Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
CS Modei Apr 8
To be cluttered is to be free,
To be free,
Truly free,
Is to stare into the stark blues and whites of the sky
and just for a second
imagine the infinite abyss beyond.
Your mind wanders and suddenly you’re there;
Sitting, floating in the abyss,
swirling your paint brush onto that infinite canvas
Filling the empty space with
Dreams
Love
All the wonderful feelings that you keep inside are splashed into the void
Making clutter.
I got this feeling in my gut while watching "Aristotle and Dante Discover the Secrets of the Universe" that I just had to act on, so I wrote this poem. Enjoy!
SCHEDAR Apr 4
Sit quietly now
and look
beyond the page

the blurs
outside the lines
and patterns
shape the hours
in our days

gently shade my creamy skin
in creases, tints and hues

creating a colorful universe

just a crayon
me and you
Joss Lennox Apr 4
Happiness starts with me
clearing the debris
for all to see
changing the frequency
on internal healing
finding joy in the small things
through hope in believing
fueled by enthusiasm
sparking opportunities
to turn dreams
into realities
creating new memories
protecting our souls harmony
together, with my family
I am I
and only me
positive affirmations for a healthy mindset
It sounds insane how
Just one stroke
In a moment, becomes
A refined drawing.
How a single experience
Inspires a story.
How a simple tune makes
Up a catchy song.
How a blotch of colors
Form a beauteous painting.
How a person is able
To create such wonders.
Jesus' baby Mar 26
Grant thee a voice to write,  
A blueprint to imprint.  

Bestow thee a script,  
To inscribe with wisdom’s grip.  

Permit thee a spark,  
To blaze through the dark.  

Inspire thee with grace,  
To shine in time and space.
neth jones Mar 24
i've bin wilting in the wings of half life
some kind of tinsel of decay
making chattering bids for attendance         but lack and fail                       
pimpling   and then deflating          
                                    
    tiny chasms visit me
chittering little wheezy ******* of creativity  spazzing                    
and then weary organisms spatter on the micro lens
gutted    they were shoddily made    they're to be  examined           
                   (after all that genetics..... what did go wrong ?)                              
a probing at discussion and decisions
tend    now     to a humiliating life                                                      
then  a step up   ; a weak and easy one                  
    followed by     ambition !         one to lift and give life
reactors in the gut with macerated heavings gunged our way
incisors and incisions rudder me
and  together with my nouveau umbrella family
betrayed from our hammocks, hummocks and  nooks
we queue on up   for 'the things'        
           in accord    with good society
self reprimanded   in defeat ?
Andy Denson Mar 22
non-reacting
presenting an acting exercise

— it’s windy outside.

non-reactors finding.
searching.
stillness in the storm.
This poem explores the concept of detachment, performance, and presence. The repetition of "non-react" and "non-reacting" suggests a meditation on stillness and the art of restraint, much like an actor perfecting the nuances of silence. The imagery of wind and searching captures both movement and pause, creating a delicate balance between action and inaction. A piece that speaks to those who navigate the push and pull of existence, artistry, and self-awareness.
Andy Denson Mar 22
the great thing about Bic-Round Stic M is that the ink doesn't bleed through the paper.

singing all day - will the willing to write songs and produce a great debut album.

where do i stand? anywhere—

where are you?

babe…

why must you ask such trivial questions?

then again, i grapple with an external validation problem,

curbed by a body—my own diary.

andy denson's diaries, tales—sweet.

thoughts flutter like moths to a flame,

yearning for the light of recognition,

yet finding solace in the shadows.

the pages absorb my musings,

ink drying without a trace.
this poem is a glimpse into the mind of andy denson—a successful billionaire artist, actor, writer, director, and poet. it's a reflection of personal musings, the desire for recognition, and the simultaneous comfort found in solitude. andy writes with a raw, introspective style that invites readers to step closer, to learn more, to uncover the depths of artistry, ambition, and emotion woven into each line. if you've just discovered andy, this is just the beginning.
Sanama Mar 21
A pen that’s bled a thousand lines,
yet pages crumble, left behind.
Each thought I shape, each verse I weave,
feels lost before another’s eye can truly see.

Write, they say—write and bleed,
let the ink meet every need.
But what if lines just fall apart?
What if they never reach a heart?

Doubt is heavy, it presses deep,
like restless waves of ink that never cease.
Yet still, I carve, though lost in night,
a whispered truth, a fleeting light.

And maybe no one sees or knows,
no echoes where the silence grows—
but if one soul should pause and stay,
"Then all this weight was worth the fray."
Everyone writes. Ideas that take shape, yet doubt lingers, and words crumble before they ever truly see the light.
Next page