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K G Jul 2015
Hello We haven't talked in quite some time
I know I haven't been the best Of sons
I've been traveling in The desert of my mind
And I Haven't found a drop Of life
I haven't found a drop Of you
I haven't found a drop of me
I haven't found a drop Of water
Sometimes I see flying saucers
I don't feel very sheltered
I need a mother to cover me
Its not what it means
I scratch my hand while its shaking
Writing quickly, a voice is what I'm making
Through years I finally notice that I am changing
I'm addicted to the pen
Jamie King Feb 2015
.....The brush, rush the paint the
                        grudge    
    is ripe cultivate it or let it rust.
  The paint stail the painter frail.
   Caved canvas in sails of a sailor.
  Clash of nembuses the skin pailer  
as thunder walts ashore the ocean,
ballets on the sea like sworns with
wings intertwined dancing with the
                         wind.
You'll love the voice of melody when  
               harmony sings.
   Deep bliss drowns sins so reach
    the glimpse of peace and live

                 Poets coherent,
          honest with even pens
     and odd ends. Warm hearts
               with cold hands.
      Portraying all tales of time.
Write about bright lives bright in
     night stars riding dark skies,
                            Or
    The bane caved in same plains
       of pain as faith fades they
         aim pens on blank pages
               as sanity escapes
Vail veils of age and grow young
                         again.
I thought I'll portray my thoughts poets being the theme  hope you enjoy
Sam Knaus Oct 2014
Every generation
has the leaders and the followers.
The popular kids and the geeks,
the kids who get high on the streets
and the kids who get high on cloud nine.
The artists and the poets,
the skaters, the stoners,
the musicians and the actors,
and we all have the kids
who are all of the above.
We all have the kids
who are none of the above.
Times change, yes
and trends come and go
but don’t tell me that I’m exceptional
not because of what I know
but because of the children
that surround me.
Don’t tell me to speak my dreams
and release my strife in the form of rhyme
because “few others you know do it”.
Passion is limitless,
passion is ageless
and while I’m being raised
in a generation of technology
and dramatic social media,
yolo and swag, pregnant teens
and 55-hour marriages-
I’m growing up
in a generation of artists,
a generation of dreamers,
a generation of doers,
and a generation
of freethinkers.
Freethinkers whose words
drip from their tongues like honey
and stain their pages in the world
like wine.
Students who get bored
with teachers wanting them to think
in 1’s and 0’s,
fit into standards,
speak in slanders
and begin to hyperventilate
because they can’t translate
what they think.
Kids who haven’t forgotten
that breathing in binary isn’t healthy.
Apparently, those that find
enough creative destruction in life to cheat the system
are going against the greater public’s
better judgement,
feeling free to sit and glare
at those who swear that they’re normal,
but I’m not growing up with those kids.
People who sit back and cry crocodile tears
for those who don’t know
what to think of themselves,
sitting back and laughing
at those who shudder and shake
at the thought of being caught in between
different sides of their minds
that they don’t know it’s okay to have…
but I’m not growing up with those people.
I’m growing up in a
group of rebels,
a group that will one day
run the nation-
a nation of tenacious activists,
wearing their minds
more professionally than
politicians wear their suits-
and with better ideas.
Because we have voices,
we have pens,
but most important
we have ideas,
ideas that can change the world,
change the world more
than poker-faced suits
and hate commercials
and picket signs
ever could.
Lana Calderoni Oct 2014
talking to you
is like writing with a red pen and
expecting black ink.

no matter how many times I tell myself
it's always going to be the same and
absolutely nothing has changed,
I run back to you and hope that
you will eventually
give me the metaphorical black ink
I've waited so long for.

I'm longing for
the black ink to spill out in the form of
"I miss you too, I'm sorry for everything I've put you through and I want you to come back to me"
(and that you'll actually mean it)
and I want that ink
to stain my lungs and my mind
I want that ink
to be laced into my skin as a tattoo

but unfortunately,
you can't give me that blank ink.
it's by no fault of your own;
you're just simply a red pen
and I guess these days
I'm colorblind.
I hope you get clean soon.
Shamas Hereth Sep 2014
I think, often. Maybe too often.
I think you're scared of me.
I think you're skeptical of the good in things.
And up until you met me, I know you've had every reason to be.

