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Traveler Feb 10
For some of us
abstractions
can flow too far apart
to gather together
Still we navigate
through poems caught
in stormy weather
Then there those
whose desires gets tossed
into a word salad
of creative thought
Pour on some dressing
romantically obscure
express your victim hood
your poetical fears!
Page after page
line after line
recording
the history of
the Poet kind!
Traveler 🧳 Tim
Àŧùl Feb 7
In the absence of attention
Even from my parents...

In the absence of validation
Even from my friends...

In the absence of appreciation
Even from my colleagues...

This zombie I've become—
The Ghost of Creativity...
My HP Poem #2047
©Atul Kaushal
P4r4d0x Feb 6
Razorblades grating the graphite
Sharpened to a point,
Infinite are the worlds pouring in torrid thought
Scribble them and refine
Render until the faces define
God of two-dimensional clay
Golems of creation,
My darling, characters.
Traveler Jan 30
Footsteps grow stronger
when you leave your path and wander.
Sedentary is a lump of dying flesh..
Take that walk, get some fresh air.
You can clear the mind out there!
Or you can set there on your device,
until there’s nothing left..
Traveler 🧳 Tim
Monté Carlœ Jan 29
There's a spider in my bathroom, watching everything I do.

                    It watches me comb my hair, it watches me make poo.

He watches me in the shower, something like a human in a zoo.

                   He's even watching me now, as I write this note to you.

And you just might be thinking, oh wow, that's kinda cute.

           But the thing is that you aren't aware of Peter for his truth.

We've been in here for a week...
                                                                                      or a month...

                                                   maybe 2?

I've been trapped in here with Peter
                                                                   and I don't know what to do.
This is a repost from my old Poetizer account, with a bevy of revisions. Thoughts?
Viktoriia Jan 26
we write our stories with unsteady hands,
our fingers stained in ink from all the errors,
a silent witness to our hopes and terrors,
it will remember when the world forgets.

and if we make it through to tell the tale,
our voice may linger, but the words will perish,
so we disclose all of our hopes and terrors,
be it in darkness or the light of day.

anonymous or public, foes or friends,
bound, bruised and battling your inner devils,
you'll see yourselves in our hopes and terrors,
preserved in stories, written by our hands.
Never flush
not tight fitting
a little bit out
not quite sitting
right with the world,
I always was an odd bit of knitting,
two plain stitches instead of purled
Bekah Halle Jan 21
On my walls hang two pieces of art;
large canvases boldly splashed
with colour, stroke upon stroke formed vivid arcs.

I wish I had kept my father's paintbrushes,
they were tools of masterpieces.
From them, my strokes could have made faces flush
and inspired songs and poetry; love?

*
But, perhaps ‘twas a blessing to create with unique expression and freedom.
Blank canvas,
Is still creative.
Because the fact is,
You can only paint an original blank painting,
Once.
Abstract art either confuses me, or elates me.
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