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Poetic T Jun 9
Life is a poem
Of metaphors
     And accidental
Speling mistakes.

But what is life if we don't learn.
Genesee Jun 2018
If you didn't know her very well then you would
think she's just another stereotypical girl
that's where you're mistaken in so many ways
here is how I view this mysterious girl
with a small and petite frame
any dress she wears fits her like a glove
soft and snug as she slips on a red dress that did her justice
highlighting every curve
Don't even get me started on how this girl honestly doesn't need any makeup
for her beauty is internal
radiant, loving and beautiful are the three words I think of immediately
when her name is spoken aloud
the way I'd describe the color of her eyes is mesmerizing.
from afar,  you'd think that they were a regular brown color.
''It isn't until you get the chance to actually talk to her. Then you realize how oh so wrong you were''
Alluring dark brown eyes
Outlined by long, full eyelashes, and above are her arched eyebrows.
she had long voluminous dark hair that was the color of the midnight sky
which framed her face perfectly
Although on some days, it could appear unkept
or messy, but it didn't matter. To me, she was beautiful no matter how her hair looked.''
she didn't need to dye it any other color
for it's a reflection of her Latin roots
her personality is like a little kid at heart
she's so spontaneous
wanting to travel and experience new things and meet new people
It's so exciting to see that the little things that make her happy
For example, the way she sings at the top of her lungs
When her favorite song comes on the radio
Gets that certain glint in her eyes
I honestly can't decide if that glint reflects playfulness or adventure
either way, I love it
Her thirst for knowledge
Wanting to know different things
Sometimes she tends to let her mind wander
going from one subject to the next one
But if something really captures her interest
then she’ll do everything in her power to know anything and everything about the subject

The way she loves someone is truly like no other
It’s not about the gifts or the gesture's
the staying up until sunrise
to make something heartfelt or write a paragraph
it all depends on how long you’ve known her and two other factors
and you’ll be able to tell if she loves you and cares
look at her actions they speak more volumes than words do

last but certainly not least is how much she thrives off of her alone time
It’s nothing personal
But she loves having time to herself
time to recharge so to speak
from the world around her
Can you guess who this is about ????
Cana Apr 2018
A shiny loose tooth
Is something people can lose
Vice Versa? NO!
How is this so difficult for people to get?
Loose has two O’s and you LOSE one of them.
Jayantee Khare Jul 2017
Appreciate people
for
pronouncing wrong,
They might
be
avid readers.
:::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::::
Appreciate people
for
spelling mistakes,
They might
be
good listeners.
Reading developes vocabulary
Whilst
Listening developes pronunciation and diction...
Francie Lynch Jul 2017
I once believed spelling was important.
But that's just stupit.
I should apologize, but please, new age or not, it's like listening to a mosquito in the bedroom in the middle of the night, the crying of a baby on a plane, the all too familiar sound of ***** into a toilet... spelling...
Amanda Shelton Jun 2017
Who understands the frustrations of using spell check on the phone?
Me I do.

My smart phone isn't very smart,
it types words that I would never use.

Some people are very rude,
they judge me because of a typo.
Hahaha!

I think that some people are just
too judgemental
to allow such a thing to go
without giving demeaning criticism.

It's not fair because it's not my fault the phone is programmed to work the way it does.

How I am the error or the stupid one
if I have tried to change the spelling yet the phone still types for me?

Sometimes it works and has a beautiful sway,
other times it choaks my poetic flow
goes the other way.  

But there's no call for rude comments,
what did I do to you?
It must be your personal issues,
has nothing to do with me.

There only typos,
they won't bite you
or cause you cancer.

You don't have to stop by my space and throw it in my face.

You are a childish person to think
it was okay.
Also I am disabled
and I have learned to love my mistakes.

Why don't you try being autistic and suffer from a movement disorder on top of muscle dystrophy?
You think it's easy for me? Hahaha

I am proud to say "yes I make spelling errors like everyone else does once in a awhile."

I bet you started out with horrible spelling,
you had to because you had to learn just like the rest of us.

You are no different than anyone else.
I hope you feel better about yourself someday.

I wish you the best.
Maybe you need a hug.*

*© By Amanda Shelton
I am fed up with rude trolls. They say very **** things. I wrote this because of a comment I got. I will not be silent about my thoughts if I did, bad things could happen to someone else who is weaker than I and I don't want that to happen. Please stop the judgements and trolling. I don't care what your problems are you don't have to put it out on me. Keep it to yourself and get help somewhere else. I am done. Thank you.
my spelling has been rather poor of late
from the words some letters were omitted
this day I shall not goof up on my slate
those grave mistakes won't be permitted
a friend did tell me to smarten my act
she said she'd observed so many errors
in my compositions this be a fact
she stated that I must stop these terrors
by employing greater concentration
on applying my pen to my lines
exact spelling is a good validation*
using this tested way I'll not get fines
to-day no letters have been forgotten
*henceforth my pages won't be so rotten
Martin Narrod Jan 2017
I have mistaken you, for the great wielder of language, that in the times of Caesar my father, my hero, the castle builder in mid-century medieval Spain, he was not. Painting mustard seeds and his mistake, bulbs of garlic for warding off the blood-suckers, I don't think it was his intention, but he could paint potatoes the flavor of want my sister and I so craved when she and I and him, revering in our trident throng forged language before a fading Tuesday night.

A painter is great rarely, but occurs in small, adequate attic-like spaces, empty squares upon squares, readied for the taking of language. Art might be the purveyor of its own bright useless entity, bright ripened similes squeezed out of the Dutch into the Latin vernacular our father failed to remember while poking him at midnight to rile him up to bed.

It was a mistake, the one my Godfather made when he started studying French with himself. No ranking professor can rank himself into his own pedagogy. Language might have lost its roots, maybe it even lost its qualities of being official.

"This is the office of the president."
"The President of the United States?"
"No, the president of the DISH Network."

This is for me, not any president I serve. You could have learnedly observed the words my father would spell to me, each individual vowel and consonant given their own power. However, not my mother or sister could undertake with adequate prowess the tenant of speaking as such, and their tongues suffered as their palates poorly undertook their flustered attempts to enter our philocalist resolve for Caesarian language.

Sadly now, as I think of reading. I think of your fingers and what you must certainly claim to be such grandiose proficiency, your digits and dactyls bring a melancholy hoop of unpleasantries to my eyes. Your mistake has been writing as you speak, and speaking as the free-style spoken-word "artists" attempt to do, in a horrifically insufficient and inarticulate way. I know your mistake when I open myself to read the Associated Press, listen to what Capitol Hill has to say, even coming down from the end of the bar it is a sick knot of undoing that I so wish any children we have will never be privy to.

Except on this Monday night where we can still commit our lives to one another without becoming the indigestible alphabet that has evolved into a toxin around us. What chance does poetry have if sentences collapse in short-dialogues? What will become of our hands? Will they forget the feeling of a pen or pencil in their grip? Certainly, those short notes and scribbles of cursive my mother left for my father, sister, and I will take themselves into antiquity with cuneiform and chalk, whether in Spain, The States, or another place, they have stormed out world with writing and grammar mistakes. He who must pretend to be understood by taking up the thesaurus to talk, will never have the qualities necessary to write without totally ******* it up.
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