#creativeprocess - Hello Poetry

A cosy room of books and green breath, Light music hums through space. The air whispers of peace. Fingers and keys, words and thoughts, A silent battle simmers beneath.

0

Nov 9, 2025

Nov 9, 2025 at 5:09 PM UTC

pirikli

⚔️A Battle for Peace🕊️

A cosy room of books and green breath, Light music hums through space. The air whispers of peace. Fingers and keys, words and thoughts, A silent battle simmers beneath.

5

In nine years — those nine years ago, where it all first bled, my hand chased after words like birds startled into flight; each letter a feather I tried to hold, each silence, a wing that trembled. These fingers ran that day — still running, from the moment ink first called my name. Less of a speech, more a prayer pressed through assembly lines of thought; for the soul is not a factory, but a forge — and every verse I hammered, sparked and seared another part of me alive. Like a leaf falling in love mid-air, I found gravity too gentle to fear; I fell, I wrote, and somewhere before hitting the ground I truly learned that _leaving_ and _leafing_ were the same thing: growth disguised as a humble descent. I could never leave the pen alone, though sometimes I’d put it down, just long enough to hear it whisper back, "Are we really done, or just beginning?" And so I’d wait — for new trees to rise from the mulch of old ideas, roots feeding on yesterday’s failures, branches reaching toward an unwritten sky. Nine years — and I, the son of my own beginnings, a poet, a writer, a craftsman made of paper cuts and persistence. Now my body is the parchment, my breath the ink; I left fingerprints in every stanza as if to remind myself — __I was here!__ To leave this body, and to leave this breath, is not to die, but to scatter — to bleed into every margin of the world. And when the last drop dries, they’ll still find me pressed between these pages, a ghost of graphite and grace. Nine years ago, I met the pen — and it said to me, "Take my hand, and believe." And I did. And I still do. Every line since has been proof of that promise.

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Oct 15, 2025

Oct 15, 2025 at 4:54 PM UTC

OddOdysseyPoet

Nine Years and a Pen

In nine years — those nine years ago, where it all first bled, my hand chased after words like birds startled into flight; each letter a feather I tried to hold, each silence, a wing that trembled. These fingers ran that day — still running, from the moment ink first called my name. Less of a speech, more a prayer pressed through assembly lines of thought; for the soul is not a factory, but a forge — and every verse I hammered, sparked and seared another part of me alive. Like a leaf falling in love mid-air, I found gravity too gentle to fear; I fell, I wrote, and somewhere before hitting the ground I truly learned that _leaving_ and _leafing_ were the same thing: growth disguised as a humble descent. I could never leave the pen alone, though sometimes I’d put it down, just long enough to hear it whisper back, "Are we really done, or just beginning?" And so I’d wait — for new trees to rise from the mulch of old ideas, roots feeding on yesterday’s failures, branches reaching toward an unwritten sky. Nine years — and I, the son of my own beginnings, a poet, a writer, a craftsman made of paper cuts and persistence. Now my body is the parchment, my breath the ink; I left fingerprints in every stanza as if to remind myself — __I was here!__ To leave this body, and to leave this breath, is not to die, but to scatter — to bleed into every margin of the world. And when the last drop dries, they’ll still find me pressed between these pages, a ghost of graphite and grace. Nine years ago, I met the pen — and it said to me, "Take my hand, and believe." And I did. And I still do. Every line since has been proof of that promise.

25

I woke up before the noise, breathed with the trees, walked with the sky. The sun hadn't yawned yet, but I had — twice. Back home, I made coffee strong enough to slap me awake. I whispered to my cup, "Let's be productive today." It didn’t answer — but I believed in us. I sat down with math— chapter four, page full of promises. I underlined the heading, adjusted my pen cap five times, then sharpened a pencil I didn’t even need. Pro-level procrastination unlocked. Midway through one sad-looking equation, my phone lit up— first a comment, then a reel, then a cat dancing to lo-fi beats. Fifteen minutes later, I knew three dessert recipes and forgot the formula I never really knew. Suddenly, a line hit me— not from the textbook, but from somewhere softer. A poem idea. Just a line, I thought. A quick jot. A harmless verse. But the line grew limbs, called in stanzas, and started demanding metaphors. So I gave in. I gave it my quiet, my hours, my last sip of cold coffee. A crow watched me from the window grill like it knew I was failing both maths and time. And now— the sun is long gone, the sky has tucked itself in. The poem is finished, polished and breathing. But that chapter? Still untouched. Still waiting.

