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Before five thousand years ago
There was no written language
Communication was oral
Morality was moral
It was prehistoric
They didn't lack rhetoric
Art and literature were there
They couldn't write poems as I did
Every piece created in mind
Every piece existed in mind
Communication was through sound
Experience, knowledge, literature
From generation to generation
All were passed oral
There was no written confirmation
Everything committed to memory
Huge scriptures in the tally
But change is the law of Nature
Motion permanent
Rest temporary
Time changes
Forms of words and expressions change
Semantics change
Understanding change
Oral things with ease change
Same story
Different people, different versions
Scholars brought in writing later
Create huge task for researchers
Researchers look for evidence
Some kind of evidence they may find
Theses they write
Some commonalities do emerge
There's a popular surge
With pride people declare
Their forefathers were great
They knew everything
Which scientists now struggle to find
Researchers research reflects more of their minds
Difficult to tell
How closely prehistoric scriptures, knowledge
They define
Languages changed, usage changed
Semantics changed
Amelioration, pejoration
Additions, deletions
Happened over thousands years
Prehistoric remains more of a mystery
What scholars and researchers tell you
If you find useful in life
Please do imbibe
Don't fight
Let scientists show you the light!
There is no poetry that will stop being written because every day a young poet is born and love is born every day.
Indonesia, 11th April 2021
Arif Aditya Abyan Nugroho
Naveen Malhotra Dec 2020
Rot is written
Written is beautiful
So rot is beautiful
Simple logic
Any confusion?
Rot skillfully
Make wine, vinegar
Poet's skills
Rot is written
Written is beautiful
So rot is beautiful
Ann M Johnson Nov 2020
I feel the need to get away to another place in time
I indeed have you on my mind
If I am in the mood for romance I will dance to your tune
I hope to meet you again soon
If I need to spice up my life with mystery or suspense you will me my guide
When I need to learn a historical fact  you will happily oblige
The sky is the limit of the adventures in store for me when I am with you
I have had the joy of discovering you at a young age
You sometimes appear alone
You sometimes come in trilogy's
You sometimes are contained in many volumes
You share with me some sonnets, poems or prose
You are held within a blanket of various colors and textures
  You are at times  in pristine condition or weathered and worn
  You are at times leather bound no matter how you are arrayed
   I have not strayed from my love of the written word
    I will take another look and pick up and read my favorite book
Words never said
Only written down
Never seen by anyone
Never noticed
The smile on my face
It's only fake
My happy attitude only comes from force
Leave it to me
To see a tool
A box cutter
And only think about stealing the blade
Not for cutting a box though
Written words
Words unspoken
Silence is the loudest scream
Tell that to everyone else
Written words
Not on paper but skin
Written words
Not with ink but blood
Scars forming
Never to go away again
Don't forget to purchase your very own copy of my book, "Digging Graves in Flower Beds," by Alexandria Grigsby
Link in Bio!
In the last few years
I have written
My thoughts and the many emotions
Sometimes I have let them flow
in words I know
Other times have let them simmer and vaporise
There is Knowledge gained and wisdom too
Many times both evade, dimmed by hazy thoughts
Lessons that I have learned and try to implement
To never share the joys and sorrows
with people who don’t understand, neither
And that knowledge and ignorance can both be bliss
When gained
And when one learns to ignore
colette alexia Aug 2020
Him
Like looking for a song that hasn’t been written
I’m looking for a love that hasn’t yet existed
I don’t know who, how, or when
But I know I can’t wait to meet him
08.10.2020
Nylee Aug 2020
Your words speak to me
They were never written for me
The feelings carved on the paper
It never had my name
but I'd have it framed.

But all I felt it was,
each lines bringing me to heaven,
and artistically genius
It was a nerve touched upon
so beautiful,
I envied the person
If only I will ever be that lucky
to have poems written for me.

The ones so full of passion
emotion, to be loved as gently,
patiently
where every verse turns immortal,
how could it ever be me
!
I have never written about you                                          
The bond we share,
The chance to be one, which I blew.
You mend us and tried to clear the air,
But I already accepted the fall which I knew.
I am responsible for every tear, I swear.
You were right and always true.
I regret but, to accept this in past, I scare.
never accepted my fault and never thought of writing about all your good deeds till now when you are gone...
lmnsinner Jun 2020
you haven’t written me a love poem in so long


around midnight,
two too together,
climb in to bed,
covers tucked,
up to their chins,
happy old souls
settling in 4 the evening...

suddenly followed,
by a furious
sixty seconds of
running and rubbing,
semi-serious sinning,
hands up ‘n down
any part, nearest, handy,
public or private, dandy,
maybe even a minute moaning,
a simple reassurance,
a kind of insurance,
covering bases,
first, second and third,
yeah, he/she to me, attracted...

exhausted, contorted,
exalted, these two fossils,
rising like a holy ghosts,
from the dust bin of
a jointed storied history,
begin to race, who will,
be first to sleep-snoring...

yet

one of them thinking
in those waning moments,

you haven’t written me
a love poem in so long,


the other, thinking happily,

ha! finally learned to keep
poems, short and simple


and both of them
kaput, lights out darkened,
until coffee arrives by
seven thirty morn light,
handmade, by hand delivered...
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