Okay. So I write almost everyday. I don’t see that as a bad thing.
If you look at it through my eyes this is what you get.

With each day comes a new challenge a new emotion a new situation.

So with each day that I am blessed to have. I’m gonna share my thoughts and feelings because when I don’t have anymore days.

This is what people will look back on. This is what my legacy will be.

                               With love,
                                     Anonymous
You don’t know if you’ll wake up tomorrow. You don’t even know if you’ll live to see the next second. Isn’t that kind of scary. We all have a expiration date. And you sure won’t ever know when that day will come until your looking death right in the face. I guess you have to look at it this way. Every single second your getting closer to your expiration date. So the real question is.

How are you gonna live your life in the next second?

                           With love,
                                Anonymous
does my bipolarity
strange-sounding word

does it affect my poetry?

sometimes my poems
are
a bit absurd

one up and cheery
next solemn and dreary
one bouncy and bubbly
another quite ugly

That's just who I am
I'm up, then I'm down
can't help what I'm feeling
can't help a melt down

but I get back on track
a new day
a smile and sunshine
can bring me back

though on meds
to keep me in tow
I still have highs
I still have lows

we all do, I think
sometimes we're not the best "us"

sometimes we're just out of sync
...or maybe the other way round
the world's out of sync
with us
I listened to a song
to shut out Sunday sounds
My neighbor hammering
on fence six feet away
song played and played...
6 a.m. Monday now,
wishing retired neighbor
would have fixed the fence
today, while I'm away.
my peaceful Sunday
http://www.napowrimo.net/ 23 prompt: it reads like spoken language sounds.From the Na/GloPoWriMo Interview with Kate Greenstreet:
4. Is there a generative prompt, practice or ritual that you find particularly helpful, or that you would recommend to students, friends, or other poets?
One time I heard Stanley Kunitz say, “Poets listen for their poems.” For me, that’s the most obvious true thing about writing poetry: you listen for it, and when you hear it, you write it down.
Upon this gorgeous, pleasant day birds fly,
and clouds float across the sky
Everything feels right with the world
Even though we know our earth is changing,
and with climate change affecting our oceans
raising the temperature unbelievably
we know someday all the fish will die,
and we know someday with deforestation
all the animals will die
So sad humanity yearns for the largest
piece of pie
We grow a little older
Every second of every day
And sometimes we forget
The night will always be young
(Another gem from the infamous lyric/quote wall that didn't make sense to me at first but now it does. Happy Writing! ~BM)
Faith 1d
There is a tornado wreaking havoc,
Within the walls of my skull,
Shattering my psyche.

There is a small voice,
Imbedded in the lining of my stomach,
Speaking of hope and potential.
The noise is so faint,
I dare call it a whisper.
Floating days lifted in flight by birdsong,
waiting upon an evaporating cloud
of time and its passing, its trail leaving so soon.

How do I feel on a cloudy day?
Stinging eyes and stained regret,
things that in the Sun I do not fret
about or for.

A staring Sun's gaze burns so softly
upon a man walking the path
towards ever approaching melancholy.
I woke up on the twelfth of never,
I was missing the earth
Hadn't been home since we started
developing our little property
on the Moon.
When we cleaned the barn
today we had to take down
the gravitational field.
It was so much fun to watch
the pigs fly!

PS: I miss the earth so much, I miss my stuff...
http://www.napowrimo.net/ 22 prompt
take one of the following statements of something impossible, and then write a poem in which the impossible thing happens:
The sun can’t rise in the west.
A circle can’t have corners.
Pigs can’t fly.
The clock can’t strike thirteen.
The stars cannot rearrange themselves in the sky.
A mouse can’t eat an elephant.
Hanna 1d
He was the day.
Bright and warm.
Just basking in his company heated my insides.
His smile so blinding, I couldn’t look directly at him.
Overcast days came, but he picked me up and laid me down on his grey clouds.

But he was the night.
Stormy and cold.
His words were lightning and I was struck.
His voice was thunder and I was shaking.
So dark was he that I never knew what to expect.
His rain was pelting and I forgot my umbrella,
for it had been so dry yesterday.

He was the day, but he was the night.
I don’t know about this one. I just felt the need to publish it.
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