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Nigel Finn Sep 2016
Three words can make me feel quite grand
Or can fill me with dismay,
I really hope you understand,
I don't always feel that way.

Three words can make the difference,
Oh, I really wish you knew!
They always hold significance,
But they're not easy to do.

Three words! Three words! Stuck on repeat!
I don't know how to reply!
I want to run away, retreat,
Or curl up, cave in, and cry!

Three words I meet with every day
(I'm fairly sure you know 'em!),
I still never know what to say,
When I read; "Add a poem".
Sarah Michelle Aug 2016
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”

You’re right.

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.
Mica Kluge Jan 2016
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.
Sindi Kafazi Dec 2015
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
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.
zackery jennings Oct 2015
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
Purple Rain Sep 2015
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.
mark john junor Oct 2014
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
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