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uv 5d
When we mimic nature,
using our skills,
It is in the nature of nature,
To bloom every where
it instill's.
Words bloomed from the pen she held, nourished by the fertiliser of imagination.
Sophia Jan 12
What a commotion!
My talent needs promotion!

I can't seem to write.
I really want to fight
whatever's stopping my fingers
because now they over-linger
on the keyboard.

Agh! I really want to write!
But quit I just might!
The words in my head
just want to go to bed,
but I don't want to let them!

Grr, writer's block is frustrating.
I have ideas, I'm ready to verbal *****,
but the something that stops me
I'm really really hating!

It's like there's a transparent wall
between my motivation
and my story ideas.
I can see them,
but I can't use them at all.

Help! I need a bulldozer!
I can't break this wall down!
Ugh, my head hurts from being overused.
I can feel my brain frown.
Come on, dude!

Writer's block, go away,
don't ever come again
another day!

PBTHHH I can't think.
Maybe I can use a hammer
to pound ideas and motivation
into my head.

Okay I'm done.

I still hate writer's block.
To anyone who suffers from writer's block, kudos for pulling through, y'all. Stay strong.
nothing Dec 2018
im mediocre,
i can do a lot of things,
jack of all trades.

a master of none,
im never thought of highly,
an awkward kid trying.
Amanda Dec 2018
Heard the news today
It was expected but not
And a voice born to sing
Was brought to quick silence
Thousands will remember the sound
Of the songs and the joy
That your poems put to music can bring
Cliché to say it, but fitting to do
Thank you for your music

May you find peace
As your voice adds to the harmony
Of the sound of heavenly chorus
God bless.
UK Country Singer Gary Perkins lost his fight with cancer 10/12/18
Masha Yurkevich Dec 2018
It rests;
old,
chipped,
cold
dried from the wind.
dark,
patient
once it had the song of a lark.
Fine,
gentle,
something that can stop time.
Dusty,
yet the melody it hold is heavenly.
It's been up there
for many years now.
Waiting patiently,
for someone to play it delicately.
For someone to smooth out its ivory keys;
for someone to notice. It cries; please.
For someone to press its keys ever so gently,
to create a sound that is only imaginary.
For someone to look beyond its physical features,
for someone to soothe it with ones fingers.
For someone to give it the love it needs;
for someone to play it with strong, steady beats.
All if asks for is a person,
a talented and caring person.
One who will take the time
to make a grand sound,
to make it shine.
To put those old ivory keys
back to work,
instead of being covered all in dirt.

The old piano sits and waits
for the perfect person
who will make a sound
that will open Heaven's Gates.
Piano. There is nothing better. The piano has no wrong keys, you just need to know how to play it. A little bit of time (ok, more than a little bit of time) and some effort and the piano becomes a heavenly instrument.
"There's nothing remarkable about it. All you need to do is hit the right keys at the right time and the instrument plays itself." ~ Johann Sebastian Bach
Paul Butters Nov 2018
Armies of words gather in my head
To march so boldly onto the page.
They work their wonders
Who knows how?
Why they pick me as their channel
For their landing craft
I’ll never know.

Some accident of birth:
Genetic fluke –
For which I take no credit –
Makes me nectar to these ants
That line themselves into verse.

Compulsion drives me to write
As salmon must jump those water falls
To return to their spawning grounds.

I have to speak, or rather type:
Express myself
No matter what,
Whether good or bad.

Is there a cure for this affliction of mine?
Can I ever stop myself from writing?
I very much doubt it.

Paul Butters

© PB 16\11\2018.
A congenital affliction.
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