Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
yasmin 3d
are you the ink
on this pad,
or the hand
guiding the pen?
Juliana 4d
To Write.
Verb.
To watch ink stain the yellowed pages.
To create stories,
Narratives,
Other lives.
Other worlds
In which my imagination can flow.
In which my characters can come alive.
In which my creations thrive.
In which my voice, my stories,
Can be seen.
Can be heard.
Can be enjoyed.
Where my art
My purpose
Is.
Where all my anger, my ranting, my pain
Flows onto the page
And just disappears
No longer a problem
No longer a part of me.
The words are
Where my existence lies.
Where Lucas, and Fey, and Katrina, and Stevie, and Jonah and Fei, and Cassie and Savannah, and Lola, and Sarah, and Sidera can
Talk.
Move.
Act.
Dance.
Love.
Where people are capable of happiness, kindness, and joy.
Where nothing bad happens
That can't be solved
In a hundred pages or less.
Were books are created.
Poems come to life.
My anger is turned into
Nothing.
But strokes on a page.
Where I can write.
Be free.
Where the world around me dissipates.
For an hour.
A minute.
A day.
I am nothing
But strokes
On a keyboard.
Words.
On a page.
My fingers and mind racing
Which can go faster?
A race against time.
Who can say more?
Not caring about spelling, or grammar
That can wait.
My voice, mood, words
That is the priority.
The story
Is all that matters.
The story...
A noise.
A click.
A sound.
My train of thought.
My unconscious.
Gone.
A bird.
A dog.
A voice.
Destroyed.
No. Focus.
Turn the page
Keep.
Writing.
Anger. Love. Joy.
A wrath turned into stanzas.
Love is but a chapter.
Joy is but a song.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
A writer.
I am a writer
A better writer.
An author.
A poet.
Someone who can turn words into phrases into stories.
Someone who can make a reader's eyes cling to the page.
Their memories, my character's memories
Flowing, colliding, crashing together
Like a powerful stream.
They are like I am
An unconscious being.
The world dissipating to only the story.
Only the words.
The characters
I want to make my characters grow.
I want to make people feel something.
I want to be good. No. Great.
But I'm not great.
I can't stop.
I can't find a conclusion.
My characters, my friends. I want them to live forever. I want their stories to go on. Forever.
I don't want them to grow. I don't want them to leave me.
But they have to. For them to truly live
I have to
Let
Them
Go.
I need to learn how to let them.
They can't be
A Perpetual Existence.
Perpetual Existence.
The day to day phrases.
I remember when I first said that.
I was texting a friend.
I knew it would become a title someday.
We found it.
Time. Thyme.
What would happen if thyme stopped?
It was a ridiculous idea.
But it worked.
It never happened.
The characters were never brought to life.
Still in our heads.
An idea.
That's it.
That's all they'll ever be.
Trapped in thyme.
But it's the little phrases.
The little gems.
That stick with you.
My favorite book, a book with a plethora of gems, is called Everyday.
It is profound. There's a section that talks about how we're all the same. Christians, Jews, Muslims. We all believe in the same religion. It's all one god. We just see him differently. We just see different sides of the story.
Every conversation.
Every line of dialogue is a gem.
A little work of art.
I want that to be my legacy.
Legacy.
No. I didn't write Hamilton.
I am not Shakespeare.
I will not go down as a genius or the founder of a genre.
I will not be a famous poet.
A writer for the New York Times.
Winner of the Nobel Prize.
I don't want to.
I want to be known for me.
My conversations.
Everyday dialogue.
What I said to my friends, my family.
The gems.
My dad once told me that I was one of the best writers he knew.
I'm a writer. A dreamer. A speaker.
To Write.
Is to be me.
yasmin 5d
Because sometimes,
paper is the only one
who listens.
Styles 6d
Ever since I felt you in my veins
I will never be the same
got me chasing your high
so I can outrun my pain
Styles 6d
A
fien
with
an itch
at his back
that he can't scratch
the itch doesn't ever leave
it just fades to black, until one day,
you think it is gone, and it attacks.
Styles 6d
Ever since I felt you;
I rather not live
if l have to live without you
me forgetting you
is doubtful
my feelings for you
are more than just a mouthful
you are the reason
love, at first sight, was so insightful
Soumia 7d
Big eyes that look at me,
eyes that feel like home.

