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Nik Bland May 1
My brain is a middle school notebook
Every day I write your name inside
With random sketches the cover holds in
For emotions I can’t easily hide

My heart is a jelly pen
A schoolyard craze, of that there’s no doubt
It pins my last name to you in my middle school notebook
And as costly as it is, I pray it won’t run out
Nolan Willett Apr 27
I keep a notebook,
For when I have ideas,
Someday I’ll write them.
Hopefully
on my fridge
is a sheet
of yellow notebook paper
worn at the edge
from intent,
trigger happy,
fingers.

"is your warrant signed by a judge?"
those words are lighthearted

to a few, who
escape the thumbs
of law boys.

so clear,
their flesh.
no ink

blots on records
kept clean
by the sweatless brow
of towers so high
that clouds
veil gargoyles gazing imperiously
at each passerby.

"is your warrant signed by a judge?"
to the few who've become many
Those words are heavy,
too heavy
for  

Borne ink

blots falling from plumes
of justices too weak
to hold a bar

examinations recorded in each drip
down the corrugations
of a city center obelisk

worn at the edges
by the sculptor's blade
and the broken shields of
pawing prisoners
put away like leftover

Schools of sardines
swimming circles above the stone
pinwheel of old codes
kept real by the rise

and fall of handsome abusers
Hard done by.

"Is your warrant signed by a judge?"
Lily Sep 2019
Bring the buried flower,
Bring the burned out candle.
Bring the closed notebook,
Bring the ended hour.
Dig up the flower,
Strike the match,
Open the notebook,
Begin a new hour.
Bring the writing you’re afraid of
And regenerate it, and
Make it speak.
Scatter your poems left and right,
Because the world can’t wait to hear
Your words.
Inspired by Robert Frost’s "To the Thawing Wind"
Makenzie Marie May 2019
You are not a bird to be locked in a cage. The door is unlocked—. Fly as high as you can and discover it all. Fly as fast as you can and feel something. Fly as slow as you can and experience everything.
Ray Dunn Mar 2019
I lost my notebook the other day
It didn’t quite look like something
I had made.
It looked too pristine, too manicured.
I wrote on its pages with all my heart,
I could have no way of knowing it wasn’t messy enough.

It had a grey cover.
My last name written on the inside.
It wasn’t exactly filled yet…
But the words inside tumbled out like
I’d never intended them to.

It’s long gone.
Probably left in my classroom…
Maybe on the floor of my car.
Who knows!
I don’t quite have the energy to look right now.
Not enough energy until it’s too late to look.

I spent six dollars on it.
Down at the local craft store.
Its’ cover design fades from white to black,
Very different from the contrast of my pen.
I only ever used black ink.
Maybe it’s because, that’s what color pen was closest.

I lost my notebook the other day.
Hopefully someone will find it.
I guess they’ll probably read my name on the cover,
God help me if they read anything but my name.
They might think
I’m sad.
I guess they’d be right.
Believe it or not this is based on a true story, and I’ve lost my poetry notebook! The only place I would’ve left it is in my classroom or in my car, the only places my bag went that day, but I’m worried I’ve lost it for good. Basically this poem isn’t even metaphorical and is 100% literal Update: I found it!!!!!!
Rory Mels Tims Mar 2019
I will speak for you
If you ask me to.
If we try,
There's no dark inside.

But to gain the view
That you want, anew,
You must lay
All your fears aside.

All the worlds you're through,
All the lies so true,
All that's left
Is the great divide.
Where do you think I found this? Yup--on the back of my notebook.
Sam Mar 2019
I bought a brand new notebook.
With floral print and purple lines,
For the brand new school year,
To show them how I shine

But now it’s half way through the school year,
And my notebook has lost its glow,
It’s like as if my floral notebook,
Somehow really knows,

My mood and all my feelings,
And as I begin to age,
Like my floral notebook,
I seem tattered at every page.

When I reach the end of my notebook,
I fear what the story will hold,
Stripped of the words on the pages,
My heart soon growing cold.

I remember all the lessons,
And hope one day I understand,
That the stories in this notebook,
Are worth all the ink marks on my hand.
sincerely shells Feb 2019
why do you fill my pages with
hopes and dreams
only to rip them right out?
funny how a simple notebook
can be a direct reflection of life
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