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Paige Aug 30
I want to write the kind of book you recommend to people you love, the kind of book that you spend days and nights and countless hours rereading and scribbling in and folding down pages. I want the spines of these books to wither and wear with how greatly it is loved, I want the pages to smell like coffee and tears and perfume from that time you left it open in your backpack. I want my books to be cherished and studied and wondered about, to speak to generations and to mean something. I want people to know it, to quote it, to hold it dear. I want people to take inspiration from it and use it as a tool, to love better, to write again, to find their place. I want my imagery to be a home for you, to hold you in its arms and cradle you until you feel peace. I want my stories to take you on journeys you rarely want to return from, to open your mind to galaxies and souls and the eyes of the old and young, I want them to breathe life into you and help you grow. When I dream of writing, I picture café tables and mug stains on soft wood, I picture thick rimmed glasses and autumn days or summer nights. I think of floor boards and tall grasses and heavy trees with thick waxy leaves rustling with the wind. I think of faded titles, cozy back seats, and a flannel blanket that smells like camp fire and nighttime. I want to publish books that feel like those moments, that speak to people so broken they can't breathe, so happy they can't speak, or so lost that a compass couldn't show them how to look for the north star. I want to write for people with tears in their eyes or goosebumps on their skin, the ones who laugh with their whole heart, smile with their whole faces, or cry like they've never known how to do anything else. I want to strike a chord in them, to touch souls and memories and traumas, I want to find their roots, to speak to them on levels they didn't know they had, to connect and understand and teach and learn. I want to interact. I have been broken and jealous and defeated, I have been sad, and scared, and alone. I have been so happy that I could burst and so devastated that I thought I might lose myself completely. I've changed so many times and been reborn over and over, I've felt the overwhelming grace of forgiveness and the strong current of love, I've felt blind rage and justified anger, I've felt curiosity and confusion and adoration... I've felt so much for so long that I long to share it with people. I long to live and be alive for all of the moments that I wished I wasn't, I long to chase my hopes and dreams and remind those who will listen that it is never too late, that love is alive and that the world is capable... so capable. I want to inspire them to look at their hands and see greatness, to look at the sky and see brilliance, to look at their goals and see possibility. I don't want to write something that gets swept under the rug like dust or old toys, I want my words to matter to someone, to help someone, to inspire belief, or encourage conviction, commitment, or change. I want people to hear my voice and feel in their soul that they are not alone, that there is hope and there are genuine hearts in the world. I want them to see and have faith that these things exist, that good is powerful and it is not limited to one or two things but a vast ocean of things. I want my words to be a reflection of my life and I want my life to mean something, to imprint itself on those around me and be an example of how to love. I want to love so recklessly and unabashedly that it stuns you, that it makes you want to love too. I want to love and be loved with the intensity of a thousand moons over a million oceans, willing them to rise and break against the shore. I want to be unmoved and unchanged by bitterness or hatred and I want my work to reflect that, to bring that desire to life in anyone who reads it. I want to change the world one person at a time and create a time and place where people love and do good unconditionally, were they see those who need help and help them, where they remember that it's okay to be selfish sometimes and it's okay to fight for their own happiness, I want to show people that it's alright to love and enjoy anything and everything, that they should love and enjoy more, that they should share those experiences and open their hearts over and over again because to love after being broken is an indescribable feeling, a vibrating and pulsing thing that surges through you like lighting. I want people to feel that, to spark joy in each other, and to read again. I want people to read my work and be able to say that it moved them. That it did something, anything, to their heart or soul or perception, that it made them weep or laugh or show even a moment of kindness to anyone. I want to open hearts to the idea that love does not have to be reciprocated to be felt, that love is an all encompassing thing and it is okay to feel it. That the pain or worries of love can be tools of growing and learning and loving more. Love is more than romance and sweet words in the ear of someone you fancy, love is an undeniable force, a beautiful connection between us all if only we'd allow ourselves to feel it. To understand it and master it. I want that to be my message even if I never live to see it.
Decra Kerubo Jun 27
You knew it,
You knew how much you meant,
But I didn't know,
I was the chaff
And you were the grain

I was ready to withstand,
I saw how you drunk with them
You came tipsy
I didn't mind
In the name of love

I am not a dreamer
Neither do I see visions
How could I know?
I was there like a stream
For the sake of lack

You dropped me in an ocean,
You were sure I couldn't make it out,
Waters washed my scent away,
And you poured darkness upon me,
It's only you who knew.

