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There is veracity in our vernacular,
Rhythm in our rhetorics,
This power that I speak of,
Lies only with the poets.
For all of you lovely people, the world needs more of you!
malluraeh Oct 7
decline the call,
delete the e-mail,
ignore the speech,
ignore the message,
focus on yourself and yourself only
Poetria Sep 22

i can learn how you verse, how you speak

but my tongue holds no honey as sweet

then to speak, linearity i seek

still, in poetry my colour won't bleed

yes indeed, i decieve to be seen;

my tongue will take lifetimes to heal


now you see: i unravel, revealed

half-strange and a weapon, my speech

but i practiced pretense to be near

my defence for the self that i fear

so you see: i am only part here

in these pieces, i'll never be real
this poem was born from a journal entry i was writing, that was explaining my first journal entry in more detail.
Trout Sep 4
A list of words I cannot ever say
But I will have to say them every day
I am supposed to practice saying ice
Ice with spice and six o’clock
I will lie and say I did it all
But they all know my tongue will always fall

I googled it to find out what I do
My speech impediment is sadly true
I haven’t done anything about it since
My speech therapist gave me the final mint
I hated it, and it was all suppressed
But now I tell it, I always confess

I wonder if I do it without thought
Am I saying it right or am I not
And no one ever says a thing to me
(Except the boy I crushed on, that one week)
I don’t know if it changes who I am
But I’d still be better off talking like a normal man

It’s something that a lot of people have
But the harsher term makes me inexplicably glad
“Speech impediment”, now I’m special too
Deviancy just like my missing tooth

I always sing even though it sounds weird
Sometimes I avoid the words I’ve always feared
Not “just” the “sea” but “change”, “commotion” too
Especially when I read I’m conscious of how my tongue moves.
Not just that, but I spit and stutter
All my “spreading” is full of clutter
The judge says “Clear”, I have to try
But I could lose the debate, and feel like dying

I know I should grow out of it as a child
But habits stick after so many miles
Along with my disproportionately small hands
And legs and everything that makes me feel like no man’s land
Between a kid and the way I should be
At the age of seventeen
I wish it didn’t change who I am
(Is it just another reason I can’t find a man?)
Steve Page Aug 16
there's said to be some merit in me
and there's something to be said about mine
but please never let it be taught
and please never have it headlined
that I've ever done any of this
but with measured and deliberate thought
or time consuming and considered design
none of this comes easy
little of this goes smooth
we all think ourselves imposters
but some have pushed through
so whatever doubts you're having
however steep the climb
take the chances you're offered
and give yourself some time.
Tanya Aug 13
sometimes I could feel my speech as vast as a desert
where all the sand grains wouldn’t have been enough for me to speak the oasis of my mind

and other times

I could feel my speech as a desert-
infertile and empty,
spitting words like a camel,
knocking on a door
behind which
the reply was never home.
Wellspring Aug 4
I find that our language
Is nothing but screams.
Screams that trigger a deep urge,
Somewhere inside us,
To scream back.
And so our speech becomes
A twisted language of pain,
Understood only by those
Who bear the agonising weight of life.
I actually included lines similar to these in a personification essay that I did. 'Twas fun to write.
Carl D'Souza Jul 30
When I was a youth
I was ambitious
to be recognised
as a know-it-all,
and so I often spoke
beyond my experience,
speculating when I did not have experiential-evidence;

Now that I’m wiser,
I never speak beyond the evidence
of my experience.
James Rowley Jul 26
The Headstone, worn out and fissuring at the edges, stands alone;
Etched deep into the charred rock was a name; one which is now gone.
I glance at the bloodstone, and wonder if they did atone;
Or did they stand stalwart in the mist, and fail to move on?

Did they suffer in silence as the fire cleansed the earth,
Of their meaningless existence? In the end, however, hard they tried,
They indeed did not matter; with no chance of a rebirth
The scorched corpse hovers above ground, yelling

“You are just a grain in the sands of time!
Just like me, desire and fulfillment will pass you by
As the colour which you were born with, leaves your eyes
So your prime shapes itself easily
Into the Fallen remnants of mine.”
Feedback would be appreciated
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