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Through voracious eyes devotees, peruse writings, clever literature all styled to thoughtful poetic ways
eloquently, exposing wounds of body and soul, discovered distrust, anger much regret, sadly even fear,
thereto shortcomings in life, of people, their actions, loves and lies promulgated in illuminating phrase.
Technology endows contributors with outlets for venting suchlike occasions using artistry is here.

Passionate poignant experiences most well written, some not are duly shared to attracted communal eyes.
declarations of 'I have cared so much I'm wounded mortally', some bask in lost or unrequited loves last kiss,
several employ inner strength 'whatever happened, I don't care, I'm resilient, I survive', shared with poetic pride
concise verses rework obvious reminders, may motivate suggestion that opportunity shouldn't be missed.

Modest words abundantly profound begin remarks that reassures, with the - I'm here for yous'- symbolic embrace,
in support it is written, 'I know what you mean' and from a great distance - empathise, but I have little to say.
Health issues aren't fixed by artistic pennings, only face to face professional advice forms the strongest base,
Writings from the poetic inner self  may become positive steps, for futures not, staring in depressions face.

Much is written with sensitivity oft-times is judged by content, overlooked is why and how it is composed.
For instance suicide  educes fear however. dubiety invites, is it fiction or truly despair?
Writing as an art observes, describes, creates imagery, of sadness and joy, escapism, fictional or no.
Poetic creators who web-wide commune through stories, thoughts, secrets, ideas, dreams, let the poetry be shared .




Poetry www    Michael C Crowder 12th  January 2019 @scorsby
my thoughts about poetry its content and writing skill
Lumi Mar 2019
the day has arrived where
the darkest of thoughts
begin to plummet down
into our mouths
getting caught in our throat
unable to fight their way
around the crippling judgement
of a logical brain.

and we will fight for
our right to die
peacefully
while being serenaded
by the robin
wet in summer rain
and drying in the blistering heat
as if the world
was ending
and all joy
had been abandoned.

for the joy has not been abandoned
we have simply abandoned ourselves.
Winter Child Mar 2019
you’re worth someone’s scratch
in their book,
every dots, space and the smudge—
as you busy questioning your value
someone’s smearing their ink to make each of your every breath a poetry.
for every word that born—
you blow spirit to them,
brought them to life.
—in the end, there’ll always be someone who loves you. they’re just not as loud.
Grant Dickson Mar 2018
The cold air seeped down with no heart,
What was once a sea of beauty and life,
Now had been turned to a grave of white and death,
The city had almost all but stopped living too.

Morning turned to night and yet all was still bright,
Panicking for necessities like bread and milk,
As if they were a commodity like gold and silk,
There was no lease from this grip of icy might.

The Robins so proud with their coats of glorious red,
Out playing like children on a canal iced bed,
Scattering wild seed around upon the snow covered ground,
Bobbing along like cheeky cherubim gathering with a chirpy sound.

A man stands in the not so far distance,
Stood outside clearing snow as it's finally stopped,
I ask and offer myself to give some assistance,
Is seems the final flakes have now dropped.

A path slowly appears as do others now congregate,
Friends, brothers, sister's all one with a common goal,
Time rolls on but we persist as it gets late,
A United effort from one and all like a heart to a soul.

(C) Grant Dickson 21/03/2018
I wrote this after I was witness to a community spirit I never thought I'd ever see
savs Mar 2018
i was seven
and i aspired to become a star, because my mom had told me that those scintillating bodies used to be people, but they were no longer breathing. "they are looking after their darlings". i heard but i didn't pay attention. i just needed to share their glow.

i was sixteen
and tears drenched my face every f*cking night,
a few mornings too. i didn't understand if i craved the feeling of protection from a thinking sphere of gas, or if i wanted to turn into one of them. i could be a human whose heart stopped working and ended up shining beside the moon.

i am now eighteen,
my life is a little less of a mess and i would so much rather be a star than a person, for i want to make sure I'll be able to look after every loving soul who took care
of my
weakened light.
alexa Mar 2018
this is not a story about us,
it's a story about a girl.
a story about a girl who met a boy
and he became her world.
this boy was not ordinary-
he said he was here to stay,
with marble-etched words
he took her breath away.
reached for both her hands with his own,
looked her deep in the eye,
held her trembling body
until there were no tears left to cry.
and she thought it was right,
thought it was love.
she thought her blue-eyed angel
had been sent from up above.
but all of a sudden he dropped her,
and she crashed, hard, on the ground.
she was scared of his marble-etched words
never again will she be safe and sound.
scared they'll trick her again
into a false sense of security,
make her think she's happier with him
than alone she could ever be.
so this story is not about a boy,
it's about a girl made of diamond.
who learned to trust people again,
got herself off Isolation Island.
so here's to the girl
that shows her scars kindly
and learned the dangers
of trusting blue-eyed boys blindly.
thought it'd be fit to post something on world poetry day :) thank you to everyone who has inspired me and nurtured my love of poetry!
Irene Mar 2018
a lot of people put celebrities
and well-known figures
on pedestals
like they are gods or idols
but if you really think about it
they're just like you and i
as different as we all might be
all of us are more alike
than we realize
written on 03.21.18 | happy world poetry day
Irene Mar 2018
i'm learning to find beauty in the ordinary
just like in the shape of a shadow
i hope i can learn to do this in myself
written on 03.21.18 | happy world poetry day
Damian Murphy Mar 2018
As in and out one must breathe
in order to survive,
One who writes must also read
to keep their work alive.
Hadiy Syakir Jun 2017
this world poetry day
is meaningless,
Maya, Charles, Sylvia, Allen
never even thought of it
it breeds more seed of
ego and monstrosity
deep inside those men
to lift their hands and
push us down the drain
to ensure that
we are stuck in between
honesty and reality,
forever.
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