I'm sending a drop,
It's carried by the rains,
Save me from this ******* of fake love,
I need my free air,
I'm suffocating, you can trust

Taste that tear drop,
It's salty unlike the raindrop,
Make sure it's bubble doesn't break,
Just that,
Just let me down slowly
That's a love poem, just asking to be released from love that loves a part and I'm not loved back
Decra Kerubo May 15
Tell me,
How does it feel to write?
How does it feel to twist phrases,
How do poets feel?
How do writers hold their pens,
And I will know how to Hello a poetry.

I am not Harry Potter,
I wasn't born holding a pen,
I wasn't bought for pens till three
I am told, Harry wasn't born with a pen either
I know, he writes so perfectly
And now I know, I can hello my poetry

My fingers are too feeble to write
My focus  isn't in rhyming my scheme
My prowess is above the rule of poetry
My wonder is, why my pen makes such patterns.
My prayer, tell me how I hold my pen
And you will hello my poetry.
This poem is based on the organization title,
"Hello Poetry" and creativity in style where the pen is being held differently with regard to the holder. Then, other poets, recomend and the persona recomends theirs too.
Anya Oct 2018
From the moment
I could hear my grandfathers voice
Telling me legends and fables from his religion

To the time
My dad would
Make up tales
Of a pair of brothers
Just to get me to sit still
When my parents in a rare moment,
didn’t have
A book readily available

From the moment I was able
To hold a novel and breeze thought
Fluently with ease
After my parent’s ardorous task
Of getting me to practice

The days when my
Mind spent less time in the real
World and more time captivated
By those experiencing what I had not
But now, though their words, had

To today
Where my almost every
Free waking moment is spent
Either absorbing words
Of some romantic
Or fantastical story
So basically...

This poem conveys it all
I don’t even have to say
What an integral part
Of me
Anya Sep 2018
In preschool it was drawing
In elementary school it was reading
In seventh grade it was anime
In eighth grade it was Manga
In freshman year it was Asian light novels
It’s poetry
What will it be next???
Finding love is to find unfamiliar beauty, noble and true,
pure in the eyesight, throughout duration before death,
a beauty that demands indulgence and conquers one’s
personal soul, their total being, consumed in every
pocket of essence. Stronger than the Devil. Oh lover,
I’m being torn apart beyond violent sobs in the corner
alone. In genius ways, it's like I’m being applied to evil
for when I’m cursed to be not around you. I vowed to
never write poetry again, if you accepted my hand.
Until then, I’m sure you’ll enjoy master of this world.
As the Devil runs riot and commits himself to his
own death, no longer able to rule earth.
Lady Ravenhill May 2018
Untreated wonderlust,
For one who will never see
More than what can be found
In a the pages of a novel,
Who lives one life
But dreams of any other,
Is a grave danger indeed
Of never living at all.
©LadyRavenhill 2018
That blinking line mocks me
I can not move forward
nor can I reverse back
I am cemented in this moment of ambiguity

That blinking line mocks me
I have an idea of a destination
but with no path to follow
So I stay at the beginning tormented by the possibilities

But that blinking lines mocks me
My mind is a chaotic storm of ifs wheres and whats
But I have a story that must be told
It has a start and I'm revving to go
My thoughts trying to get anything written down-if you didn't get it the blinking line is the cursor line on a computer
Sudipta Maity Mar 2018
Turning page after page,
searching web to web.
Reading books and novels,
prose and poems.
For some metaphors -
those were never been used in history
to portray feminine beauty.
No, they haven't left any
not even a single one.
Now, how shall I capture those deer like coal jet black eyes with so deep and calm stare?
Then how shall I portray those earrings hanging like bunches of berry touching her fine jaw line?
Which seems to be drawn by some Renaissance artist.
How will I draw her lipwing of rose petals, flamed like scarlet wine?
And that smile beneath the cheeks just like the before sunrise.
Or her hair, flowing like waterfall down her shoulders same as rocky mountain.
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