Submit your work, meet writers and drop the ads. Become a member
I cannot seem to write
without rhyming.

It is not a simple matter
of timing
but has become
my mental wiring.

I find other
poets so inspiring
so deeply

But my brain
has lost the ability
to make any poetry
without playing with
BREATHE.... IN....

Use Your Nose And Mouth...
So That Your Body Can Move Around... !!!

I BREATHE Poetry...
Pretty Much EVERY DAY... !!!!!

And Find That It HELPS...
To Keep Me... SANE... !!!!!!

It Also HELPS To FEED My Brain...
Just Like OXYGEN....
EVERY TIME I.... “ Inhale “.... !!!!

I USED TO Breathe In Ways...
That ASTHMA Sufferers HATE... !!!

Sometimes With A Wheeze...
At DISCONCERTING Speeds... !!!

Because My Lungs...
Couldn’t Get ENOUGH...
of The Air I NEEDED...
With The Type of Ease...
That ENABLES ME To Write Poetry...
At Rates That BEAT Like Usain’s Feet... !!!!!!

At A Comfortable Pace...
EVEN WHEN He Raced...
At The OLYMPIC Games... !!!

I BET He Breathed....
That Would.... AMAZE.... !!!!!

ESPECIALLY When He HIT The Tape... !!!!!!
When Making His Name By Running To FAME... !!!

While Most Just Breathe To Fuel Their Veins...
So CAPILLARIES Arrange Nutrients and Waste....
So That We Can... MAINTAIN...
And Take The STRAIN of Getting Through Days...

WITHOUT... TOO MUCH Pain... !!!

While Words I Breathe FULFIL My Need...
To Poetically Let My Thoughts Run FREE... !!!

So That I Can SHOW How... Mentally...
I Breathe THOUGHTFULLY And Philosophically...
Through Breaths That FEED And FUEL My Speech...

....... “ Mellifluously “....... !!!!!!!!

Because My Poetry Flows RHYTHMICALLY... !!!!!
Just Like The Seas That FEED Our Streams...
With WAVES of Thought That CREATIVELY Reach...

A Level of... Base Mentalities...

NOT Basic But INVASIVE.....
When It Comes To Words I SEEK....
To Speak On Things I’ve Seen.... !!!

And How My Life Has Been...
The Theme.... REALITY.... !!!!!!!!

Or Breathe FALLACIES... !!!!!
Through HOW I Be...
Or... ARTISTICALLY... !!!!!

I Breathe A Life of CLARITY...
So That HAPPILY EVEN IF Asthmatically...
My Breathing TRIES To DAMAGE ME... !!!!

It PROVES To Me How Strong I’ve Been...
Because At 46.....
My Breathing STILL LIVES... !!!!!

And FUELS These Scripts...
I Choose To.... FLIP....

My Mind To Find...
That Exercise Me MENTALLY... !!!

So That My Use of Poetry...

........ MAJESTICALLY........ !!!!!!!

Can Show The World How EASILY.....
My Poetry... SUCCESSFULLY...

Enables Me... “ Creatively “...
To... Use My Art To........

........  “ BREATHE “.......
We all got to do it ....
Aerien 3d
not even good enough to be classed a hack
try poetaster
but making more money than me
and more people reblog all their
juvenile word *****
than they do anyone else’s--
ah, legitimacy has been declared!
shots have been fired!
there it is, ladies and gents
the ultimate arbiter of quality:
the approval of social media!

do please excuse me,
let me go and burn my wings in penance.

may every poet you meet
stab you in the heart with their pen
and if they do not,
send them back in shame and disdain.
“Look at me, I’m honest and I’m free, I was born to underachieve” -- Manic Street Preachers
Aerien 3d
after much thought, Jack, and much watching,
I must say that I disagree:
while no, we must not wait for her silvery flashes,
you cannot chase her down with a club, I fear.

she is the timidest of all fragile creatures,
mist-fine, shyer than summer snow;
she bruises easily, for she is tender & swelled with the magic we seek.

she will not be hunted, she is sharper than us
she will hide over horizons beyond our ken
she will slipslide into darknesses we cannot reach
beyond saltwater, stars, ends and beginnings

she is the heartbeat of the butterfly,
she chases gold along the edges of our reality
she is a mirage and so painfully real
you cannot pursue such a creature with the brutality of mortal force.

coax her. let the strains of sound like raindrops of starlight play.
close your eyes. her whispers will be faint,
almost faded, but when you hear them --
a soulquake of colours, like the most miraculous of sunrises,
the most peaceful and blessed of firestained sunsets.

assure her. approach her as an equal, another magical being:
flutter your wings, sharpen your fangs, weave webs with her.
play her music, offer her gifts, offer her your open heart.

she will wait. behind every blockage, she will wait.
embrace her frail form, and she will turn the world
into all the wonders you've ever dreamed.
because she subsists on your dreams;
this is a two-soul spinning dance.
“Don't loaf and invite inspiration; light out after it with a club, and if you don't get it you will nonetheless get something that looks remarkably like it." - Jack London
What is it to be perfect?
An illusion , a special effect?
Where is perfection?
Non existent, a disconnect

There's no happiness without sadness
There's no sun without the moon
No light without the darkness
No crisis without a honeymoon

At times he drives me crazy
Annoying, somewhat lazy
I think he doesn't hear me
Conflict .....disagreeing

The way he strokes my hair
So tender, so sweet, so bare
The way his lips touch mine
A delicasy, so divine

A balance emotionally needed
At times strong, at times defeated
All this makes me feel whole
He fills the gap, there is no hole
His every single imperfection
Becomes part of my perfection
natalie 4d
the moon sets in the sky
like a bird knows how to fly,
many people travel by
they never wonder why.

days go by and by
are you living on a lie?

when you speak do you think?
do you ever stop to blink?
have you ever felt the brink?

you have to come to terms
the reality flame must burn,
you cant live your life like this
if youre living like a fish...

trapped in endless water,
do you ever even bother
to look at yourself and say
there has to be a better way.

there has to be happier days,
a tree with perfect shade
an unflawed picture in its frame
life cannot be a waiting game.
Who knew life would last so long.
so tedious and and constant in aging.
( birth - one - two - … - dead )
And if someone knew how long it would last,
Why would they sign that contract,
on the dotted line on an oak desk with
all too important looking business men greedily grinning.
(the devils favorite disguise)

Who knew of the beating of the heart-
so exciting and focused on one lovely face.
(or set of lips)
Like a party with a spinning bottle,
Soon to be the pulse of the first date.
And first night cashed in bed,
rolled over from exhaustion- excitement.
(a steady rhythm takes on different meanings here)

Who knew that words would be so tough.
so damnable and lackluster
(until they line up just right.)
And poems a love-hate-multi-night-stand.
where we always bicker and fight,
but always come back for one more line.
or in my case,
nothing at all.
writing seems to be increasingly hard and unbearable- although just as excitable and confounding as always.
I guess somethings never change, although even that fact I doubt.

also, found a new poet whos style I'm currently in love and awe of-
next poem will be about them.
Some poems last a century
Some poems last an hour
Yet others are satisfied
With holding no real power

I’ve done my purpose they say
No need to delay
Like a breeze that cools an infant’s head
Like a gentle kiss before bed
What remains of my poems
Is stillborn
Wrapped in senseless rhythm
Left to fend for itself
In the realm of thought

What remains of my poems
Is a pause
A seizure of the epileptic
The workmanship of
Industrious fallen angels
Trying to write when you have a writer's block
I whisper in the wind
Searching for the sun to win
I’m a pretty sunflower
Won’t you pick me for your whims
Next page