I could go on and on and on But then I would stop. Because I believe no one Has the words, Especially not I, Not after the short time I’ve been alive.
But what if I die?
I definitely wouldnt have The words then. Not a turn in my grave, Not a thought in my brain. I will have spent my Living breath Describing what I think Death is like. But by the time I am dead I won’t know if I’m right.
I know what you’re thinking; “She needs to unwind No feelings lost Yet no thoughts defined”
Please, don’t try and fix me There’s a minute solution, Bare with me, Don’t bury me
with these beautiful complications, Black flowers with white leaves And red veins Who says the sun Can’t be neon-green? The ocean will stay navy blue And we will learn to appreciate Ourselves, each other
Painting one another
Do you love it when I talk color?
The concrete walls won't bind us won’t speak to us We have the will to kiss But we don't.
Watch the glint in my eye Become a glimmer. In its reflection, Watch yourself become an apple. No, concrete walls don't bind us to our fellow **** sapiens sapiens, and skyscrapers don't portray the flora and the fauna of our generation, yours and mine.
So if this comes down to nothing, that's fine. But take my hand. Grab a paint brush, carry this poem
with you or without you. I no longer care about you but for one last dance I will cooperate. I will find the words
for you. I call myself nonchalant yet I want more of you.
Dreams unknown murmur in the darkness of my imagination, Whispering empty confusion that fills an unseen storm. A hurricane lurks off the coast of my consciousness, Waiting to be unleashed upon a blank page. As I bandy around with my fickle muse.
They say the stars rarely come out in New York But have you been over it, while sitting in an airplane? New Yawks a galaxy A galactic city named atrocity Urging people to find themselves, and learn about themselves Narcissistic like astrology
New York rushes me And brushes me OFF New York is so inspiring But yet My thoughts are stuck in traffic And trust me We have writers on every block
*** holes That mock
The tapping of your shoe As you try and try to hush a crowd Just so that you could get through
We got news anchors talking about how somebody got shot and sometimes you feel your spirit beggining to rot Because you can't stop Imagining bullets Shooting In every angle Just dipping into your wakefullness like lullabies Once in the heart Twice in the eyes
And three in each ear It's like **** what you think, feel, see and hear
But It's next year and your still here In the city where the sound of an ambulance Can be your alarm and with a stranger you'll sit arm to arm
So come camp out in Brooklyn under the bridge because your heart will know exactly where those lost ideas now live
Come take the subway and study the map It'll let you know where to go to get all your inspiration back
And if all fails head to the flea market somewhere sorta creepy downtown And get yourself a muse She'll show you around.
writers block curses my mind and soul something is there but it will not show in stead it torments me like a foggy window it shows only its undefinable shadow a unrecognizable blotch just beyond my light untouchable unreachable ever there ever dark hidden but not forgotten
so yes it about writes block i was writing a book and suddenly i had nothing so in my frustration i came up with this kinda funny looking back
Writers block In the words of confusion I am caught No train of thought I forgot what poetry has taught My mind goes blank Not a single thought No creation Can I blame radiation? No lightbulb in this head of mine No decent rhyme Writers block...
This may not be considered poetry, but it speaks to me as if it is. The blank page, the chance of great beginning. The emptiness that has the power to send words like bullets to your ear drums leaving such an impact that one can’t ignore!! But all the same the emptiness that we all see that our brain can’t muster up the feelings that are inside that we want to put words onto paper… so we sunder into the void of oblivion because the white canvas of which we were to once put all of what we have into is to pure in its white cascade of which our ink would only taint. Thus, leaving “The Poet’s White Canvas” as it is, admiring what simplistic power it holds as well as its potential of what it can be.
a page is such a cold place pen has a sage who delves for inner face truth's the page entrances with silent mocking word thought dances just outside the blocking the sage thirsty now craves sweet success but only digs graves in the sheet of paper white mourn the poems never born sorrowful worlds in the words sage now sleepwalking his empty words never talking
an attempt at a technical piece, didnt work out so hot