Oskar Erikson Dec 2016

Slip out into verse
with or without curse
let the rhymes run round you
getting wrapped up in words so true
grunting away your anger serves naught
so shout the lines and cries you been taught
sing your frustrations out, out, out!
Let them ring!

Even when!

When you don't know how to begin!

rinnette Nov 2016

Insanity strikes
At midnight
When the sun is down
And strength is nullified

Vulnerability strikes
At midnight
When the moon is full
And remains the only source of light

Sounds tend to amplify
At midnight
Like your heartbeat, for example
It's my favorite lullaby
And as I reminisce it in the dark
When I miss you
It gets louder every time

Sarah Isma Sep 2016

I don't think
that I have a voice
I mean,
I have one, I'm not mute.
But, everyone keeps ignoring me
and brush off my words,
it kind of makes me wonder,
If i even have a voice.
Sometimes I just need someone to hear me out,
At least respond to my hellos
And maybe then
I'd know that I'm not actually mute

It's probably not just me, but i bet every kid stuck in an adult body feels the same way.
aniket nikhade Jun 2016

Action speaks louder than words,
so does confidence,
which speaks for itself as the right thing done at the right moment in time,
enhances the scope of how things will shape in future,
then also at the same point in time it changes the nature of everything in present, which has got do something with regards to future.

Definitely taking a proper line of action speaks for itself rather than stating it merely on a piece of paper or in the form of words.

Sometimes, just sometimes, saying nothing at all speaks louder than a million other words you'll try to say.

Mark Parker Mar 2016

Tic Toc at the midnight hour,
peddling along louder and prouder.

Clock my dear friend,
you've done it again.
Every single second I learn
that time has passed,
and you're consistent,
I hear it sixty times
within a minute.
And he continues.
Smugly taunting along
with that perfect timing
envied by all musicians.

The clock, my worst adversary.
idk Feb 2016

talking
and talking
but no one
can hear
my words
that are
flowing right
past their ears.

i wish you
would listen to
what i do
say
but your talking
and talking
it leads me
astray.

i feel like you
don't understand
me at all
when i want
you to hear me and
you only stall.

should i be louder?
or get on
my knees?
or maybe, just
maybe, i'll get
up and leave.

i feel like i am talking to a brick wall sometimes.
Tehreem Feb 2016

Darkness stirred in her soul
She moved between the realms
Her despair and longing
Grew louder and louder
The conquerer of her kingdom
The master of the conquests
On an another expidition
Occupied with his battles
Unaware of her despair
Invades a new dynasty
With rapidly fading hopes
Her stoned eyes awaits..

Abbie Sep 2015

You say we're just writers
Twiddling our pencils
Twisting your words to
match our ink meddled minds
Display our work of messy art
into something wondrous enough
for some to find intriguing..
For some to find truth..
You say words don't mean shit
So why is it that,
you react so harshly to our actions
When you know our art packs a punch
Don't fuck with us writers
Because we know just how to expose you for who you really are

purpose of acknowledging the power of writers; old poem I felt weird for writing but can't resist sharing any more
Jared A Washburn Jun 2015

Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
      once said, “Poets are damned, but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run
      dry…

Can you hear him?

(LOUDER!!!)

Are you even listening?

What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?

A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
      staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
      (who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
      a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
      but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.

A tribute to Mr. Ginsberg, one of my favorite madmen.
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