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The loneliness,
Seldom situational
Often occasional
Fairly frequent
Indeed inherent
Untimely unjust
Mostly must
..............in thinkers....dreamers....and writers..


A thought tickled n the word played
Panashe 1d
For you're a seed awaiting growth.
So let your stems grow as they look towards the sun
For every brighter day brings growth
The very soil you stand on feeds your malnourished soul
So let the water pour out before you.
Let it nourish your roots as your seed grows to become the greatest plant the world will ever know
For you were created for greatness and not for mediocrity
After all there is only one YOU
©she_pana
Juliana Oct 11
To Write.
Verb.
To watch ink stain the yellowed pages.
To create stories,
Narratives,
Other lives.
Other worlds
In which my imagination can flow.
In which my characters can come alive.
In which my creations thrive.
In which my voice, my stories,
Can be seen.
Can be heard.
Can be enjoyed.
Where my art
My purpose
Is.
Where all my anger, my ranting, my pain
Flows onto the page
And just disappears
No longer a problem
No longer a part of me.
The words are
Where my existence lies.
Where Lucas, and Fey, and Katrina, and Stevie, and Jonah and Fei, and Cassie and Savannah, and Lola, and Sarah, and Sidera can
Talk.
Move.
Act.
Dance.
Love.
Where people are capable of happiness, kindness, and joy.
Where nothing bad happens
That can't be solved
In a hundred pages or less.
Were books are created.
Poems come to life.
My anger is turned into
Nothing.
But strokes on a page.
Where I can write.
Be free.
Where the world around me dissipates.
For an hour.
A minute.
A day.
I am nothing
But strokes
On a keyboard.
Words.
On a page.
My fingers and mind racing
Which can go faster?
A race against time.
Who can say more?
Not caring about spelling, or grammar
That can wait.
My voice, mood, words
That is the priority.
The story
Is all that matters.
The story...
A noise.
A click.
A sound.
My train of thought.
My unconscious.
Gone.
A bird.
A dog.
A voice.
Destroyed.
No. Focus.
Turn the page
Keep.
Writing.
Anger. Love. Joy.
A wrath turned into stanzas.
Love is but a chapter.
Joy is but a song.
Who am I?
Who do I want to be?
A writer.
I am a writer
A better writer.
An author.
A poet.
Someone who can turn words into phrases into stories.
Someone who can make a reader's eyes cling to the page.
Their memories, my character's memories
Flowing, colliding, crashing together
Like a powerful stream.
They are like I am
An unconscious being.
The world dissipating to only the story.
Only the words.
The characters
I want to make my characters grow.
I want to make people feel something.
I want to be good. No. Great.
But I'm not great.
I can't stop.
I can't find a conclusion.
My characters, my friends. I want them to live forever. I want their stories to go on. Forever.
I don't want them to grow. I don't want them to leave me.
But they have to. For them to truly live
I have to
Let
Them
Go.
I need to learn how to let them.
They can't be
A Perpetual Existence.
Perpetual Existence.
The day to day phrases.
I remember when I first said that.
I was texting a friend.
I knew it would become a title someday.
We found it.
Time. Thyme.
What would happen if thyme stopped?
It was a ridiculous idea.
But it worked.
It never happened.
The characters were never brought to life.
Still in our heads.
An idea.
That's it.
That's all they'll ever be.
Trapped in thyme.
But it's the little phrases.
The little gems.
That stick with you.
My favorite book, a book with a plethora of gems, is called Everyday.
It is profound. There's a section that talks about how we're all the same. Christians, Jews, Muslims. We all believe in the same religion. It's all one god. We just see him differently. We just see different sides of the story.
Every conversation.
Every line of dialogue is a gem.
A little work of art.
I want that to be my legacy.
Legacy.
No. I didn't write Hamilton.
I am not Shakespeare.
I will not go down as a genius or the founder of a genre.
I will not be a famous poet.
A writer for the New York Times.
Winner of the Nobel Prize.
I don't want to.
I want to be known for me.
My conversations.
Everyday dialogue.
What I said to my friends, my family.
The gems.
My dad once told me that I was one of the best writers he knew.
I'm a writer. A dreamer. A speaker.
To Write.
Is to be me.
I can’t force the universe to understand me
I won’t throw a tantrum, two or more folks
That refuse to travel with me on this path
There are more than a billion folks ahead
Of this path, waiting to align with a stranger:
Dancing in the same levels of energies

So I won’t force “ this few” to understand me
Neither will I succumb to their negativity
I soldier on, I carry on, on this lonely path
Knowing the sun will shine someday, on this path
I don’t know when but I carry on like the good farmer
I have tried to travel with many by coercion, later to realize my feet is stuck in their emotions. No one was born as a slave to anyone... we are here in this plain to exercise purpose freely without fear
When you meet a writer

communicate with a writer

pay attention to a writer

You become a writer's muse

he/she doesn't give you up

he/she falls in love with you

You become a writer's work of art

there is no flaw seen

there is no passion taken

You become a writer's diary

no secrets told

no judgements

When you meet a writer

boundaries are there

trust is rare

You become a writer's muse

when you have patience

when you have a connection
I haven't met a muse who I can freely vent about.
Arcassin B Oct 6
By Arcassin Burnham


This pretty bond that we have , this lovely venue we set,
colorful flowers i gave you in this exchange,
i hope this doesn't cope from less hatred i have to pay,
In the morning grateful , next to me is where you lay,
i hope you are not mad that I forgot your birthday,
****,
crossing fingers hoping you would not mind,
pacing as this line collapses in my eyes,
i hope you don't think i'm selfish,
while i dabble in anguish,
Lets me somewhere and have a talk.
©abpoetry2019

https://arcassin.blogspot.com/2019/10/****.html
Lunar Oct 6
I think,
it's time to go
back home on land.
I leave the waters,
step out of the blues,
before I could drown.

I sink,
each foot entirely
in the sand.
Rooted in place,
the fine grains
anchor me down.

I ink,
your name on
the back of my hand.
I know it well,
and tell my pages:
I love you now.
to lsy; sometimes on the beach, when the sand is warm and makes me yawn, i sleep. i know i can rest on land.

(j.m.)
Offering silence

I do not want
Just to be heard
I want
To be listened to

Sometimes
I wish to know
All of myself

Head to soul

Physically
I am 5'10"
But
While I dream
I feel no less than infinity

2nd life, I live
As the Man
Behind the words
Genre: Experimental
Theme: Writing is being
My body walks across
this desert of white sheet.
Wounded, the cuts across my body
bleeds ink of black
leaving its history within
this endless manuscript
called life.
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