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Oskar Erikson May 2019
Hi there Poet,

Your presence is always precious
here in my home,
Whether it’s lovesick confessions
or a need to not be alone.

These white walls and boxes
to which you can write any sins away,
or to just play dally with linguistic foxes,
to make quicker a boring day.

To scrawl out words black
to find redress and re-rhyme,
to release and not hold back
to find home-truths, to take your time.

I can take you at your word
be it dishevelled, battered or grey,
your weary voice can be heard
to make some weight fall away.

But now Dear Poet
it’s time to end this tune,
you’ve written a new one? Well show it,
the one hidden in your drafts since June.
Rajnish Mishra Jun 2017
Life-long have I envied others many a line,
Will someone ever envy
One of mine?
My verse born now,
Fresh - dead until read.
Someone, anyone, yes, you -
If only you read it!

Would you call it just fine?
Would it not be dead.
Not dead if read?
Not when, but if?
Not good or bad just read?

I thought of writing lines for you:
Of beauty, of strength, of truth.
A song, just one;
Of hope, of inspiration.
Lines on those themes come rarely now,                                                                                                                                               To write that way in these times is a sin.

These vacuous, vacant, little, listless times.
What use of such pursuits,
In a world like ours,
What’s false, what’s true?
Hate, anger, frustration:
Are themes right for you.

My poems although shallow
From my heart’s depths rise.
They lack in the mass of meaning
Have volume of words.
Not style but sense, nor craft but art.

Who wants to say
Just what they want to say, and stop,
When it’s just begun,
Not half the distance run?
When how it's said,
For how long heard, is half the fun?
Rajnish Mishra Jun 2017
My poems are signed anonymous,
For anonymous they are,
From somewhere they come,

Who makes them?
What time?
Which place?
In what climes?
I think not I fathom it all.

I know it as true,
That there are those two
In presence of who
They come.

Catalysts of creation
Are pain and separation,
In them alone do I trust.
So, pain and separation:
Catalysts of creation,
Keep them alive I must.

Drop after drop
Of pain let drip and stain,
The sheets of life.
Drop after red drop,
From raw lacerations,
Drain and drip
From wounds of separation,
And word by word
Congeal on sheets.

Let poems come,
At least sometimes.
Nicole Bataclan Mar 2017
I will **** you with a metaphor
My feelings censored
Behind beautiful words.

I dare not say it to your face
The euphemism
When I am burning with anger.

Toying with the void
Here I concoct
The right expression;

My sweet weapon
Retort with an oxymoron.

Then nothing; no paradox or pun
I am even at a loss for a rhyme.

For when our eyes meet
It is poetry I read,
Without a word
We say it all.
JG Fletcher Mar 2017
Why is it
That creatives like us
Gain popularity
A following, so to speak,
By churning out love poems
Lines of our past, often failed
Relationships and semi hookups

I know I am guilty of this
You caught me red-handed
But I'm inquiring because
Sometimes, the best food for thought
Is found in poems, not about love
But about failure, success, pity
Growth, maturity, lack there of

Maybe, indulge me
Maybe the best pieces of work
Are outside the realm of human intimacy
Written at a Starbucks while sitting outside, after crafting some weird abstract poem to paper.
N Schlegel Dec 2015
She said “Describe yourself in a sentence,
We want to see what you do with constraints.”
So I thought to be clever and said
“My sentence will extend eternally, bound by infinite commas,
and perhaps, if I’ve very lucky; a semicomma or two;
you see the shackles that you’ve tried to impose are only a barrier if you let them be;
but me, I see opportunities where none should exist,
excuse me ma’am this may be and admittance interview but I see it as an investment opportunity,
my future, your gain… oh and period.”
She looked at her collegues, not betraying any amusements, annoyance, entertainment, nothing.  As if I had given the same answer as the last four people who sat where I do.
She rephrases, “How about a sentence with less than 10 words.”
I smile “I am worth more than a ten-word statement of intent.”
Eleven words. She noticed.
Twenty minutes later I am released,
apparently I’m not the right fit for their program.
N Schlegel Sep 2015
Some nights I wring my hands in worry,
thinking the same thoughts again and again
“It hurts to believe I still haven’t found
my purpose, my, calling, my reason for being.”
In a world where “I don’t know” is the Scarlet letter
and “not having a plan” is a badge of shame
It’s a load of crap to think, that at 23,
I got a ******* understanding of how any of this works,
where I'm going, or when I'm gonna get there.

Spent a year at a store, making some cash
then a year at school, dealing in trash
I found myself hating everything structured
found my critiques were full of self appointed experts
and my craft was to shape into their expectation of art
as if another twenty-something could possibly
know everything about how to structure my mind.

I believe there is a problem here
but it ain’t with me, it’s with how we write life
it all comes down to image of us
about who we put into the universe
about what bright shining star we want to be
instead of the bright shining star we actually are.

And I blame the twenty analogies of academia
I've come to hear every start of every year
“it’s for your future.
it’s about shaping you into—
When I was your age
When I studied
My college was
My theory is

“Hey teach, I came here to learn
don’t preach, I didn’t come for the psalms.”
And there is not a doubt in my mind
that if you were aware of how little I cared
about your spiritual awakening
in Ali-Baba's Tomb
you’d give me this speech again.

“It’s for my future
it’s about shaping me into—
When you were my age
When you studied
Your college was
Your Theory is

I came to here to write!
Teach me to write!  
Tell me to write!”

Cause when I get of a taste of the verse, that’s all it takes!
It’s the kind of mood you can’t get with prescription
one hell of addiction and it ain’t the kind of drug you can just, kick.
I can feel the words gnawing at the edges of mind
and the hands, I got,
start shaking and twitching until the next time I find a pen.

So let me find the verb for this noun
and express my tension,
past tense,
as it moves from present to future
I don’t have the time to polish my grammar
I propose preposterous prepositions, purely to pontificate, a precious pittance of a second more.

I think,
of all the ink I’ve laid and erased,
I could tear down my bookshelf
and place a compendium of failed and tortured lines in its place.
It’s a memorial to how far I’ve come,
maybe that’s why I still dwell in the past,
I’m more comfortable with my failures so far,
and worry too much about my future ones,
that I can't know exist yet
I think that’s why I can never write a decent ending.
Tawanda Mulalu Jan 2015
And what you'll find is, your highness
Can paint a picture that is vivid enough to cure blindness
                                                       ­        - J. Cole, January 28th*

And because they have never before seen a naked soul,
they ask me
if I am being deliberately provocative
with my pen.

And then I paint.

So that they too can undress
that mental amnion that has cocooned them
since birth; which itself became still-born
as it was followed by an undying funeral
of parental expectations.

And then I paint.

So that they too can reclaim
that aborted clay and mould their burial
into gestation, and shatter
their amnion coffins
from the asphyxiating breath of non-existence
to the respiratory lust of Being.

And then I paint.

So that I too can remember
that I am they. A victim
******* into the darkness of lost light,
dreams deferred at birth;
who still focuses his pen on this canvas
to cure his own blindness, to see
and paint his naked soul before me,

which we then call Life.
I couldn't sleep.

Also, I wanted to figure out if this whole 'artist' thing is worth it after all. I think it is... I think. I hope. It is.
Tawanda Mulalu Sep 2014
I feel like an unnecessary pause. In the grand poetry of the universe.
thehappiesthour Aug 2014
Today, poetry is in my bones--
words reverberating against flesh,
holding up my body
through ribcage and skull.
I am a skeleton of sonnets.
If you were to cut me open,
verse would flow out:
I stain pages with ink-splot blood.

— The End —