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What is this curse I bear...
To always be aware of my doings,
But never knowing why?

I am a lost ship with no rudder or flares,
I am a roaming car with no wheel,
I am a scout with no compass...

I am,
a soul,
a heart,
a mind,

with no truth
no light
nigh even a tenuous sky...

when I lay these eyes upon where the stars would be,
Mindnumbing shudders grapple my limbs and slay me forth against the walls I'd built but only to keep my heart safe,
mindrunning awild as I can only see behind me.
Time, rushing away from these brittle bones.
I,
have no idea
I am so past wishing for death
And I am so past blaming others for my wish to not exist I turned to the very things that give life
I thank the trees and ask them why they ever decided that they should waste there oxygen on me
Then I thank the sun for giving me warmth then I ask why didn’t you give me a little bit more so I could slowly burn
Then I thank the soil for giving me food and ask why out of all the leaves and plants I have eaten were none of them poisonous
Then I thank the stars for reminding me that you could be such a facinating scincetific design and people still point at you and make shapes in the sky
Then I thank my self and ask why were you so weak all the other times let’s make one a success although you can only succeed once
Why
Why I still love you?
Why to all the people  here in the earth
Why it is you...

Your the person that I thought the right one for me but unfortunately your not
But why I still love you and care for you even tho..you don't care about me anymore! Why?

I need to know the reason why!?
If I know that your not the right person for me I should control myself...
To not falling in love with you

I'm so tired of crying those eyes that you can't event see, Why? Did you make me fall in love with you and in the end your going to leave it's really hurt me a lot..

I still love you so much, but what can I do if you doesn't love me anymore ....
Just want you to know that I'm always here for you .

I'm trying to do all the things to forget you but still your here in my heart I don't know why I can't forget you maybe I love you so much that I can even sacrifice my life for you?!

Why it is not enough for you? I've miss you so much and I love you so much
I don't know the reason why I fall for you the only thing I know that I love you

And I'm happy to be with you
Your the reason why I smile everyday
Hope you can read this
Hi this is my first poem I just love to write poem btw I'm Ayeza new here hope you like it
Why do I write? Well technically I’m not actually writing, I’m typing. Anyhow I write for many different reasons. I write to share ideas, to change perspective, but I mainly write for myself. I write for myself because writing(typing) helps me understand myself. I know it sounds crazy sometimes but when I am for once able to put meaning into my words I am able to understand parts of myself better. Some people don’t understand. How could someone possibly not understand themselves? It’s reasonable to understand that. I always know what I am feeling most of the time. However trying to take my feelings and put them into words tends to be a struggle for me. Like I can’t find the right words in the proper order to try and explain myself. Sometimes things don’t need explaining. That’s is why I write poetry. In poetry things don’t need to make since, unlike all the college essays that I have to write that scream about grammar and punctuation. Poetry is just a feeling by itself. Letting the rhythm of the words just flow. It doesn’t always make sense but that isn’t the point. The point is does it have meaning? When someone reads poetry do the feel something deep within or are they just zoning out and reading just to read. Reading poetry is like playing a melody in your head. You can hear all the different notes, when they stop, and when they go. You can create a symphony of words with the letters being your orchestra. Some may criticize, they always will, and try to make it seem that your work is less important that it is. But it isn’t. What makes your work important is the feeling that you get from it when you finish. That feeling of relief when you finally let everything bottled up inside you go, or the tears that spill because the damage that was made and the only way to heal is letting out all of these words in your head go. When writing there are no limits, no criteria. It’s just you and your brain piecing together parts of yourself you hadn’t realized that was there before.

And that is why I write.
This is just what I call a word ***** that I had once day, and I just wanted to write. These words are unedited and I didn't allow myself to backspace on any of it. So they may be some spelling errors and there are definitely some grammer erros. This is just pure words, typing as I am thinking. Truely my definition of a word *****.
F-ustrated
U-ntidy
C-onfused
K-nowing
So much weight on my shoulders
Love is ******
Love is blind
Love will surely make you lose your mind
Never again
Once a proud father,
A builder, a family leader.
A spawner of a new generation.
Lost to the trials of aging,
A time faded away,
A mind still intact,
Never aged a day past 40
A body giving up,
Forced to standby and watch yourself,
Lose your abilities
To the reaper.
Rain 3d
"Do you ever wonder if a painter ever tires of his colors?"

Does a painter ever tire of his colors?

Well, here is what I consider;
Does a bird ever tire to sing?
Does an instrument ever tire of its tune?
Indeed, does a poet ever tire of his words?

I, though I am surely no expert, say that it is not so
For as a bird may sing a hundred songs yet speak no lyrics,
As the instrument may contain a thousand songs therein, whilst keeping its tunes the same,
As a poet may conceive of an abundance of lyrical wonders, poems so sad or sweet to make a grown man weep, but only the order of the words he uses may change

As all of this is so, I say this:
A painter may yet tire of his colors, but all artists are only given so much
So if a painter and a creator he truly is,
They shall surely find again a new way to use that which they were gifted
For colors, words, tunes- these are all limited, and infinity does not present itself in any
Yet that is the unique power granted to artists,
they create a multitude of works from the most limited material

And isn't that what sets us artists apart?
The ability to make something beautiful from but a few colors, from but a few words, from but a few tunes

Essentially,
To be able to carve infinity from something finite.

So again, I say it is not so - a painter should never tire of his colors, but only think longer on how he should next arrange them.
This was written in response to poet Eleanor Sinclair's work titled "Wonder", which asked the question of whether or not one thought a painter ever got tired of his colors. You guys should totally go check out her other poems - they're really good!!
The First man to ever love me broke me
Made me feel I was never enough
I called you daddy but, you barley know me
Raised me to abandon me
For years I longed for you
All I wanted was a message or a call
Don't even know my birthday
And that hurts most of all
So much anger and pain
I'm so ashamed, that you're my father
Lucky enough you still get that name
Because if not that id live my life ashamed
So many words unsaid
So many actions to undo
But I'm over it
So in order to mend things it's up to you
Haven't spoken to my father in 2 years
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