,
Evermore catering his fortitude,
   Fleetly plucking each leaf,
Each one falling and bending,
   Into smokey cat-eyed gleam.
© Teri Darlene Basallote Yeo
Steve Page Sep 2018
has been passed down
from father to father
losing and gaining
at each slow bequeathing -
less heavy-handed there
more soft-hearted here
as each generation rejects
the disciplines of the past.
So much so that I wonder
what's left of the original art
and what we've lost.

Food for thought
as I feed my daughter -
crumbled digestive
with mashed banana -
perhaps a favourite of mine
and my father's,
while she grins and chortles
blowing biscuit dust
and spittle bubbles
with absolute child-delight.

Food for thought
as I drink in her smile,
wipe my cheek
and laugh along,
prolonging the rare perfection
of this father moment.
My dad was far from perfect but I picked up a thing or two from him.
Traveler Sep 2018
Beneath the tears
That bleed fools dry
The eye of Ares dwells
Peering into eternal night
The darkest blackest ****
There be found
The wretched bound
Trapped within their dream
Whispers of madness
Within their ears
All shall be redeemed
Traveler Tim

This pretty little witch taught me this, try it!
Repeat aloud to cleanse
Evil spirits from houses and homes....

Seriously I wrote it!
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