I want to cry and weep,
Hate the world and streets.
Find the direction spread,
Filled with humorous cracks.
Tears provoke me again,
Becomes the second shelly.
Feed me in the blossom,
I request my lord.
Your creations mockut,
For thy loveliest child,
Metiril of pride and anger.
Make me colorful ashes,
Buried, no burn makes me immortal,
Under of horiziner of sky.

when silence breeds discontent
and critics ensnare your feet
in a morass of minutiae
amplify your truth

when gossip makes
a mischief of reality
stand your ground
command all energy
toward positivity

never relent because
others seek to mold you
in their stale likeness
never submit to quietude
when you are gifted
a poetic voice

It's your obligation
to subjugate negation
and contort vexation
into your own narration
toward personal salvation
Your thoughts, your creation
only your fingers, the translation

Never submit to false authority
lies, malice do not signify you
hold your head high
Look to the stars
and dream in words
again

You told me to write down
my feelings on this book.
You said that I don't have to tell
anyone anything.

But you forget to mention that,
It's not okay to carry the weight of those words with me
Or,
Engrave those words into my heart,
and let the ink bleed into my heart.

You forget to tell me that it's okay,
Even if those words cut me deep,
mentally and physically.
You'll be okay,
only if you choose to let it go.

Talent
by Michael R. Burch

for Kevin Nicholas Roberts

I liked the first passage
of her poem―where it led
(though not nearly enough
to retract what I said.)
Now the book propped up here
flutters, scarcely half read.
It will keep.
Before sleep,
let me read yours instead.

There's something like love
in the rhythms of night
―in the throb of streets
where the late workers drone,
in the sounds that attend
each day’s sad, squalid end―
that reminds us: till death
we are never alone.

So we write from the hearts
that will fail us anon,
words in red
truly bled
though they cannot reveal
whence they came,
who they're for.
And the tap at the door
goes unanswered. We write,
for there is nothing more
than a verse,
than a song,
than this chant of the blessed:
"If these words
be my sins,
let me die unconfessed!
Unconfessed, unrepentant;
I rescind all my vows!"
Write till sleep:
it’s the leap
only Talent allows.

Keywords/Tags: talent, poem, poetry, poet, book, sounds, write, writing, words, art, creation, creativity

Think all day and then write all day
Publish with expensive data
Three days later, there are only 17 views
no loves
no likes
no comments
there is no morale in writing again.
I know I don't have 1.3k followers
but my eight followers are very strong.
Young boy just want fame, fame, fame.
Young boy just want to write, write,write.
but what is the use when i don't trend,
to get 50 views is a big boulder to me
i write but why is it not good enough
I tell my parents I.................
sorry i just started crying there
I just want to write!!!!!

it’s the words that always will
remain unspoken
between us.
the undefined smiles,
and the acknowledged feelings
we never discovered.

Dragon in my Closet


1.
I should write a poem
today. Now. But
I just don't feel like doing so.
Instead, I'm going to write
a story
about why. About the Dragon.
And that'll do.


2.
Once upon a time,
there was a To Do List
that needed to be Done.
It had items and points
and notes and scribbles;
she was absolutely the most
prettiest thing.

This beauty belonged to a Knight,
a pilgrim in the Land of Adulthood.
And I'm about to tell you
why, though he wanted,
and tried and tried
he never could
get the stupid List Done.

So, one day while
he was wooing Lady List,
a thunderous roar stopped him
in the middle of his speech.
He smelled the sulphur before
he saw the shadow fly over,
but it was too late
and the dragon grabbed his Lady lover.

The List yelled for help,
but what could Knight have done?
Before him stood the vicious
Merciless Procrastination Dragon!
With a slice of its claws
and just one breath of flames,
the poor List was done for
and could nevermore be Done.

Well, you can imagine
the scenario that now unfolded:
List gargling on the floor,
Knight screaming like a toddler.
The Dragon wasn't done yet, though,
he still had one more goal:
Keeping the Knight busy all day
so he won't rescue List with CPR.

This was the easy part,
and loads of fun too.
Knight had snapped out of his shock,
but the dragon just had to
keep his paw on the Knight's head
and hold it there until
the Knight got tired of fighting air
and became very still.

Then the Dragon lifted his paw.
Knight fell on the floor with a
THUD.
Dragon flew off with a smile on his face,
happy with the fun he'd had.
The Knight scrambled the strength together
to crawl on all fours to his List -
or rather, what remained of her -
and pretended she still exists.

(But she was dead,
and the Knight was broken.
He would never even look
at another List again.
Until he gets lonely and
tired of Nothing,
then another To Do List pops up
that's in need of Doing...)


3.
This tale is true,
believe me, 'tis so.
I have met the very Knight
and greeted the Lady too.
And the Malicious
Procrastination Dragon
made its nest in
my closet.

And that's why
I'm not writing a poem.