writing to me opens many doors, windows and worlds.... I am the creator I am the illustrator I am the one I am the only I am a Poet.... words form sentences create .... thoughts and ideas are processed into many options... I do it because I love it I do it because I care I do it because it comes naturally... this is me and I am it... I am a poet of many forms.
take all of me for who I am.... I am a Poet!
when i was younger i used to think i could be anything
and in that thought i said i wanted to be a writer
but it seemed as though everytime i tried to write
the words would run away on me and i couldnt seem to catch them
so eventually i had piles of unfinished stories
stories with beginnings and no end; a sad infinity
but then i realized something
with poetry all the mess of words i had sitting on my heart
they could be thrown into a slob of lines and called art
all my messy feelings could begin and end whenever
this made me happy
because i'm terrible at ending things
but i'm an expert at being a messy poetic fool
These verses filled the void;
Contributions from 'round the world;
From men and women, young and old;
Creating something out of nothing.
A prosaic mosaic, a collaboration,
From HP poets, a celebration.
To comment on this I cannot resist
The daily poem takes a new twist
At the top slot a poem that's not
A poem that doesn't exist [sic. Martin]
For the life of me -
I cannot think the words -
refilling blanks, and slots -
not coming across, absurd -
at least, not in, so many, words [sic Temporal Fugue]
Farts are nothing,
but previews for shit,
just like most
theatre. [sic Hasani]
Please fill in is the Story of My Life The Invisible lines the Unseen pain I walk among the crowds but I am not there all they see is a shell when the truth of myself is withdrawn deep inside lost between the invisible lines [sic James M. Vines]
When at 12 midnight
And my heart beats a certain pace
I finally turn off the lights
As tears stream down my face [sic jace]
Empty yourself of
What u retain
What u contain
What u detain
What u abstain
Draw the lines of...
Draw your lines of action
Define your confinement
Create your vaccum
The love flows in
The bliss moves in
The happiness gushes in [Jugnu-the-firefly]
THESE underscores from a your keyboard--
Bored-as-hell I can see
The creative act has been forced-in
This outsourced work, taking our
Outsourced words, during work-hours [sic Sean Murray]
Lines Blank call
like void of creation to birth.
They grab my attention
luring poet mind
to commence firing away.
It fires in blasts of gratitude,
jarring empty spaces of thoughts
Phases that have no connections
until pen touches paper
or fingers touch keyboard.
Until I shout out to another writer
named Francie who inspired
to fill the void.[sic Star BG]
i would have described my frustrations
what i expect from u
but i decide to keep my lips shut
its not what it seems
sometimes my lips cant depict my problems........ [sic Gucco]
It's a new year, yet are we, new people
although many others have been extinguished,
my star still shines and twinkles (although not as valiantly)
and so does yours
and I pray that it may twinkle,
for the longest time indeed. [sic sincere humble cowardly Song]
Words can be over-rated,
its the blank page that often inspires,
images tumbling over themselves,
waiting to be scribed by word-squires. [sic Pagan Paul]
Like this goose of a poem I'm holdin'
The deliberate silence of this is golden
Now don't be cheap
and don't be crass
hold your words until the last
without donkey ears your still being an a... [sic Green Trees]
The symmetry of her eyes collapsed into the void............
....sixteen teardrops spilled on the morning sky............
............Colorless and absurd............................
............the sunrise misplaces past happiness............
Future was you [sic Kyte]
Your poem is good but mine is better
You should feel the poem, writing doesn't matter [sic Daman Singh]
I do nothing
Others do it for me [sic Dennis Faulk]
To all the confusing things that roam my head and heart that I cannot read what it’s actually telling me. [sic Sara]
The eyes sees genuineness that mind yearns
The heart feels what it needs to learn,
Yet all is but God's ultimate plan!
Life amidst it's hustsles goes on and on. [sic Saumya]
Free me,break these chains of bondage
Chains that bound and confine me to rules
Shackles that control me against my will
Fetters that make me submit to emotions
Irons that make me less humane,free me
Till all that's left are broken chains. [sic Abi]
Feelings so fierce as they swarm inside
No escape as theyey spin and spin
I try to open a door
To let them out
At last, the page is blank [sic Lin]
light for sure
shy of ardor
less is more
why try harder? [Ian Woods]
And thus the blankness left,
And the void was filled.
