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Caroline Dashner Jun 2014
I am not a poet
Or a songstress
Or an artist.
My words do not move mountains.
My voice cannot soothe souls to sleep
And my hands have never carved
Anything out of nothing.
But my one distraction,
Who takes my placid mind
And fills it with sweet honey drops
Of color, elusive light,
Takes my words,
And my voice,
And my pastels,
And creates.
He is not an author
Or a composer
Or a Monet-Picasso-Van Gogh
But he guides
Writes
Sings
Sketches
Thoughts like rain and rainbows
Wings and White
In every corner of my teeming mind.
And I can only
Inadequately
Author
Hum
Draw
Create
Of that which is my muse.
Chris Jun 2014
Journey- by Christina Helen Marie

Step out your door only to step in once more
I am upward momentum spinning top
living for lessons learned not

I want freedom
interlaced dreams to carry  my weight
I must send my mind to that future time place date...

When all I have done is displayed
Having each melodic note pulled from lungs
to encompass a life well sung

For even then...
I will have not yet arrived
have brain filled and wholeness of mind
Even then...
I will step out my door only to step back in
once more

I choose to
jump
land
without hitting the floor
I am upward momentum spinning top
Living from lessons learned not

I want freedom...
interlaced dreams to carry my weight

I must send mind to that future date
when all I have done is displayed
Each melodic note pulled from lungs
to encompass a life well sung

Even then I will step out my door to step back
once more

I carry this awareness like birds with the **** they gather to make nests
It comes with me to tomorrow
To prepare for the heavy

You see
I cannot rest until heart song melody has leaked dry

However my girl,
rivers that flow from the deity renew themselves
Never ending joy in store houses

I can always be a fountain sopping wet dripping over the kettle

This yearning to create.....was never meant to settle
Anthony Perry Jun 2014
My head is over swelling, my heart is overwhelming, i've been trying to deal with this fear but no promises are forthcoming. Abused intentions create these walls you have put up around me, tortured ambitions mummify the air that surrounds me, cremated passion falls from above like black rain making it hard to see, dreams are projected from my obsidian eyes onto a silver screen woven from a life of lies. Truth only hurts when you become afraid of the pain, learn to overcome this this hurt and you'll just have to suffer with the shame. In these last moments I have no one to blame and everything is well in my head as i prepare to take aim, a clock on the wall counts down to the twilight while I inhale the last cold breath of the night, peace is all i hope to gain so i pull the trigger and the last things i hear are sounds of thick pounding rain.
IncadesentCat May 2014
Put your lines right here
and here
and here if you like,

I won't do it for you,
your mind is not mine,
you want to feel beauty?
you want to feel sad?
you want to speak the language of life?

Then write your own poem.
Writing is better than reading
Anthony Perry May 2014
I let the hate overtake me like a bull chasing a fool, my horns focused deep into your chest, my anger becomes my tool. Taking a step back I can see how much I really hurt myself, I feel so gone, am i sadistic or something far beyond and more wrong?
Watching you bleed, I still feel nothing but hatred in myself so I'll peel off your face and separate you from your spine, I can feel something clinging on but its just too hard to find.
Perhaps this is an act of greed or maybe i'm just a monster that needs to feed. You're so deceiving, you throw around trust just to see how long it takes to rust, you're so misleading, you laugh in the face of your creation before you give a slow castration, you deserve all the pain your receiving.
H W Erellson May 2014
Tell us more, Old one-eye,
Spiller of darkness
Bringer of hope,
Builder of men.

What could I tell you,
Young and agile,
Dark dreams and light smiles

About the pits
So deep
We lost their names

Or the towers
That rose so high
We forgot about them

Or the fire
Intensely hot;
We forgot how to feel the cold,

How to embrace the night
And the morning.

There are tales of stars of battles
And heroes of blood.

There are no tales of makers of stone,
Iron and wood.
You are all those things, youths.
You are the knot in the rope,
The hand that tied it,

And the mind that knew how.
I need you
to write to me,
to hide little poems for me.

I need you
to paint for me,
to create little portraits for me.

I need you
to bake for me,
to make little cupcakes for me.

I need you
to create for me,
to give me little droplets of you.

I need you to be my artist.
Kate Deter May 2014
The writer pours his soul into being,
Letting his blood turn to black ink.
It splashes onto the pages and forms words,
Words that give his life meaning.
He sits back, looking at his hands,
His hands that created this wonderful work.
But then he pauses, staring in captive horror—
The words—his words—are moving—
Moving quickly—squirming—rising up—
Bunching together—swarming toward him—
They’re at his hands now—no, his arms—
His neck—choking him—darkness—
*Why?
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