As a writer each face I see in passing
Each businessman hunched over his computer
Each little girl in a pretty dress
Each hurried parent running fingers though tangled hair
Becomes a character in my head
A story to be created and molded

Green eyes become fields
While blue eyes become oceans
Each feature is a description in a story
That I may one day write

Don’t ever think for a second you are safe
Don’t think that I only use stranger’s faces
Each person I meet is a character on a page
Three dimensional until I find a pen
Your skin was the color of mocha
Hers the color of milk

Her eyes were geysers of blue and green
Yours were the Earth from which flowers grow
We were an 80’s love story
That could never last

SLAM SUNDAY

Hello friends today I m writing this letter small imagined poetry.
           what is life about to say....
    
        !!!what is life all about.  
To offer yourself to someone for smiles,
To share someone’s grief,
To have love in your heart for someone,
This is what life is all about.

Granted, we are poor, by the standard of our pockets.
Even so, we are rich at heart .

Perish for love that is Life,
Crave for spring that is life,
This we believe, though others may not,
That this is what life is all about.

Relationship between the heart and the hearts trust,
The name of love lives on because of us.

Even if we die, we will be remembered by someone,
That we will smile through someone’s tears,
A flower will tell a bud, on and on,
That this is what life is all about to say friends feel it and love it..

           keep smile always give happy and be happy

It’s me and no one else.

It’s my business and only mine to know.

It’s my life and not yours to judge.

I’m being selfish right about now,

I’m 20 years old, turning 21 in 3 months

I’m thinking about myself and myself only.

Get a coffee
Light up a cigarette
Write
Get published
Become famous
Get bored
Write again
Write again
Get more bored
Write, write, write
About boredom
Become miserable
Write
About misery.

Die famous
But miserable...


-- Eleanor

I've written so many pieces
about how i long for you
and how i want to be near you,
how beautiful you are
but all these verses are simply pathetic attempts
to make sense of my feelings
and each poem
is just another version
of me saying *I love you

i can't write
i can't write
i can't w r i t e
i'm happy and i'm sad and it's got me in this place
where i don't know what i want
because really, i want everything
and really, i want nothing
i can't write
anymore
the words just won't come
and i don't know what i want
i don't know what i expect
i'm happy and i'm sad and i can't write

writing in blood is easy,
writing in tears is necessary,
but writing in smiles
is impossible,
it is taking a pen and closing your eyes
and drawing soft lines and shapes
and missing words to describe the inside
a happy poet is recognized
by an empty paper

never fall in love with a boy who
speaks in lavender soliloquy and
smells like cigarettes and melancholy;
whose kisses leave you in nirvana and
whose flesh lays in some lovely façade;
for he is a poet, a philosopher, and a believer
whose mind will disappear into breathless purgatory
when you're not even looking
and by the time you'll find out
you'll already have lost him somewhere,
between wandering verbosity,
and ashen wordlessness