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Aug 16, 2025

Aug 16, 2025 at 12:58 PM UTC

Adora_Sunshine2004

A Morning's Undoing

I woke up before the noise, breathed with the trees, walked with the sky. The sun hadn't yawned yet, but I had — twice. Back home, I made coffee strong enough to slap me awake. I whispered to my cup, "Let's be productive today." It didn’t answer — but I believed in us. I sat down with math— chapter four, page full of promises. I underlined the heading, adjusted my pen cap five times, then sharpened a pencil I didn’t even need. Pro-level procrastination unlocked. Midway through one sad-looking equation, my phone lit up— first a comment, then a reel, then a cat dancing to lo-fi beats. Fifteen minutes later, I knew three dessert recipes and forgot the formula I never really knew. Suddenly, a line hit me— not from the textbook, but from somewhere softer. A poem idea. Just a line, I thought. A quick jot. A harmless verse. But the line grew limbs, called in stanzas, and started demanding metaphors. So I gave in. I gave it my quiet, my hours, my last sip of cold coffee. A crow watched me from the window grill like it knew I was failing both maths and time. And now— the sun is long gone, the sky has tucked itself in. The poem is finished, polished and breathing. But that chapter? Still untouched. Still waiting.

53

It’s hard for me to read good books— the kind that pull me in, where I live inside the characters’ lives. I begin to become the story, and then, suddenly, the urge to write bursts open in me. Ideas tumble over each other, and I rush to my notes app to catch every drop of inspiration before it slips away. A book I could read in an hour stretches into days, because reading always makes me want to write.

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Aug 25, 2025

Aug 25, 2025 at 6:16 AM UTC

girlinflames

Reading Makes Me Write

It’s hard for me to read good books— the kind that pull me in, where I live inside the characters’ lives. I begin to become the story, and then, suddenly, the urge to write bursts open in me. Ideas tumble over each other, and I rush to my notes app to catch every drop of inspiration before it slips away. A book I could read in an hour stretches into days, because reading always makes me want to write.

15

This poem I want it to show me the way These days, how can I nurture my love more? What kind of a poem would truly help me? How can I be helpful to others, too? I choose my words pretty carefully. Should I write about life? Should I be avoiding strife, and holding on and feeling off? But it all belongs here, I can't make it disappear... Feeling stuck and trying to move, Listening to one's heart's groove, Hoping for an answer in the distance... A white boat sailing towards the sun, Those last seconds before it disappears In the ocean, or the sea... Darkness comes and the red goes away, We experience change anyway. Nurturing my soul by giving hope to others, Writing from the heart, late at night in bed. Instead of healthily falling asleep, My mind was searching for a place to take the leap, To express concerns and worries to me, To make me want to let go genuinely, But I ever slow begin to understand, What it means when I don't need to pretend. I don't know how I would handle that...

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Jul 20, 2025

Jul 20, 2025 at 8:19 PM UTC

silvervi

An investigative poem

This poem I want it to show me the way These days, how can I nurture my love more? What kind of a poem would truly help me? How can I be helpful to others, too? I choose my words pretty carefully. Should I write about life? Should I be avoiding strife, and holding on and feeling off? But it all belongs here, I can't make it disappear... Feeling stuck and trying to move, Listening to one's heart's groove, Hoping for an answer in the distance... A white boat sailing towards the sun, Those last seconds before it disappears In the ocean, or the sea... Darkness comes and the red goes away, We experience change anyway. Nurturing my soul by giving hope to others, Writing from the heart, late at night in bed. Instead of healthily falling asleep, My mind was searching for a place to take the leap, To express concerns and worries to me, To make me want to let go genuinely, But I ever slow begin to understand, What it means when I don't need to pretend. I don't know how I would handle that...

