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Susy Kamber Sep 15
Writers choose pens that are inked with words.
The color of ink might be a peach colored verb.
The adverb joins in with a red that is flashy.
The prose is beginning to read somewhat ******.
The noun is thinking to mellow this down,
But the writer wants more from what has been found.
An adjective presents with its green colored hue.
Then gold trickles in making the vivid story true.
Yes, writers choose pens and words choose colors.
Stories then written,
For us and for others.
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
I want to thank you
faceless, nameless reader
for your kindness of sparing a second
reading an awkward soul's mundane poems.
Like screaming into a void with echoes.

you don't know me
but you lift the burden of my stress
so thank you
I hope warmth and kindness find you always
for a simple act of sparing a second to read my poem.
Thank you for reading, for helping me feel less lonely, for a platform where i can scream freely.
Stephen James Apr 2019
Through these writings I'm finding more than just myself on these pages. I'm drawing a new sense of balance across a pure white canvas like roses intertwined with white laces. Never mind the heart I've left within the spaces of these phrases. What's clearer is the feature that draws the eyes of each reader. It's you who I find hidden within the truth. The heart I wish to speak to and soothe. I take pride in watching your eyes dance across the thoughts that animate each line. You're the discovery that pulls this soul through to recovery. So...It's not all about me...what you see here is merely a well-woven tapestry. Your experiences linked with mine forming a long lasting legacy.
a poem
Liam Peare Feb 2019
You are the light, I am the night.
You are the telescope, I am the subject.

You are the root, I am the fruit.
You are the branch, I am the leaves.

You are the reader, I am the book.
You are the writer, I am the words.

You are the canvas, I am the brush.
You are the skin, I am the blade.

- priam ; twist
Ananya Bansiwal Nov 2018
You're my energy,
with which I let myself be happy.
You're my sleep,
with which I can let myself be at ease.

Your presence makes me feel glossy,
Your absence finds me gloomy.

With you,
My ugliest version is perfect.
But
Without you,
My perfection is imperfect.

It is just that,
With all the time,
I have been with you,
You've entered all my senses,
Giving all your happiness to me,
You've made me know,
We can weep and smile together.

You mean still more to me. ❤️
JJ Inda Nov 2018
The night was quiet,
the fat one quit his diet
and the skinny one threw up.
The old one mumbled, spat in his plastic cup.
The dog barked briefly,
the fly
on the wall
saw it all,
but understood
nothing
and the bookworm
was left wanting.
With this pen, I paint an image of you.
Not a portrait, but a true portrayal of you.
The ink flows into words that dance across your hair.
The end of each sentence marking a cross that you bear.

A painting would be suitable for some.
With beautiful colors, cascading down on you from above.
But, those colors mearly hide the truth behind your smile.
With the right shade of light and a light smear, it becomes a cosmetic fix for a while.

My words flow through every crack and fill every shadow.
They bring all light to the surface, for the reader to see within the shallows.

The image of you that I create can be vivid and great.
But with this pen, my words can also design your fate.

You see the truth here is that my words hold all truth.
They leave no place for lies to hide, with each word holding proof.

In the readers eyes, my words are you…
With this pen, I can create you…
With this pen, I can finish you...

- Brandon K. Stephenson
The underestimated writer and the power within his pen.
Aa Harvey Jul 2018
Poetry is dead


We’ve had a good life together, but all things end.
I know I couldn’t be, but I tried to be your friend.
All the thoughts that I had in my mixed up head,
They are yours to keep now.  Poetry is dead.


Nothing left for you to criticize.
Watch me smile as you question my lies.
Give it time and the fire inside will die.
The light is fading, more and more, all the while.


Passion is gone, because love is a bore.
I believed more than you ever did, but no more.
The time has come, this love is done.
I can no longer run and catch the sun in my ***** hands anymore;
Because I am so bored and high flying birds do nothing but fall.


Standing before a ten foot brick wall,
With no will left to break through an imaginary door.
It does not exist, because I am not a kid;
I do not write it, so it does not exist.
I no longer open my mind to doors.
You walk through me like I used to matter, once.


Red light, stop sign, dead end view.
Words are done, give me a gun,
Are you sure this love is bullet proof?
What does a green and black cat in a dream mean?
I was at work at the electrical shop and all the while I was sleeping.
We were having a meeting and the cat sat on my lap
And while they talked and talked, the cat was suddenly gone,
And that was that…


(C)2018 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
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