Bravery
is not about standing tall
after you've climbed up
the top of a mountain

Bravery
is looking
fear
heartache
rejection
terror
loss
death
in the eye
and saying, "no
not today"

Bravery
is standing back up
after you've been brought down
to your knees

Insta: @nakedwriting

I was lost.
Every night I’d stand by my window in hopes that someone would help me.
The stars shone as bright as they could. They were in peace.
Something I wasn’t.
That was until I saw him.
That sorrow I had buried myself in had managed to get away.
And that smile that hasn’t seen the daylight in years managed to form.
But he was lost too.
And the same smile I had on my face reflected on his.
He was my lost boy.

What do you think?
Paz 6d
Ink

I'm the author of my life,
but, unfortunately,
I'm writing in ink and can't erase my mistakes.

Ron Israel Nov 14

Un amor
no se vuelve demasiado grande
por su tiempo de duración
O por los recuerdos,
pero sí por el tamaño del vacío
que quedará en su pecho
en caso de que decidiera irse.

On a chilling winter night
The quill slips and icy, has to fight
I wrap my frozen heart around a shawl
And frost traps my ink which freezes too.

However, inside, my body burns with desire
Making me tremble like red hot magmatic fire
But this poor quill, alas
Numbed in this weather is exhausted already!

The flame of my candle flickers and weakens
Inspiration shows a passing fancy and she wants to be desired
I’m going to break free from this heavy inertia
But how? Everything is still and tired!

Oh cruel globe! Why is my soul so mute?
She was able to drench me in its natural artistic flood
I can’t believe in her sudden inactivity
What’s going on, I’m going numb in my blood!

Oh you my muse, spread your silky artistic veil
Over my being beseeching you to save it
Oh you, my well of inspiration and mystical words
I implore you, listen and come to my bedside, hail!

But why is everyone, Heavens, deaf to my call?
Just who is willing to hear my plea of despair and silence
No one can revive this depressing poetry and her fate
Loneliness, to the four winds I’m going to dislocate!

In a certain hour of a chilling winter night
I’ve let my writing expire at my workbench
Farewell then, poetry, fie!
In my night I fade away and nothing muffles my plight!

But with this new dawn, don’t you cry my muse
I’ll write  with you,  I’ll be in your care
And we’ll content ourselves with sweetness, laughter and schemes
I’ll once again respond to your vital needs

However, aura of happiness and joy
I simply won’t do it tonight, but finally,
Don’t fret and rest in my dreams, hopefully
Tomorrow I’ll worship you, unconditionally!

Written on August 26, 2010,
Translated on November, 13, 2017

This is an old I originally wrote in French in 2010
I had forgotten about it and decided to translate it today!
linhp Nov 8

i am the kind of girl
who feels too much and speaks too little
who often gets caught in her midnight monologues
who embraces loneliness as a gift of time, to be alone and whole in her own chaos
who loves melodies from the '80s and classic poetry,
and also enjoys the modernity of the current reality
who seems a little ignorant but mostly just being shy
because she has an issue with shallow conversations
who gets excited about puppies but runs away from kitties
who travels miles away to seek the feeling of being home
who writes stuffs that are a little depressing,
even though her life has been a blessing
who hopes that these words somehow can convince you that
above them all
she is the kind of girl
who has a habit of translating the world into poems
believing that there are still good things to unfold.

This is a  short poem about me. I have only started writing poems a few months ago after years of being a poetry lover.

I have a complicated thought process, hence my written words make it easier for people to understand me.
Lyn-Purcell Nov 7

We learn history
We cup history
And we all strive to make history
And in history, we learn
and life seems to repeat.

~ ⚪ ~
Take a closer look
'History'
All of us learn his-story
and her-story.
So, let's do it.
And write our his-story.

Surrounded by history that life loves to repeat.
Emily Miller Oct 31

Tap, tap, tap,
Go the keys,
Tap, tap, tap,
Furiously nailing the letters to the page,
Like nails to wood,
One at a time.
Tap, tap, tap,
Words about heartbreak and love,
His eyes and her eyes,
The way his coat smells,
The way flowers grow,
The way music touches your soul.
Tap, tap, tap,
Spinning sugar-sweet rhymes about “womanly” things,
While my womanly thoughts lie burning in the deep,
Dark,
Cavities of my chest.
Tap, tap, tap,
Deep down,
Beneath a waterfall of Earl Grey,
Beneath the flutter of a feminine heart,
My womanly words crackle like a fire suppressed.
Tap, tap, tap
I can hear them rumble like thunder,
So close to being spoke,
Being written,
Being typed,
Tap, tap, tap,
Tap, tap, tap,
The fire and the thunder stay in my chest,
Rolling and seething,
Tap, tap, tap,
I continue to write,
Tap, tap, tap,
Someone else’s words.

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