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If you're right, write
Even if you're wrong, write
If you're free, write
Even if you're  busy, find time to write

Write cos it's your right
Write cos you need no rite to write
Write cos you have the ability to write
And that's enough to begin to write

Write when it's boring
Write when it's interesting
Write when it's indescribable
So in any situation, just write

Write the past
Write the future
Write the real
Write your imagination

What you write will remind you
What you write may inspire you

So I write...
Just write
Wrote this for a poet friend who waits for the right moment to write a piece though having a lot of beautiful ideas but a little number of pieces.
I say, just write any idea that comes to mind as far as it hurts no one or is criminal. At times, by that moment you call the "right time" comes, you may even forget what you wish to write about.
Lewis Wyn Davies Sep 2020
Ransom note in the post this morning.
Simile for me but reality to the savages.
Their class is ******* mixed in cannabis.
Knives loaded and explosives carried.
Mouths foaming at the thought of action.
A thousand threats spoke with conviction.
Horizontal weapons on the table dresser.
Since when did we mention the press here?
Poem #3 from my collection 'A Shropshire Grad'. I wrote this poem after a local newspaper described an attack as "savage" and it reflects my disdain for sensationalised journalism, which first emerged whilst studying at university.
KRRW Jul 2020
Maria Ressa, ano'ng problema?
Ba't hanggang ngayon, mukha pa ring lamanlupa?
Nagkakalat-lagim sa mga balita
Mayro'ng yayari sa'yo.

Ito'y kuwento ng....
....isang BULATE,
TUKMOL sa umaga,
TUOD sa gabi,
Pisngi man niya'y punuin ng kolorete
Mukhang BANGAW pa rin, walang silbi
Ibaon na ang IMPAKTA.

Maria Ressa, ano'ng problema?
Bakit mukha pa ring nayuping pugita
Mga galamay mo panggulo sa media
Mayro'ng yayari sa'yo.

Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga payaso
fake news sa umaga,
fact-check sa gabi,
mukha nila ay sintigas ng adobe
bungo naman laman ay kamote
Ututin pa ang bunganga

Maria Ressa, ikaw ang problema
Hilig **** magkalat ng maling balita
at kapag sinita biglang magpapaawa
#DefendPressFreedom kuno?!

Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga bulate
walang voter's I.D.
banyaga kasi
bida-bida, sumasama pa sa rally
wala namang bilang, hindi noypi
i-deport na sa kangkungan

Maria Ressa, walang problema
kahit maglaho pa tulad mo sa media
Marami pang ibang magbibigay ng balita
Walang manghihinayang sa'yo

Ito'y kuwento ng....
....mga bulate!
15 July 2020

© Khayri R.R. Woulfe. All rights reserved.

This poem criticizes a public figure, an act that is within the scope of free speech and shall not constitute harassment.
Inspired by Magda of Gloc9/Rico Blanco.
Dave Robertson May 2020
To peddle-spread hateful ideas
for those ignorant, well shaped ears,
I’ll give my soul and principles

I get paid
if I write about interest rates
or incite racial hatred,
means the same to me

the same commute,
the same sheets and pillow
the same hollow darkness
that saw me lost

I get one chance in fat font
to grab the weary and scared
so I’ve gotta make it count

Where’s the sweet spot
that I can tap with a
keyboard shaped geology hammer
and bust out the fossilised feelings?

My skill is to polish and shine
‘til their thoughts are mine
to sell with ill intentions
and a voucher for money off a burger
S/he who is coerced
To move with
A straitjacket
Above the dead
And below the living
Is whose fate.

A horse dragging
A cart
A genuine message
To impart
In fact
No better than
A doormat
Unloading words
With a servile pen
On a bread-winner journalist
Inflicts a harrowing pain.
Covert and over censorship.The fate of journalists in the government run  media.
an orient
of tabulation
well ornament
was polar
as confabulation
sought variation
that once
made neighbors'
diversification and
now their
state proxy
of community
found in
direness and
guarded their
intoxicated draft  
in myalgia
communities in peril
Crash unbridled gates. Grind organs
through the rosy calm of tolerance.
See misfits shuck the beasts
in bed with bliss. Type up and tack
to this new daily mess the bounds
of what went by 'neath private barroom
skies; no looming spy will fix you
flint to burn the friendly waters,
flicker honor out to disarrange
and scold some rhyme too bold
for comfort-answers, dumb-fit, fumble-
grounded in some sliver too uncouth.
Tape pageless trees for truth;
blog-sift the spheres, watch darkness' evil
ears upend and train the tuner on
the lips extolling groundwork kisses
(sparkful dominance upstaged
by passion turned to stone:
reserves gone sour, hour unknown.)
Mist-choked misnomers
acting onerous and blinking out of phase:
de-stage the structure. Anchor down who stays,
who pulls the latest polls. While blind-spots
clutch white lace like arguments,
make space to process what flies past
as ****** rats stay the course,
a maze in grace.
zen Sep 2018
Blue is a prevalent color
you can find it almost anywhere
at any and every turn
you can spot the color blue almost
immediately, within 3ft feet of you.

Is this the product of mans moodiness?
Are we that trapped and burdened with strife
that we paint the color blue incessantly,
Or is it the appeal?
Are we that attracted to our own madness?
To the point we wear it on our heads
on our arms and on our legs.
Screaming with sirens of societies ennui .
The mind of many meld with angst and warfare
in self,
bombs away with blues.
Does the blues find man or does man find,
the blues?
Blue is the warmest color
Ira Sosa Sep 2018
Writing a story on a topic,
Hazing away at the microsoapics,
I write stories that aren’t meant to be fun,
Just the basic humdrum.

Reality is my Inspiration,
No matter the mood I’m in.

Dragons and Wizards are to be left on the bookshelves,
As I run to work,
And meet my colleagues for a day of writing reality.

We walk the world in actuality,
And see people with all different vitality.
People of all different ideas of reality.

They speak,
I listen,
I ask,
And they answer,
And we both learn about reality together.

I then write what I heard,
Tell what I saw,
And let the ideas fly like birds.

I've seen all people of life,
I've heard many of there trifes.

I laughed at their victories,
I cry at their lost,
And I hear all their vivid histories.

I write all types of reality,
From the memories of all different types of vitalities.

And as I write about how reality unfurls,
I write about the greatest dreams of this world
I'm in Journalism so I wrote a poem, about it.
Joseph S Pete Feb 2018
You’re at a journalism conference
a few years back,
a welcome bit of professional development
that's become increasingly rare
in a time of budgetary leanness,
a rote exercise
whose attendance was padded
by college students, deep discounts
and last-minute appeals.

A speaker said,
look to your left and to your right.
The number of working reporters
has shrunk by a third over the last decade.
Only two-thirds of you are left.

After the last round of layoffs,
another slash of the scalpel
that seems unsustainable,
that seems to bleed off too much,
you notice all the empty desks,
all the absent computers,
how sparse the parking lot looks.
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