The poet examines her work
leafs through the crumpled papers
watching handwriting change
from entry to entry
sometimes within poems
as if emotion dictates scrawl-
lighthanded, looping, or harsh and flat

She stops on a few
drawn in by memory
or lines like dreams
where she imagined sleepless nights
or the end of a life
anything her mind could imagine
fleshed out with the fluidity of a stream

The words had always been in
her brain. It is impossible to know
if they would have disappeared
with nowhere to go
if she hadn’t guided her pen to paper
everyday, writing about whatever
or whomever. Like the sketch artist

she has gotten better everyday
the words appearing quicker and quicker.
This might be due to English class
it’s hard to say
regardless she has grown-
like a tree budding in Spring
learning everything has a purpose


The poet is not just a poet
she catches snippets from novels-
the dialogue or introduction or
internal stream of consciousness
clanking around her brain
She once wrote a fairytale
about a boy who spoke to trees

All of them are precious-
they are pieces of her soul
spread out on lined paper
calling out for a life that imagines,
wonders, feels free,
does not stand still-
floats on the breeze like the eagle

She has learned a thing or two
from Sylvia Plath:
the good stuff
the quality of dissonant language
the stanza-length-decision
Before she would write whatever
sounded nice- she might still

The poet, satisfied, closes the journal
imagining that one day
her poems would reach into the
minds of the world- gently
drawing out dreams-
inspiring words like she has been inspired
And she closes her eyes with an exhale
When you used to journal every day, and don't anymore, what do you do? I try to remember.
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.
I don’t have enough ink
To write everything I want to tell you.
You will never find the time
To read
Everything I want to say,
But,
For right now,
I’m just praying for a minute with you,
Dear Jessica,
To tell you  exactly
How I feel.
This poem was a response to a blotchedpoem prompt on Tumblr
Feel like I went
somewhere wrong
People look but
they don't hold on
And I so crave
for interaction
For a poetic
intersection
I can't
stop writing
It's reverse writer's block
that I'm fighting
When all I can do
is oversharing
the pressure in my head
is overbearing

I know we are all
most interested in ourselves
Standing tall
in front of our virtual bookshelves
Not much wrong with it
It's only human nature
we wait for our creations to be a hit
so we feel a little bit more mature

Our intentions must be
somewhat the same
Am I wrong in thinking that we all
want a little bit of fame
Maybe the word falls short to describe
I mean we all want to be seen
Make a small impact, "please subscribe"
Everyone wants to be part of the scene

Oh but "I don't care what I am",
that's not what I do
Ah but unfortunately
that's not even half true
I didn't care much when
I started out
Simply because
I wasn't so proud
Of being able to write
my most inner thoughts down
and still call them
my own
And I still don't feel
proud in comparison
All these beautiful souls on here
This lyrical ship has quite a strong garrison

But it makes me sad and I wonder
about some of you
and that's why I started to ponder
cause I have no clue
What does "a follow for a follow" mean
If that's all we do
what does it matter, why so keen

Do you think it's only fair
I follow you, you follow me
But I want you to really care
To click because you want to see
Silly little adventures that I share
and who I want to be

I still strive to feel connected
I read of you
til I'm feeling like everything's collected
Is it too much to ask to wish you'd too
Wyatt 1d
I just wanna post for you,
I just want you to see me.
I’m lost in real life
and this place here
knows the real me.
I’ve run out of words,
please forgive me.
My subjects are all stale.

I just wanna post for you,
I just want you to notice me.
Someday I hope my writing
could be a gift for me.
These days I feel like
my words lose their magic
and the reader is moving on
to the next beautiful thing.

I just wanna post for you,
even though my mind is empty.
I’m trapped in my life
and this is my only escape.
It’s like I’m stuck in
a violent dance with fate,
swinging me around
for all your eyes to see.

Are my pages ripped too much?
Do my words turn you off?
Does the literal me
discourage your vision of me?
Are vague metaphors
the only way you’ll read?
I like to pretend I’m innovative,
but I run out of artsy things to say.
A lot of times I’m
treading the same ground
trying to stay in the now.
My life is a fleeting moment,
my words will grow old
as I have.
Forever, but stale.
Forgotten
like the pain I
put up for sale.
I just want to know you
like you know me,
in this moment, now.
I just wanna post for you,
I want you to see me.
I love this feeling I get to exist to you, the reader. But there is an intense pressure to stay relevant to you all and to not be forgotten in the past. I worry that my words and my stories are losing their weight. I wanna exist to you all. Thank you for reading.
Ink
Not enough ink
In my pen
To express myself
With an enticing
poetic brilliance
But more than enough ink
In the same pen
To write my thoughts
Plainly
with unadorned words
And conventional phrases
Often adding
a rhyme or two
To impart
A reading experience
Which I hope
Is at an arm's length
From being dull
and monotonous
Just a thought
People write such cliche poems.

True love that goes on for lifetimes.

A gray city in the rain, colored only by the music of life.

Hot coffee entrenching the soul with warmth in the crisp autumn.

The perfect snowflake landing on the nose of his winter angel.

The smell of northwestern pines after a heavy storm.

Her unparalleled footprints in the sand with each angelic step.

Tailgate stargazing on an ideal summer night, hands intertwined.

But isn't that what poetry is all about?

The most heartfelt descriptions about the broadest of beautiful moments?

~S.C. Kelley
For those who write, feel, and everything else
Denny C 2d
His hands were red like cherry juice that dripped in late December
The last thing he said to her he now could not remember
A lipstick stain remained on a fragment of a wine glass
Swept under a twill rug, reminiscent of time passed
She was a Marigold, tinged with a heavy glow
He was winter cold, for she was unable to grow
She was far too beautiful for this world or the next
He lost her a lifetime ago, although he won't confess
Sick, the voices told him to do it
Surrendering to them just to get it through quick
Now and then he sees her in the meadow by their home
He goes to her and feels her breath, but he's standing all alone
Seeking a reminder in the coolness of the air
Digging up the bones of something that was never there
His reflection, the pain, a life that had been fled
For she was always just another voice in his head

-DC-
An aura of whipsers
Yolanda 3d
See you,
See me,
See us.

See nothing...
Feel nothing...

Only what was,
What we hoped we could be,
& what we never were

Oh how I wish we could go back to what we were
What we had
What we shared...

See you
See me
See us...
Do we really mean nothing at all?
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