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Kyra 3h
Sentence after sentence pours into my windstorm
A broken song, littered limbs of poems

I wonder when I’ll finally sleep
Without words floating over my head
A sword’s edge I crave
         Reaching out to slice my palms on
Some sweetness drips from the pain
        A watered down truth
        Veritas in my lips
Many men have jet skis, guns, boats and football teams.
I've tried these things.

I have words.
Yes, I can write forever about you.
But pens run out of ink sometimes.
A poem every day.
Left Foot Poet Jan 2018
inspired by a conversation with Maira Kalman

******* a name, adopt a persona, let my fingers do the talking,
place the instrumental sharp point tip upon the blankety blank paper,
maestro baton raised, coordinating,
the first sound, the vocal chords trembling,  
the first thought, the ultrasound image, entrance of a first violin,
coalescing into, into the initializing single primary phonation,
the stinging geometry of chance at last,
throwing  down the gauntlet, glove slapping, and the
tendons tense, the mouth opens, release and indentation,
a letter's curvature, a black and white downward stroking,
a sign is televised, revealed and released

a one way only sign

time bends knee, gravity suspended, terror morphs to
expelling rapid firefights of imagery needy for spacing,
even pauses mid-word  leave just this:

where is the in in

are you the in in
or the jailor at the gate?

you swear never again

until committing once more,

a sentence commutation, by committing a first sentence,

and the greater toll taken and paid for,

and the in in in-nate,
questions your sanity



9/17/17 10:55pm
yasmin Oct 10
Because sometimes,
paper is the only one
who listens.
Jim Davis Oct 5
The Moving Finger writes;
and, having writ
Moves on:
nor all thy Piety nor Wit
Shall lure it back to
cancel half a line
Nor all thy tears
wash out a word of it.
Apropos for our profession of poetry I believe!  

From Wikipedia:  Omar Khayyam (/kaɪˈjɑːm/; Persian: عمر خیّام‎ [oˈmæɾ xæjˈjɒːm]; 18 May 1048 – 4 December 1131) was a Persian mathematician, astronomer, and poet.[3][4][5] He was born in Nishapur, in northeastern Iran, and spent most of his life near the court of the Karakhanid and Seljuq rulers in the period which witnessed the First Crusade.

The Princeton Encyclopedia of Poetry and Poetics quotes the tradition that the Persian quatrain-form, the ruba'i, originated in the gleeful shouts of a child, overheard and imitated by a passing poet.
annh Sep 28
The writer is unwritten until he writes;
But ne’er of the unwritten does the written writer write.

‘There is nothing new except what has been forgotten.’
- Marie Antoinette
B D Caissie Sep 28
You may take our words and make them yours.

But our fiery spirit is what makes a true writer soar.

We scribble with our hearts, like so many who’ve come before.

For most it’s therapy for their internal raging wars.

Our words are endless like waves crashing along the shore.

Slowly eating at your conscience receding more and more.

Like the rising and setting of the sun our words will endure.

Therefore armed with our pens it’s you we feel sorry for.
jasmin Sep 27
We all wear masks
Having a perfect face, that's our task

We are supposed to look like dolls
But when we take off the mask and look in the mirror we start to bawl

Because we are told we should look a certain way
And when we dont we are told we can't stay

We are told to walk straight with our chin up
To cover our masks with makeup

And we all listen in fear of rejection
But maybe we should stand up and make an objection
We should be able to look in the mirror and be happy with our reflection
And not always have to strive for perfection

When will we be happy with our face
When will we catch the perfection that we chase

Will we ever get to be good enough
Will our mirror ever stop calling bluff

Will the people around us except us for who we are
Or will we have to forever hide our scars

We all hide who we truly are behind this mask
Being perfect all around that's our task
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