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J J 3d
Trying to catch a slice of thought process;
Like capturing lightening in a jar
            Only to smell it's exhumes.

It's a blessed freedom, to release
  an experience; an imitation of the world,
or an imitation of how others wrote and expressed
    the world, and at constant conflict to lose it's voice.

It can be enjoyably difficult (the best hobbies
    usually are) or flow smooth as blood thru vein.
   Pulling blood from a stone and unexpectedly
    heaving rainbowy rainwater can be it's own virtue--

    An idea caught half undeveloped
Only to shed cocoon to join the white blankness
And forever tarnish it's history--

As is existence,although we're too modest to admit it.

Writing is a piece of you and you belong to the human race,
and doubleedged a sword as that certitude is,
Writing is a piece of you left to the world.
Writing is forever
yasmin 4d
are you the ink
on this pad,
or the hand
guiding the pen?
What has changed.
Surely it must be plain to see.
Rooting oneself in anything but this moment.
Is one way to certainly spell disappointment.
Too many days spent autographing pages.
Like a name makes the man.
Or perhaps.
So that the past can only condemn its owner.
Destined to be a heretic of life itself.
A hidden transgression cant hurt those it does not reach.
Then why is it chained through the bone.
Chasing daylight like the moon.
Slowly the wound festers deep and driven.
Don't you know.
These ailments take on a mind for themselves.
why else would we create them if not to one day speak.
It is the stone that shatters a paradigm.
The avalanche brought down by a whisper.
Or rather a whimper.
Yet there can be no tears here.
Not when this creations time was set.
Don't be fooled by negligence wearing the mask of ignorance.
But first its time to put down the blame.
For there is no one else in the room....
...And that laughing was beginning to irritate.
I keep chasing lightning
Trying to catch it, lock it in a bottle
but when I do the bottle cracks
and I’m left empty-handed

Maybe I just don’t have what it takes
Maybe it’s not meant to be
Maybe I don’t know what I really want
Maybe I should let the passion wash away

I keep trying to start over with you
You say I need independency
The decisions should be mine
You say, “Maybe you need love too”
And I realize I don’t think I could take it if you walk away
But there ain’t nothing to do
And I should let it go

I keep trying to start over with me
Maybe I should listen
Get some medicine
Make it pink, I’ll swallow it
But would I be me?
And would you still love me?
And will the sadness go away, or will I just be numb to it?

Lightning brings thunder
Lightning brings grey storms
Why can’t you love me like lightning?
Because I keep losing track of you
And I, I don’t want to listen
Because I keep losing touch with you
And you, you don’t want to listen

I keep chasing lightning
Trying to catch it, lock it in a bottle
but when I do the bottle cracks
and I’m left empty-handed
Alexis 4d
all these poems I write
start with I,
I swear I’m not self centered
but they say write what you know.
So in a desperate attempt
to learn this soul of mine
All I write about
is me.
And you,
Yes, I write about you.
I write about the beauty of you.
Of how I would love to leave fingerprints on your heart and caress your soul .
I mean if you would allow me
To love you
Freely.
I write about you as if doing so will make you real
Haven’t met you, yet I know how you make me feel
Or maybe the reality is I have and the want is from memory
Pen to paper should imitate passion inked on you by me

No doubt that I am foolish, time winds and leaves us scarred
As if contradicting doors with a dozen locks, yet still ajar
Reminiscent of bruised fruit, but the heart only feels hunger
With you satiating the wanting and the ever driving wonder

And the poetry has gone on so long I know not if your real
I have no regrets, as the pen bleeds only what I feel
My mind like a drunken witness with an unreliable memory
With that in mind, I paint dripping words with my visions of you and me

Whoever you may be
japheth 5d
i miss writing
the emotions i’ve bottled in.

i guess
when you
frequently pour them out,
nothing’s left for you to spare.
i really do. any help to get out of this hole?
yasmin 5d
Because sometimes,
paper is the only one
who listens.
JKM 6d
It feels like I'm writing a story that is sure to have no happy ending.

And instead of being the one behind the pen, I'm the one being written.
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