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NeroameeAlucard Aug 2015
Now here's a little story that I got to tell
about what got me to start writing you don't know so well
it start way back, in history when I lost something very close and dear to me
When I was still a kid about the fifth or sixth grade
I loved music my action figures and kung fu movies like the raid
it was a lovely spring day that I lost this something
and changed my life forever and got my notebook thunping

I was sitting at the table eating dinner as it was the nighttime
and as sure as now that I'm writing this rhyme
I fell out from the table, and seized on the floor
I woke up tired and queasy along with sore
so that's the story of what inspired me to write
what did I lose? I lost my old life
Sarah K May 2015
I write because my head is full of things I cannot say out loud.
I write for the way my heart bleeds when people cut into it.
I write as my heart swells with joy until I feel like the Grinch on Christmas day.
I write when I cannot think of anything but hate;
The words angrily scrawled out on paper like hot flames burning up my emotions.
I write to let everything out.
I write because writing cannot talk back;
It can't tell me I'm wrong or to change something
It is purely just me.
I write because it is the one thing that will not judge me no matter what I say.
I write because writing is all I have.
Some of the very many reasons why I write.
Sarah K May 2015
I write to spill love, loss, and hate onto blank pages instead of my conscience.
Rod E Kok Oct 2014
I never thought
to write again,
after self-doubt
and a loathing
for my words
infected me.

Knife wounds left
me scarred,
negativity to my craft
left me adrift
on a sea of questions.

But I healed.

The bleeding was stopped
by a true passion
for that creative sequence
of thoughts which leads to

I healed.
I became strong.

I no longer feel
a need
to justify my work.

I write because.
Just because.
Day 9 of #OctPoWriMo brought a prompt that really made me think. For today I was challenged to write about why I write. Why do I continue creating poetry (or short stories, or any sort of writing). Why? Read the poem. It answers the question. Please enjoy.

Rod E. Kok
October 9, 2014
Douglas Scheurn Jun 2014
The secret is that none can teach poetry,

You're born with it,
You're born from it.

It's like a cut on your heart
That will never heal,
That will never ill,
That cannot ****,
The blood will seal ,
into words so real,
To paint what you heal.
It is a thrill,
With it,
There's no heart you can't steal.

It can scab over,
But that can be cured with a stab.
It is not a fad,
Cat's out of the bag,
But it's not sad,
I showed you a gift you always had,
To break the curse with a blast.

Let your blood drip into the page,
Meditate over fields of sage,
It's the map to the maze,
The string to lift the haze.

— The End —