26

This wisdom should be on the streets My wisdom should be on the streets My wisdom should be on the walls These words deserve to be seen This knowledge should not be ignored. These skies aren't just falling They're spreading wide apart To let us all inside Into the universe's heart The ocean is the place To be and sea is paradise Whenever hearts are aching The water calms the mind Where the sun sets brighten the landscape New ideas take a different shape And as the moon smiles down on us We're simply here on our soul vacation The wind is howling-helping us To sail across the ocean-atmosphere Where far is close And the horizon's near We eat and drink We dream, we film We sing in silence to ourselves We're one with beautiful sun rays As I am letting go, Floating, finding words, Coming from the heart Of this country's evening ride We're simply carrying on In waves of love It has so many faces As well as phases Always enough For all of us If we look closer And we trust.

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Jul 9, 2025

Jul 9, 2025 at 8:03 AM UTC

silvervi

Wise graffiti

This wisdom should be on the streets My wisdom should be on the streets My wisdom should be on the walls These words deserve to be seen This knowledge should not be ignored. These skies aren't just falling They're spreading wide apart To let us all inside Into the universe's heart The ocean is the place To be and sea is paradise Whenever hearts are aching The water calms the mind Where the sun sets brighten the landscape New ideas take a different shape And as the moon smiles down on us We're simply here on our soul vacation The wind is howling-helping us To sail across the ocean-atmosphere Where far is close And the horizon's near We eat and drink We dream, we film We sing in silence to ourselves We're one with beautiful sun rays As I am letting go, Floating, finding words, Coming from the heart Of this country's evening ride We're simply carrying on In waves of love It has so many faces As well as phases Always enough For all of us If we look closer And we trust.

37

i don't consider myself much of an author though you could call me a poet i have a book, turns out i guess i've been living under its illusion but today, after three months of it being public i held it in my hands and went through the pages i'm not super proud, i'll admit it's not perfect, barely anything if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look poetic or pass off as poetry i'm no professional, barely perfection but the title does say perhaps we could be anything so here i was, reading through, found a good few but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought when i penned down that thought and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing? _thing, huh._ really low of me to put it that way when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake no plans, thoroughly unrequired i know many creators ones who are artists, and they almost always mention _“i'm not really proud of that one”_ — the particular one that marked their beginning but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules that lead to more such evenings when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece, put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon — maybe not everyone would critique are we ever really proud of all that we do? do we really accept it? then this particular vision erupted in my head i held the book, held it in my hands and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed i was left to accept that if anyone wanted, they could have had parts of me the specific ones inside the book and the ones in the title and in the words and in the emotions that led it on and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there? perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice not super proud again — but hey, _i'm a poet!_ i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads i think i might be onto something like let it enfold you by charles bukowski god, i don't know the man not his works or of any other plans but i do know that words stick the meaning they carry does too and if i say i love the book (yet to like it) _will you read it for me too?_

0

May 29, 2025

May 29, 2025 at 11:13 AM UTC

poeticaofisshues

perhaps we could be stars

i don't consider myself much of an author though you could call me a poet i have a book, turns out i guess i've been living under its illusion but today, after three months of it being public i held it in my hands and went through the pages i'm not super proud, i'll admit it's not perfect, barely anything if i were to compare my current writing with that of the book i'd call myself childish when i thought it could look poetic or pass off as poetry i'm no professional, barely perfection but the title does say perhaps we could be anything so here i was, reading through, found a good few but most seemed to lack the fervor that i thought when i penned down that thought and once again i wondered, am i supposed to be proud of this thing? _thing, huh._ really low of me to put it that way when i started writing and it was a beginner's sake no plans, thoroughly unrequired i know many creators ones who are artists, and they almost always mention _“i'm not really proud of that one”_ — the particular one that marked their beginning but i guess the beginnings are the time capsules that lead to more such evenings when you finalize a draft, finalize a piece, put it out there wondering maybe it still lacks it but the heartbeat — of that moment when it's passed on and upon — maybe not everyone would critique are we ever really proud of all that we do? do we really accept it? then this particular vision erupted in my head i held the book, held it in my hands and it was out there, and anyone could peek into my head it escalated — vibrant imagery indeed i was left to accept that if anyone wanted, they could have had parts of me the specific ones inside the book and the ones in the title and in the words and in the emotions that led it on and even though it wasn't everything, not as i'd desired maybe someone could find a piece they loved in there? perhaps it wasn't that bad of a choice not super proud again — but hey, _i'm a poet!_ i've been writing more, learning better, and listening loads i think i might be onto something like let it enfold you by charles bukowski god, i don't know the man not his works or of any other plans but i do know that words stick the meaning they carry does too and if i say i love the book (yet to like it) _will you read it for me too?_

