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madeline Jan 13
We are in this delicate situation. Words can’t be uttered. Eyes can’t meet. And hearts can’t be followed. The world depresses us. I have no choice but to push and push you away, but how, when those mesmerizing eyes caress my soul like it’s the most fragile thing in the world. But I won’t say a word, I can’t. I value you that much that I don’t want to put you in difficulty.
So I will let this be
I won’t say a word.
Devoid of words
Nothing to say
Nothing to see
Just pass on by,
A wordless beggar on the street,
An empty-headed poet
Caught in the stream of life,
but unable to describe
what their feelings are,
and what they really mean.
so are they really a poet?
If they can't speak?
If there are no words in the soul,
no spark in the eye?
What are you,
if you are wordless?
If you have no life,
no push behind your actions,
is your heart beating falsely?
Or were you never alive to begin with.
I'm tired, It's as though I've used up all my words,
and now all I am is a shell of a poet.
Z May 2019
I ran from you as fast as I could
Bitter wormwood on my tongue
Like a violin unstrung
What is my purpose
Was it on purpose?

To think that we could stay the same
My burning cheeks, my hidden shame
I still am wordless
Tommy Randell May 2018
When I was a Poet
I knew some things
But understood less

Now I am equally sure
Knowing things at all
Un-Qualifies me best

No longer a Poet
I am blind to knowing
It's the litmus test

The all-knowing Poet
Silent to the core
Speechless at best
Jayantee Khare Sep 2017
See the commitment
not the love,
The cage is open
but no bird flies.

Passed all
the seasons in this life,
The rainy season
stuck in the eyes.

Ended the dreamy
day's celebration,
In loneliness,
the deadly night cries.

No words left
to write poetry,
Just read
the soul's silent sighs...
Just an imagination
lily Oct 2016
it's an ambrosia
a heavenly drink.
one is going to die
in the depthless
river of sadness
poetry is the
which will come
floating towards
and save
poetry is  the
only solution
for one who is
overflowed with
due to the
magical creations
of mother nature
may be due to the
wordless love
take a sip of poetry
you'll feel you're alive
poets live magically
though others live non-
its a boon
and it is a blessing
one who has powers
to heal the hearts of others
is the poet
who let the readers
to take a sip of true poetry
s u r r e a l Aug 2016
hitherto and heed.
this man with no greed.
face as mere as ants,
but heart as written so.

forthwith and in the now,
with a chest in the wrong place,
our brains midst logic and reason,
and mouths spurting mace.

for this man has trees that grow from his apple,
and lyrics that tie themselves to the oak,
simply tugging at his own branches,
and gaining strength as it broke.

for the world he laid himself atop,
does aches and curves his back,
for those hands move with grace against blank skin with ink,
and his lyrics sink and crack.

for the expensive sap,
from the alabaster jar,
glimmers quietly 'neath gasps,

and the noose and the
spill wars.

for his eyes are crusted,
miles yonder,
and his lips are chapped,
but his arms--and heart--and mind remain a never.

eager and spotless,
fearless and willing,
through trials and hot rocks,
the earth he's tilling.

trails of sound and light leading out to the world,
hold silent despite his might.
and urge and creeping yearn,
for his empty fright.

for the grass shivers at the fall of his pen,
and world cries out at the whisper,
but the man is nothing but mumble and slack,
and has everything held as a lisper.

for a man is nothing without his eyes,
and nothing without his lips,
a mere inconvenience,
to the insipid mind.

for an utterance may increase the waters it treads,
but it certainly wont sow.
and reap what it does,
without years to know.

                                           and grows...
                                      and grows
                               and grows
                         and grows
for the green tree grows
                                                                ­    merely to sink into silence, you say...

the man wags a finger,
and chapped lips ache a smirk.

quill to mouth--connected by heart to mind--line by line
against skin,
is an endearment,
and engraving of passion...

as speech may serve nothing to mind...                                                          ­   if it goes through one ear...

  and spills out the next...

it's the words concocted and stirred up by man--singing by lyre...


and the purple eyes that open
                                            new minds
                                                              to­ the mirror ether.
For the wordless man...
Esther May 2016
I think the words have left me.*
they've crawled out my ears
and pooled in my eyes only to spill
my cheeks,
and drip down my chin only to splatter
the page in black blotches
that mean nothing.
I'm suffering from writer's block.
Cynder Jan 2016
There is no way to describe the feeling of being choked by the words I can’t say because they have sunk to the bottom of my lungs.

There should be a name for the nights spent wishing that the right words existed so that I could learn to explain the unexplainable.

There was no way to articulate to her restless bones that my mood sways on the tips of her fingers that never stop dancing when everything else is still.
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