Good point:
point taken.
Ink on overflow:
write what you know.
Festered memories:
modern beautiful.
Writers sure
create some better
worlds:
Better is subjective.
Haven't run
into one
that's not been
a collision
of will and arrogance:
and yes, of course,
I include myself in this.
Ask a human
with nothing
but words
what it is it wants:
it wants to be heard.
Once heard, a writer turns
into a master alchemist:
transmuting words
into their single worth.
Not just the word,
but the ear to fetch:
best turn any real
emotion
into a cold call
signal broadcast.
Algorithm says:
Caller,
Let's talk
"The Past".
If it was, it was,
and maybe still is,
but there's a benefit
in remembering, In a
world all of things, I am
but one of so many.
Write about things.
Write about things.
Matter beyond my self.
Tin 1d
She's a writer,
With words undefined.
She writes well,
But little did she know that she can only see darkness in every page of her stories

-KM

~08-13-18
It’s an odd romance,
Yet it felt so right,
The charcoal that paints the pristine whites.
Like the scratches and scores across the flawless skin,
The smell of graphite sunk in her skirts,
A touch so rough, yet she yearns.

The creator smiled in delight,
The satisfaction shown in the depths,
From the soul the words formed,
Strung to a garland that met the lead.
The curves and lines the charcoal drew,
Made her quiver in pleasure and pain.

The creator dwelled in these sounds and sights,
Of the romance between his pen and paper.
Like water for a parched throat,
The words soothed many souls.
Write is all I love to do,
A delicious threesome,
Between me, my book, and my pen.
My mind is full
Yet my page is empty

-Writers Block
The wind
brushes through
my hair,
makes my
skin tingle &
wraps me up
in it’s
cold breezing
arms.
- ©Smridhi Lakra
duncan Aug 7
great writers make
names of their hometowns.
i am no great writer.

no great writer
could make something
of this nothing.
V Exeter Aug 5
I can write what I can't speak.
Tonight, a quiet empties my lungs.
I sing, for myself if no one else.
Where are the willing ears?

I can write what I can't speak.
Tonight, I inflict mental self harm.
I can write what I can't speak.

Where the fuck are the words!?
my Father wrote poetry in younger years
of love and loss
of joy and fear
i discovered his work tucked away in a drawer
castaway drifter
returned to the shore

who was this man of sentiment
whose gift of prose is long since spent
who spoke so rarely
and laughed not at all
i knew him not
beyond the wall
that stood in stone
grew stronger with age
his soul now resides
in this book
on this page
01/07 - slightly revised
Jade Welch Aug 2
Suicide is on my mind
all the time
it is light outside
but I think it is night
can't get to sleep
my will is weak
eyes shut for an hour
struggling to sleep
these voices say my name
screaming at me all the time
I lie and tell my family
"I am doing fine"
Lemonade Jul 31
Seeing her bald seemed pretty fascinating,
While he wondered if anyone would ever look that beautiful without hair.
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