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Colm Nov 2016
I'm a professor who professes to teach beyond the textbook lessons. To approach the very essence of the creative self-expression,

Known as man and known as woman. Call you to a higher ed concessions, to appoint the very purpose of this presupposed oppression,

Of your eyes, and of your mind, I wish you to the other side, of the unguided and unknowing creative self which lies inside.

Cause what is life without perspective, and what are trials if you do not try, and strive beyond your own horizons, and slide down the back of the other side?

Will there be shadows on the road, yes, will you trip and stumble, a couple of times, but never let yourself be doubtful of the potential you hold inside,

To create the future, sculpt the present, and tread the clay where it resides. Because in class is where I see you, but in this life you use your eyes,

To see the self-inside of others, to recreate what's on your mind. To be the difference and the vision, you have the tools to go and try,

And share your view of the horizon, survive the frustration in stride. Become creative in your endeavors, and you’ll bring joy to me and my eyes.
"What these things have in common is that kids will take a chance. If they don't know, they'll have a go. Am I right? They're not frightened of being wrong. I don't mean to say that being wrong is the same thing as being creative. What we do know is, if you're not prepared to be wrong, you'll never come up with anything original -- if you're not prepared to be wrong. And by the time they get to be adults, most kids have lost that capacity. They have become frightened of being wrong. And we run our companies like this. We stigmatize mistakes. And we're now running national education systems where mistakes are the worst thing you can make. And the result is that we are educating people out of their creative capacities."

-Sir Ken Robbins
Black Jewelz Nov 2016
Where have you been,
My long lost love?

Has anyone seen
My long lost love?

I long to know your state,
My long lost love.

And to find your estate,
My long lost love.

We were once united,
Bound in love
Ecstatic, excited.
A life now unheard of
I awake aghast, affrighted.

Awaiting a letter from you
Blown in by the breeze.
Far between and few
Are the days of pleasant ease.

My long lost love
I sorely miss our affinity.
And I sorely miss you,
My long lost love,

Creativity.
We Are Stories Nov 2016
Blow a dart through the eye of a needle
In a beetle's bull's eye's eye of the fetal
Position used to permission the perspiration of children
Flowing from the cycle wheels on their next revision-
Intermission-
The cat walks in the bathroom with the lights off,
Cat's cough, drops his neck soft loft, STOP
His paws from picking it and licking it off the top
Shelf of the urinary depository shelter shop-
Cat's pleasure walk-
The beetle's wife still cries to the beat
Beating butterfly kisses on the front left cheek
Tongue out, pierced through nose ring bling
Shine bright like the glossy wet stain, sting-
Half a toe dream-
"We call this recession", session dismissed for obsession
With questions about lessons learned by sections
In the left hand direction weeping willow pull our pension
From the pockets until the rocket red will start suspension!
Skin peeling regression!
Drizzle dribbling brizzles of bad mouth grizzle
Fat down throat smoke sizzle with frizzy hair frizzle!
Blood suckdown proud pretzel frazzle
Flowing mud slug suction cup dry slump saddle!
Have you watched your mind battle
The thoughts of many cattle
Pronged along like kids caught by tattle
Tale stories of dead bodies and hastles!
Watch them rattle-
Shattered glass got caught in the brains back
Spinal chord twisted in two ways tied around a racetrack
Task force grants permission for the Hazmat
Gas mask, tear burning sensation, blood, sweat and gun caps-
Gunshot whiplash-
Pulling out the hairy back hand wrist rip
Falling out grey death, black heart, sunk ship
Flipped over the backside walls to pavement
Too hard to bouncy ball back up to save it-
What a world we created-
Cracked skull thought shots, drink down the toxic
Hot spit, words flowing through split tongue box fit,
Cracked teeth lost kids, babies ******* down bottles lost in
Jungle jam, juicing through the ice box foxes sneak  in closets!
The world's spinning so fast, there's no way to stop it-
It's surprising how we don't see that we're all lost yet!
"A poem has to rhyme."
said Mrs. Huckle
She looked over my piece
so disdainful
I turned away ashamed
my thoughtlessness to blame
And I lost what made me, me
I lost my creativity
STLR Oct 2016
Off the jump, I'm gonna rip this ****

Spit some **** that's equivalent to earthquakes.