I think we're all monsters, and that humanity is history's great facade.
I think we're all scrambling to find salvation.
And I think I've found mine in pen strokes dedicated to you.

I think, I think, I think...
And with you no longer by my side, I always will think.
Excerpts from a Letter I wrote to a young lady. Edited to set a different tone.
anmey Jul 2014
sometimes/ it is hard to inhale through this mess of standing sentences and polite posture; the blue of a background and proud dimensioned paper – when it should be blue ink on you and i. the words here are selfish and greedy and angry, they throw darts and smile with emphasis but the ones i write with you are like f eathers and drowned beneath the corners. i want to rearrange them flip their coy glasses and fill them with warm water but i do not think my english teacher will corroborate and the magazines say no. my heart thickens like yours and i worry for the words because isn’t it hot where they are? aren’t they hungry or thirsty without their ribs? the pen shop is just across the street i want to tear them from dusty shelves and online guides and put them in our notebook without commas. they do not know spaces and i think - stuck in history it must be lonely;
Riq Schwartz Jul 2014
Less notable
than the day we set still our pens
and let rest our wandering muses
is the day the sun
does not rise.
The wisdom of the ages

falls deaf on silent ears,

when those of 'better' knowledge

lack in better years.

The words they speak are naught but verse,

a pretty, failing void;

They barter time and trade despair,

and on ignorance are sold.

They traipse about with jaunty stride-

merrily nonchalant-

flinging thoughtless wording

like an idiot savant.

To all those who have viewed them,

they are deemed to be unfit;

For who would suffer morons

when they have but half a wit?

In truth, they are our future,

but 'tis a future that I'd fear;

Too many of this generation

talk and will not hear.

They crave with desperation

a life too dark and harrowed,

for live lived in deprivation

'tis a point of view too narrowed.

They do not seek a power inside,

instead, they seek a chalice;

in which all the world's a stage-

but 'tis a poison breeding malice.

Oh- I weep!

for the years that lie ahead-

my brain rebels in horror,

my heart bleeds, raw and red;

The youth are turning old enough,

the future is uncertain;

and all because the high schools

treat education like a curtain.

"Behind this doors, labeled number one,

we have a distant future,

where minding manners, and respect

will make you kind and nurtured;

where all the pathways open up,

and you've made a great success;

...Or pick door number two,

and make life, now, a mess."

Of course our ****-sure young ones

will pick the latter door-

for partying, and breaking rules,

surely, there couldn't be more?

So to all the world, I say Nay!!

This is not the way for things to transpire!

What happened to change, and progress??

What happened to stoking the fire??

I won't support a mindless flock,

I will not suffer fools;

But most of all, I will not suffer

no education in our schools.
LN May 2014
Our pens have blood for ink,
scarring these pages forever.
Nick Kroger May 2014
+
On the West Side of a flagpole,
In December's later breaths,
The wind whipped Winter's white quilt
Burnishing words, words, words,
From the ***** metal monument.
Knives and pens had etched
Their love into malleable matrimony
Beneath the flicker of that flag,
But the etchings became wishes
Of Winter's White Wedding.
My fingers grazed the forgetful frost
As muscle memory recalled
A pair of initials and an addition sign.
Fresh drops of condensed ice
Hung within the ridges
Of our four lettered addition problem.
I exhaled a condensed breath
Which sifted towards the pole
then dissipated.  
I glanced over as the moths
Attacked the only streetlight
Causing flickers of light
In the starless night sky.
A half second stare
Was a half second too long;
I looked back at the iron pole,
And the letters were gone.
A white wash of frost
Mixed with my exhale,
Covered the West Side of the flagpole.
Pockets of wind snapped in the flag.
I peered up at the streaks of crimson
And field of blue whipping in misery.
The seams of the flag's fabric
Became weathered and torn,
As I walked away from the flagpole—
Tired of dreaming in the stars.
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