Green eyes that cries about me,
when I'm not around.

Green eyes that I miss,
when you decided to close your eyes.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
This poem is self translated version of my Hindi language poem titled "कविता" published in  bharat-darshan  ( Sep. -Oct., 2018 )
Can be read through the link ==>> https://bit.ly/2nRwOB9
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^

Poetry is the outflow of someone's heart
For someone, it's only black fever
For some, it's only a form of business
For someone, this is only seasonal fever

It's just an entertainment for someone
For someone it's like a toothpaste
A good instrument use to giggle
Listening it makes their teeth brighter

To show off the that stunning brightness
They spread crooked and mysterious smiles
Show of their shining-sparkling teeth
Then they lash out their greedy tongue

Poetry is an old newspaper for someone
It’s a mound of waste and unusable junk items
Poetry is just an advertisement for someone
Only an excellent medium to sell their goods

Poem is dark black alphabets for some
Only equivalent to a big fat black buffalo
From which it is impossible to get milk
But it's easy to get hurt by it's horns

Poem is a deep sympathy for some
For some its acute pain of the heart
Aroused from the core of their heart
It's someone's love for someone else

Poem is overflowing care for someone
It is swirling cloudy dust over someone
Poem is just a time-pass for someone
For someone it is complete nonsense

Poetry is effrontery in someone's pride
For someone it's amnesty for all
For some it's Saafi by Hamdard^
Which purifies and cleans the blood well

Poetry is a meditation for someone
For someone it’s a form of worship
Poetry is name of someone's beloved daughter^^
Poem is the name of someone's beautiful wife^^

Poem is means of livelihood for someone
It happen to be the basis of his life
For someone it is simply a big loan
Which is much difficult to repay in time

Poem is a tribute to the heroes
It a wreath to the brave martyrs
It's a collection of songs for musicians
It's prayer of devotees with folded hands

Sometimes poetry makes us happy
Sometimes it causes us to weep
It often caresses readers with love
Sometimes it even consoles them

Poetry sometimes make us laugh
Sometimes it forces to think
At times it reveals the flaws beneath
By removing the outer cover shell

Poetry sometimes surprises us too much
Sometimes misleads to pseudo-intellectualism
Sometimes it poses a challenge before us
Sometimes it emerges as a song from the soul

Sometimes it portrays the beauty of actress
It tends to dissolves sweet juice in the ears
And sometimes it pours molten lead in it
In such situation it pushes back all courtesy

Sometimes it transforms rulers into heroes
And sometimes it makes a politicians zero
Sometimes it becomes the words of panegyrist
Then it behaves like a butter ball for them

Poetry sometimes honours someone
Sometimes it even trick so many of us
Poetry even makes fun of somebody
Sometimes it entertains someone's heart

By the way, poetry is a blunt weapon
But it's has a different hitting power
Which is the real inner power of poet
It's also his covering blanket and strength

Only poetry gives him the required courage
It completely protects his existence
It always teaches him the lesson to -
Keep on fighting against the gunpowder

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^^^^
^ Saafi - A Unani Medicine made by a company named Hamdard, used to clean or purify the blood

^^ Name of .....  - Kavita (translation of the word Poem in hindi) is a common name given to females in India.
^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^­^
My thoughts on what a Poetry is......
To poetry,
poor writing it,
rich in culture
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=M-xGFbW6A04
H A Vitatoe Oct 7
Sides,that drift
with
***** walls.

This abode
of
Night time halls

Where some have
wept
Their one last call

The holder
stops
For one last fall
Where ever home may be.
Next page