55

I wanna make ****** songs to sing my poetry but I can't find any chords that match my symphony. So spread your wings and give me creativity, cause all I need is inspiration; an epiphany. Play a few chords on your guitar. Please, sing to me. I’ll always be thankful for the embrace your words tuck me in. Maybe someday, I’ll be the one behind the mic singing poetry.

0

Apr 17, 2025

Apr 17, 2025 at 2:59 PM UTC

izan_almira

Singing poetry

I wanna make ****** songs to sing my poetry but I can't find any chords that match my symphony. So spread your wings and give me creativity, cause all I need is inspiration; an epiphany. Play a few chords on your guitar. Please, sing to me. I’ll always be thankful for the embrace your words tuck me in. Maybe someday, I’ll be the one behind the mic singing poetry.

21

I wonder what the pages I left hanging feel. All of the things I promised I would write on it — gone just like that. Does it still have the faith in me? Will it ever be able to trust someone else if they found it? I feel sorry for those pages, but I do have a reason! I may not be the best person there is, but I do wish for every page to be finished — pages full of words, proud and filled. But if I were to deliberately finish one just for the sake of finishing it — won't that be unfair to the page? Therefore, I made a painful decision: to leave it unfinished! Unfinished it may be, so, but at least it will still have the essence of something meaningful. I hope the page forgives me for what I took away from it. But I never had a better choice. After all, it is my fault. -Asher Graves

0

Apr 17, 2025

Apr 17, 2025 at 11:50 AM UTC

the_little_bystander

The Pages Left Unwritten

I wonder what the pages I left hanging feel. All of the things I promised I would write on it — gone just like that. Does it still have the faith in me? Will it ever be able to trust someone else if they found it? I feel sorry for those pages, but I do have a reason! I may not be the best person there is, but I do wish for every page to be finished — pages full of words, proud and filled. But if I were to deliberately finish one just for the sake of finishing it — won't that be unfair to the page? Therefore, I made a painful decision: to leave it unfinished! Unfinished it may be, so, but at least it will still have the essence of something meaningful. I hope the page forgives me for what I took away from it. But I never had a better choice. After all, it is my fault. -Asher Graves

22

There is this thing about spiraling; isn't it beautiful in a way? I am like a ballerina; turning and twisting against the same spot; turning it into poetry.

0

Apr 12, 2025

Apr 12, 2025 at 1:52 PM UTC

izan_almira

Spiraling is kinda like ballet

There is this thing about spiraling; isn't it beautiful in a way? I am like a ballerina; turning and twisting against the same spot; turning it into poetry.

5

I sometimes wonder if I could make a poem out of all the metaphors that have been scrapped because of what surrounded them. If I could make a clique, where they’d join strong and leave their pasts. Create a new country of love, for all the unique metaphors that died because they didn’t know better. *“I want to scream but forgot how to talk” “The fear I felt drained in my blood and I now have it tattooed in my tears” “Opportunities that slip off your fingers like fish in the depths of a lake” “my fears were dissolved into tears”* …

