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Ed Russ Jr Oct 8
I'm having writers block can you help me? Haven't wrote a poem in awhile, just been feeling blocked like there's nothing I can do to express myself, I need some help got that blocked mind the writers kind

Got a lot of things to say but somehow my mind can't process it all no expressing with my words at least the feelings there need a quiet room with some nice tunes

The writers block I need to make a poem today something that feels good and it's essence is understood have you feeling good

Block mind
Block mind
I got block mind
The writers block kind
Can you help me?
I got a blocked mind
Haven't wrote a poem in awhile, just been feeling blocked like there nothing to talk about
Destiny C Oct 5
I can yell at my pen,
pull at my hand,
but there's no words this paper can comprehend.
My thoughts are stuck in a box,
stubbornly clustered together,
not willing to talk.
I try to persuade them,
but they crave my inner creativity,
not the monotonous reality I live in.
They want to dance in the rain,
swim in the ocean,
or even find a mysterious love potion.
But I can't take them there -
I don't know how to piece them together,
It is as if my artistic streak vanished in thin air.
Syv Elena Oct 1
I wish I felt strong

I know that I am
I haven't thrown myself to the mercy of gravity
I haven't given myself to the laws of anatomy

I haven't given up
But I can't say I feel very alive

I am breathing
And sometimes even moving
But I can't say I feel very alive

I can't say I feel alive at all

I want to write about how she stole the moon
And hid it behind the sun

I want to write about friendships
That have only just begun

The immense creativity
That's held inside of me

I want to let it out

But the burden of living
Even though it's only breathing
And sometimes even moving
Makes it hard to turn myself to writing

I want to let it out

let
                                                        it
                                                                                                                 out
Things are extra hard lately.
i made this in seconds
i felt these before
i type and write and type and write
iv'e felt this way before
when all i can do is creative away
the pain right away
raw
coming from the side walls of my heart
raw
something meaningful and powerful
to me
to we
to us
later on in life
what can you write in seconds?
Nora Sep 19
Hospitable I am
With the company I keep
They’ve settled quite well, the
Feisty little creatures --
In my mind they burrow deep

Generous I am
To the voices in my mind
Feeding them so they flourish --
Whispering persuasive hatred
With every chance they find

Gullible I am
Because I listen with open ears
Gobbling up their words in
Idolization, never questioning
Any sound that I hear
Justyn Huang Sep 18
Inspiration met boredom
and copulated silly,
9 seconds later and their
Child's name was Really
Kathryn Irene Sep 17
Perfectly
          beautiful

Imperfectly
          heartbroken

Entirely
          talented

          Wasted
creativeness

          Full of potential
Waste of space

          Utterly and
completely perfect

- SkullsNBones
View more poems on my instagram
www.instagram.com/SkullsNB0nes
I would imagine my shoes full of broken wineglass
     and I would bicker, shoot, hum, wring
     carefully take them all out,
     with my godcrazed sweaty hands
I would see hallucinatory men in love, all destroyed with jarring
     scars on their arms because of the Great War,
     wrestle each other to steaks in the dead beach
     moaning with their twenty year old cigars
     still in their tortured mouths
I would see children playing at Dawn,
     They never grow older, always the age of eight
     They all played games with me, especially
     In those Westfield overblown supermarkets
I would dream of a pure Strawberry Field's kingdom,
     With John Lennon’s flannel shirts and a picture
     of some artist’s wife wanting to jump off the Brooklyn bridge
     Thinking I’m related to Napoleon
     who I forgotten about, ever since we left Chinatown that day.

So I called the twenty four hour hotline, where all the suicidal people call in the middle of the night,
      groaning in my bathtub, thinking of my visions,
      knowing one thing, I cried,
      “ I don’t want to turn into a cockroach like Gregor did!”
Instead I turned into a Shakespearean agony girl in two days,
     and wrote dramas in my room at midnight
     hissing of the mistreatment of slaves back in 1821.

After, I wept of the romances of the guiltless terraces in the tiny
     exhaustible corners of the street, in the abandoned libraries,
     and went back to school half-insane filled with gibberish stanzas
     and academics that sounded like more gibberish.

Then, I was I crowned with pinnacle ‘Madness of Thou Brain and Sick Oblivion, with auditory hallucinations’

I gave my one synapse yell to my only friend in town, and they all
     sent me to some institution where I felt more belonging than I
     did in eight years.

I met a girl who was planning to read To **** A Mockingbird in an hour,

I met a boy from Juvie who smoked too much and took too many pills

I met a boy who was just as sick as me, we played Twister in the
     dark until the nurses caught us holding hands,
     I never saw him again after that.

I met a girl who completed her suicide two days before her
     discharge.

Can you see it yet? In the tiny inexhaustible corners of the streets?
     In the abandoned libraries?

In little time, my generation will beat their visions to the streets,
     their innovation will rise to daring freshness.
A poem that reflects the society of modern times, a hallucinogenic mess of questions, but still somehow surviving and standing firm in its ideas.
Jack L Martin Sep 12
My new addiction
is to write good poetry;
ignoring day job
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