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Morgan Kelly Oct 2016
I am not a poet,
Because I don't write with a certain finesse.
I don't have a rhyme scheme,
Meter,
or structure.
I am not a poet.

But, I want to be.
I wish master rhymes came to me in dreams,
And meter could be kept,
With the time my pencil hits the paper,
I want my structure to be relevant,
Not just meaningless lines.

So, am I just a writer?
Is this just a journal?
I'm not really sure,
All I know is that when lead touches my paper,
I feel bliss.

And so no, I am not a poet,
I am a human,
With demons in my head,
That need to be released.
Lily Taylor Oct 2016
Escape,
one thing I love to do.
I am someone who
lives life through
journey
and adventure
is what I love best.
A change of scenery
to help me rest.
So I may be at a point where
I can't stand still.
But that's okay because,
I have no power of will.
Dhia Awanis Oct 2016
Never thought I'd listen to Kodaline,
as I walk down the Memory Lane

Oh, Clementine
For when I was with you I've always been sane
You said you'd be at nine
But since you were no longer mine,
I spent all night with you in my mind
And glasses of champagne on my hand

Oh, Clementine
It's hard for me even to draw a line
Letting you go costs insanity I can't define
With countless loss of dopamine
But I guess if you're fine
I'd do my best not to intervene

Oh, Clementine
February 14th you're no longer my Valentine
Driving through the sreets I ran out of gasoline
But the time is due and I've come to the deadline
While sighing 'I'm done'
I know it's time for me to be gone
Brigette Beck Oct 2016
Words run through my veins
         Freed by the cold sting of a pen.
     Flowing over my arm in stanzas and rhymes,
                 I relish the feeling
                          Of poetry running under the pen.
      So many times I cut the words free
  Until I have a song
               Falling in crimson drops from my body,
And I can again contain the words
                                       I hold in my blood.
     But my body replenishes the words,
                               And I must again free them.
        The pen cuts through my veins
                     Spilling the sonnets and the ballads,
And I do this again and again,
                   Until just once the pen goes too deep.       The words flow too swiftly to make a poem
   And I lose the would-be poems that made me.
                     I release the poetry in my veins,             And as they desperately try to revive me,
                                        I slowly fade out.

       My words were my strength
                                          and my downfall.
Lukáš Vejsada Sep 2016
Nothing is not the good
Nothing is not the bad
Nothing doesn‘t tell you
whether things are joyful
or if they are sad.

Nothing has sound of unheard sigh
and a witness in the mirror‘s eye.

It feeds you with memories on a fast food plate
without the scales to weigh its weight.

It smells like thin breath of common air
in which you die before you dare.

Nothing is not the good
Nothing is not the bad
And none of the fools knows
if you‘ve gone already mad.
“A nimbus on a fine day,
That’s what you’ve been to me.
The thought of you haunts me every night,
Pain engulfs me on a higher stance.
It has always been this hard for me,
Suffering from too much pain and agony,
The way you act like I’m not around
Have you had a thought where these feelings are bound?
I had to look at you on a lesser shade,
With hopes that all of my feelings will fade
Affections, Delusions and False hopes
Lost and confused, I am tightly gripped on a rope.
For you who lived with parting every day,
I know that you have grown to not be contained.
You cannot linger around people for nothing,
Behind your back, that’s where I’ll be standing.
Without delays I am at your support,
When you get weary from the journey you set forth.
I’ve tried to distance myself and put up a fight,
But I can’t withhold you, it doesn’t feel right.
Tell me; is there a way to “un-love”,
Once you’ve given up everything that you had.
When your longings have turned to hauntings now
Is it time for us to give our final vows?”
This is for the broken, the mistreated, those who were never given a decent explanation !! And for that boy who used me as a **** boy.

more about me @
zekesay.wordpress.com
julie patten Aug 2016
The bright side of my brain has got up and gone
Where I cannot say.
I search every nook and every cranny
Every single day.
The bright side of my brain has got up and gone
Why I'm not too sure.
The day I started to write my poems
It made straight for the door.
The bright side of my brain has got up and gone
If it returned, I'd give a cheer.
Perhaps if I write something sensible
It'll suddenly reappear.
For my  poetry books, short stories, novels, visit
www.novelsforyou.wix.com/novelsforyou
N Jul 2016
Pianist's fingers,
preacher's tongue,
she is the dark sky
where the stars
are hung.
A living dream in
men's perfume,
she speaks of oblivion,
the nothingness
and doom.
The question you have
remains to be answered:
How could a lady
who is named after someone
so holy
declare that the key to
people's heart
is a knife?
How could you,
who is named after someone
so wise
lose your wits
when she looks at you
with those eyes?
Fortune favors the bold
has been inked on your skin
at fifteen so you shrug
and fearlessly accept
the Little and Big
Death.
Olufunke Kolapo Jun 2016
No agony is greater than the yoke
Men fastened round my love
Her lines they bounded with metres
Her flow they have blocked with patterns and rhymes
Her end they constrain with rules
I crave the freedom to paint her as I deem fit
She's born of my thoughts and feelings
Sorrow would be less so
If there were rules to grieving
I'm breaking her rules
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