While all wait
I'll take and break every Letter & metaphor

**** all who don't concur, for my words, are of many swords

Criss-crossing, I hit organs I hit optics **** ******* topics

I just let the lames keep talking

Every day I age, I grow a little more heartless

I am at the point where my smiles will soon sharpen
Then cut like bone saws through loose cartilage

It's funny because usually, I'm a nice person,
more like a rarity like a person Who writes cursive

Let this be the last time that my kindness is given purpose
My next words will strike like a stanched serpent

The next time you look for good, it will behind  An iron curtain.
That one soft spot will change into a hard surface.

**** Being Mr. Nice, Mr. Good, Mr. Clean more like a ***** dog or a ***** fiend.

Worthy of a better scene, worthy of a fantasy, worthy of a better dream

This will bring a better me, let these letters be a seed for a plant
That will reach, higher than the average tree, further than everyone's reach

In these words I am vanishing, in these words, I am flourishing

With these words, I am branching out, like a curse on a family tree.
Jan Harak Oct 2016
As I sit by this candle with a glass of wine
I look through the window and into the dark
few flickering street lights, stars high above
I am out there with them I am loosing my calm
so tired and sleepless
thoughts run wild through my mind
and their screams so violent and loud
like if I torture them by not letting them out
I feel them scratching on the inside of my skull
and I know if they could they would rip it apart
and I would let them!
but all I can do is sigh
mumble uncontrollably words I barely recognize
there is a horrible gap between my whispers and their cries
the voice is not enough
give me a pen, a piano, a brush
let me silence the storms inside my mind
let me write it all down, with my soul and my blood.
Silverflame Oct 2016
He calls her out when his imagination is used up,
then his ideas keep spawning, continuing nonstop.

Yet he can’t move his hands, they are paralyzed
from the touch of her hands; he feels hypnotized.

Her eyes are full of roaming oceans and thunder,
crushing small sailboats like a bloodthirsty hunter.

Her skin is gleaming in the veil of the silver moon,
reminding him of his first kiss with her back in June.

Her lips are covered in poison, like they were back then,
with a bare touch they can turn boys into grown up men.

Freckles are lightly strewn over her cheeks and nose,
smiling and blinking of all the little secrets she knows.

Her hair is chestnut brown with hints of flaming red,
dancing like fires in the reflection of the sun on top of her head.

The sky is trembling whenever she speaks a word,
sending shivers down his spine and making his vision blurred.

Whenever she takes a step the earth is loudly moaning,
making his ears on the very verge of exploding.

Her heart is a black hole storing mysterious crimes,
forgotten solar systems and corpses of ancient times.

Her soul is nowhere to be seen, it disappeared out of the blue,
making her a floating skeleton with something to pursue.

But when he takes the brush and pencil and begins to paint and write.
nothing ever happens; the canvas and paper still remain white.
Jo Tomso Sep 2016
Dancing with the colors
Each year vibrant with growth
Oranges
Reds
Yellows
Blues
A memory of a beautiful place.
Nature walks and lantern creations
Pumpkin carved candles light up the hall.
Magic capes and fairy tales
Enchanted castles and cardboard houses.
Tea and story time, handwork, circus practice, and theater.
Music, main lesson, mathematics, english, history, all the academics.
Imagination, free play, and singing songs
Advent Candles and the Rose Ceremony,
Magnificent festivals and feeling free.
So much to give and so much to take.
Full with laughter
Full with wonder
Faces curious and willing to gain knowledge
Inside this whimsical colorful place.
Curtain draped windowpanes, comforting space.
A magical kingdom, a magical school.
Where children are allowed to be themselves: body, mind, spirit, and soul.
Welcome home.

© Jo Tomso
To fully understand the beauty of this school, is to experience it as a young child entering the big world. Or, try to glimpse into this world through the site: https://www.clws.org/why-waldorf/
JjJ98 Sep 2016
He’s not to be admired,
The artistic creative.
No hard work’s required,
It’s not quite where fate lives.

He may stand tall in his mind,
In his accomplishments wide.
But in envy we live,
To stand by his side.

He tricked it.
The system, I mean.
To stick to cliches
We’re cogs in machines.

But he’s seen the absurd.
He’s seen us.
He’s seen how we fight,
How we ****,
How we plead for our lives.
He’s seen how we wish,
With but hope at our sides.

He’s seen the machine,
And he knows it eternal,
For we won’t leave it.
We’d rather burn all

Our books and our toys
And the idea of maturity.
Before we stand alone,
And give thought some purity

No.

He’s not to be admired,
The Artistic Creative.
But despite our hard work,
He found where fate lives.
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