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Poets are something else
They stand apart,in a world torn apart
They see beauty in ashes
Who does that?
They understand the grasses
They see nature in magical glasses
That's what their mind are made of
So they see beauty in ugly stuff
No one understands pain more
No one understands love more
Their honesty is incomparable
They are simply God's miracle
Their imaginations are vast
Larger than the very universe put togther
They are never stingy
For they share their soul
They are messengers of hope
They should be enshrined as gods
Yet no true poet wants that
They simply want to share
Not for glory or immortalization
Yet they are born immortals
Whose words alter the course of time
They bring healing to a sick world
Relief to a pained world
They're God's treasured ones
If you doubt me,
Read the psalms of david
And the proverbs of Solomon
Read the Ecclesiastes
And see how God carefully planned them
Treasures them, and nature's them
This fills the devil with envy
And he sends trials their way
They're often torn, rejected, dejected
Beaten time and after
Yet they bring beauty to sufferings
And touch the core of your very soul
Poets are really something else
That's why they're often misunderstood
Once, I wasn't much of a poet
So it was hard to see,
How a fellow man makes suffering desirable
But since I began the journey,
I now understand why poets are something else, different from the rest of the world
RESPECT  to every poet out there,RESPECT.
love poets,respect poets,
Marri 2d
It’s 3 am and I’m writing poetry.
Not my usual go to love poem though.
(I promised multiple people I wouldn’t write anymore about that one person)
(You know that one guy.)
I’m writing poetry at 3 am.
(Not love poetry,)
Just poetry poetry.

I can’t write anymore poems about (missing) you,
(Wanting you,)( or even still loving you.)
(Yes, I remember my promise.)

So, I’ll write this—
My 3 am poem.

My poetry comes alive in the nighttime.
(Or should I say unreasonable hours of the day when I really should be asleep, but I think I might have borderline insomnia.)

My mind runs at a million miles per hour,
I think of everything at once.
Metaphors, onomatopoeia, and allusions.
And you know me,
I just can’t resist the perfect stanza.

I become fixated on it.
I tell myself no,
No, no, no,
You need to sleep.

But here I am,
Writing, writing, writing.

And guess what?
I even write in my sleep.
My dreams create prose better than I ever could.

It’s a tragedy that I’m sure even Shakespeare was a victim of.

Writers don’t sleep,
Poets don’t sleep,
No one does.

Or else everything falls apart.

You forget how commas work,
You forget how to spell the word ‘Apricot’,
And you forget the meaning of it all.

You forget the reason for writing,
You forget the passion of spoken word.

The only sleep that a poet will ever receive is when they are truly immortalized in their work.

And as you can see,
That is not happening anytime soon for me.

So, I’ll stay up every night.
Trying to remember the meaning of oxymoron,
With the word eulogy on the tip of my tongue.

You’ll never understand me,
And that’s alright.

Other poets will never understand me,
And that’s just fine.

All we’ll ever understand about each other is that words don’t sleep,
And it seems that neither will we.

(-The Poetic Insomniacs, 3:12 am)
iano 2d
It breaks the heart
All these poets
Lost in translation

I will never lose this site for anything
It's by people like me,
It's for for people like me
I will never lose HP for anything
It has my words secured,
It has my problems cured
I will never lose this site for anything
It has made me whole,
I bind it's password to my soul
This is dedicated to HELLO POETRY and every POET here. YOU are all AWESOME, and it's a PLEASURE to be considered one of YOU.
A little one.
~for r, just because~

put her in my mouth and she became my

put myself inside her and she became my
insides out.

spill good words on her belly, licked & laced us together, then came my 

on elbow, she claimed coauthor-ship, demanded her name above        

I smiled, answering most matter-of-factly,
surely they’re your creations, you-a-ruler, procreator, foremost, first,

the ABCedarian

the muse goddess of alphabets, all that is poetic divine mistress to

I’m mortal,
your transcriber, copyist, alphabetically seconded, merest mere,

the ABEcedarian

I’m rudimentary without you, lost midst the masses o’poets nameless.

She snorted, said
“sounds like poetic ******* to me”
but returned to her sleepy heaven,
mumbling most contentedly.
a person who is learning the letters of the alphabet.
a rudimentary beginner in any field of learning.
Grey May 18
Only the ingenuity of true poets
could describe the indescribable.
jules May 18
to the brave warriors
who reach deep within
their souls
turning darkness into
something beautiful
and whole

to the emotional empaths
who feel things
speaking their truth
wildly embracing

to the poets
who self-doubt
fearing they’re
not worthy:
the world would
not be the same
without your journey
The Poet's Condition
by Michael R. Burch

(for my mother, Christine Ena Burch)

The poet's condition
(bother tradition)
is whining contrition.
Supposedly sage,

his editor knows
his brain's in his toes
though he would suppose
to soon be the rage.

His readers are sure
his work's premature
or merely manure,
insipidly trite.

His mother alone
will answer the phone
(perhaps with a moan)
to hear him recite.

Keywords/Tags: poet, poets, poems, poetry, rhyme, editor, publisher, mother, readers, recite, recitation, reciting, performance, reading, phone, telephone
jules May 18
embrace the demons
that lurk beneath
the shadows of your mind
and turn them into
beautiful rhymes

your mind is poetic
and so is your soul
never stop writing
turn your darkness into
something beautiful and whole
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