0

Apr 12, 2025

Apr 12, 2025 at 1:50 PM UTC

izan_almira

Maybe ‘metaphor’ is a metaphor in this poem

I sometimes wonder if I could make a poem out of all the metaphors that have been scrapped because of what surrounded them. If I could make a clique, where they’d join strong and leave their pasts. Create a new country of love, for all the unique metaphors that died because they didn’t know better. *“I want to scream but forgot how to talk” “The fear I felt drained in my blood and I now have it tattooed in my tears” “Opportunities that slip off your fingers like fish in the depths of a lake” “my fears were dissolved into tears”* …

16

I scratch my scars peel them off. Turn them into scraps. They never stop bleeding because I don’t want them to. This poetry is made of pain, a style nib dipped in blood. Verses made of hatred. of pain; of blood Some people need a sunset and a coffee to find their words. What I need is to fill my body with my own aches until there is and nothing I left can dip my words in it.

0

Apr 3, 2025

Apr 3, 2025 at 4:37 AM UTC

izan_almira

Creative process

I scratch my scars peel them off. Turn them into scraps. They never stop bleeding because I don’t want them to. This poetry is made of pain, a style nib dipped in blood. Verses made of hatred. of pain; of blood Some people need a sunset and a coffee to find their words. What I need is to fill my body with my own aches until there is and nothing I left can dip my words in it.

28

Do you remember that first poetry book? *Poemas de Otoño de Rubén Darío.* Do you remember when you borrowed it? “It was the first book she ever read out of pleasure” Your mother said. *It was the last one too, wasn’t it?* Because you are gone now. Gone forever. Gone with no coming back, gone with no reply, with no promise of an “I’ll meet you again” Nothing. You are no longer there to console me. There is nothing to cling into. No hope. No hope except for a shallow dream, the empty promise of the afterworld, the holy gates. I’d be religious just for you. But my brain was never made for blind belief. So I’ll pull deidities aside and grasp into poetry, in a hope that if heaven can’t be real at least I’ll bring my demons into earth. Into paper. Into ink.

0

Apr 3, 2025

Apr 3, 2025 at 4:18 AM UTC

izan_almira

That first poetry book

Do you remember that first poetry book? *Poemas de Otoño de Rubén Darío.* Do you remember when you borrowed it? “It was the first book she ever read out of pleasure” Your mother said. *It was the last one too, wasn’t it?* Because you are gone now. Gone forever. Gone with no coming back, gone with no reply, with no promise of an “I’ll meet you again” Nothing. You are no longer there to console me. There is nothing to cling into. No hope. No hope except for a shallow dream, the empty promise of the afterworld, the holy gates. I’d be religious just for you. But my brain was never made for blind belief. So I’ll pull deidities aside and grasp into poetry, in a hope that if heaven can’t be real at least I’ll bring my demons into earth. Into paper. Into ink.

41

if i couldn’t - feel - for a day, i wonder - how i’d feel about it the next day; to not have a memory i can name; to come out the other side, to realize - the story’s still the same. what would i even call such a day? i guess - it’d still be a regular day... for others to see me - like, they’ve always seen me under the sun. just for a day, put my soul out of the equation. i wonder where i’d even start, with my mind, and my tongue - both poles apart. no self-esteem to feed, nor the regrets - to fight about. **** what would i even write about...?

0

Dec 15, 2024

Dec 15, 2024 at 11:16 AM UTC

dead_poet

if i couldn't feel for a day

if i couldn’t - feel - for a day, i wonder - how i’d feel about it the next day; to not have a memory i can name; to come out the other side, to realize - the story’s still the same. what would i even call such a day? i guess - it’d still be a regular day... for others to see me - like, they’ve always seen me under the sun. just for a day, put my soul out of the equation. i wonder where i’d even start, with my mind, and my tongue - both poles apart. no self-esteem to feed, nor the regrets - to fight about. **** what would i even write about...?

22

You asked for this door. One foot through the Other trembling in the stars. You can[not] have balance without halfway seeking defeat. Stone's on the water now. Float or sink.

0

Feb 1, 2019

Feb 1, 2019 at 2:40 AM UTC

f-white

Cups

You asked for this door. One foot through the Other trembling in the stars. You can[not] have balance without halfway seeking defeat. Stone's on the water now. Float or sink.

6