Poets are poets, famous or not
they love, they kiss, they cry
And in any kind of weather
they spill their ink
Then let their words flow
whether rain or snow
Married or not, young or old
Sleeping in the cold
In sickness or in health
or in bed near death
Poets write about their love
poets write about life
Poets write and write and write
Some write until they die
We are the Ronaldos of the skillful use of words
The Da vancis of spoken words and poetry .
In the poetic universe, we are the iambic overlords
We are the atoms that bonds words in poetic chemistry
Poets are the architects and cradle of twisted emotions
Yet some consider us the masters of storytelling
You are welcome to peruse some of our creations
In no time you will be amazed, just keep reading!
Some call us the Lebrons of all euphoric writers
Privately we poets prefer to call ourselves wordsmiths
Because of the creative ways we bend loose letters
For it's only poets capable of polishing words like silversmiths
Most of the things we write about are profound and captivating
The deep emotions we stir , all the tears they evoke ,
Our passion and poetic ingenuity, the gift of writing
Our days,our nights , our lives to this craft we'll forever devote !
Yesterday I saw something that I didn’t understand.
They were walking a little ahead of me.
But walking isn't the right word,
because there were two people
and only two feet.
It sounds like a math problem,
But nothing added up in my head.
It sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
But unlike the story you told me the other day,
there was no strong king or sly demon.
I saw, however, one dirty underfed boy of eight
dragging his crippled mother across the street.
Adhunik Shravan bal.
A Lilliputian on a Herculean task.
I couldn't decipher her age.
When you're that poor, does age matter?
Do they keep count of the days that pass by
when their aim is to survive just one?
Do they have a mirror to look into
and count the wrinkles on their face?
What does age matter to an eight year old boy
who, instead of attending school,
is hauling his handicapped mother across the road
on a seating board with wheels?
When I was that age, papa,
you bought me a skateboard
that was the exact leaf green
from my 50 colours oil pastels set.
I couldn't see the colour of their clothes.
There was the dark of the night,
yellow of the street lights
and everything was in sepia
like the picture you showed me
of your childhood.
You once told me you were raised in poverty too, papa.
Are there different kinds of poverty?
Did you get toys to play with
or were your clothes in sepia too?
I told you this sounds like a math problem, papa,
And here’s what doesn't add up.
Isn't a parent supposed to hold their child's hand
and show them how to cross the road?
I remember holding your hand,
and matching my steps
with your strides.
Fast, but never run.
Who taught him, papa?
Did he have his own papa to teach him?
How did he learn to walk fast enough
and pull hard enough
so that he and his mom made it across the road in time?
How did he find the strength if he was underfed?
He truly reminds me of Shravan bal,
because who else would carry his mother
across such distances.
I told you it sounds like Vikram Vetal, papa,
and now that I think about it, it really does.
Maybe this little boy is a young king.
Maybe he brings his vetal back home every day.
Maybe he hears her talk about her day.
And maybe, papa,
when he succeeds every night,
she saves him from an evil tantric.
An evil tantric called hunger.
Have you read my very first poem?
Was it good? Was it awful?
How was it? Was it beautiful?
I am not poetic after all,
But tell me, so I can write more.
I want to be poetic.
Be good at it, master it.
What does it take to be a poet?
How many poems should I create?
One, two or three?
Should it be many?
How do I become a poet?
What is a poet's secret?
I have many questions.
But I can't write them down in this poem.
One by one, I will find answers on my own.
And someday, I'll be the best poet you've ever known.
But first, tell me, how do I become one?
You know those talented Poets,
the ones that perform vanishing acts
Just like a ghost
Wonder why those poets
up and left HP?
Did they find a place better?
Did they find a place more
Perhaps they lost their muse,
their pen, their flow
Or perhaps they await for spring
when beautiful things begin
Well anyway, I just wish to say
I miss those talented poets
Whose every word turns into
We are not poets.
Nor are we artists.
We are the bleeding hearts
Daring to rebel.
Society cuts this world into careful little blocks.
Devided by cold cut stones forced to comply.
If you look a little closer, you will notice,
Not us, for you will never see our face
But you will see our fragments.
The pieces of us we leave behind for you
Scattered among these cold stone walls
Words we have carved into the stone
With our own bloody nails.
Proof that we exsist.
Proof that you can to.
So here we are,
Strings of letters
And scattered lines,
All echoing the same war cry.
“We Are Here.”