#justwrite - Hello Poetry

I knew and understood That once I stood up from this stool, While watching the flag dance on a pole In front of our very school, I knew and fairly understood That everything would shift in an instant. My life would change, and a chapter would end, Just like a Transformers movie, Just without Linkin Park Singing a song in the background. -Moonie

0

3d ago

Jun 1, 2026 at 9:50 AM UTC

MoonieNoonie

A Flag on a Pole

I knew and understood That once I stood up from this stool, While watching the flag dance on a pole In front of our very school, I knew and fairly understood That everything would shift in an instant. My life would change, and a chapter would end, Just like a Transformers movie, Just without Linkin Park Singing a song in the background. -Moonie

11

fear is an illusion that feels more real than life itself, at times. scores of artists have succumbed to the despair brought upon by the fear of overexposing themselves. you know them - the writers who won’t write - the painters who won’t paint - and the sculptors who won’t get their hands ***** maybe you’ve even met one or two. or know someone close to you who might be of a certain poignant disposition that’s impossible to ignore. if not, perhaps it’s time to have a closer look at the mirror. it’s true that those who dare to traverse the forest of the unknown must encounter the beasts that lurk in the darkness. some are benign. some are malevolent. at first, you’re terrified of them all. but as you go farther and deeper into the forest, you soon realize that they’ve become some of your dearest friends, despite all the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other during your skirmishes. you learn to tame them, feed them, and eventually, cage them. yet after all this, the question, or rather, the fear remains - can you ever bring them out into the real world? and more importantly, what would they do to your mind if you do? a scary thought for many artists, indeed. but perhaps these ‘beasts’ may not be as bloodthirsty for our spirits as we might think. perhaps, it’s about how we personify them in our minds. there’s a beautiful poem by charles bukowski called ‘bluebird’ that speaks exactly of this fear, and perhaps even offers an antidote. it immortalises the little bird in the writer’s heart, a rather benign beast, that sings every now and then, unafraid, and in spite of what its captor might think, or feel, or do. it reminds us that it’s okay to let the bird sing every now and then - because it will - and not let it die so finally. it implores us to not sacrifice it at the altar of perfection, but rather be gentle with its humble feathers. something i believe we could all do with our own little bluebirds.

0

Dec 11, 2024

Dec 11, 2024 at 11:22 AM UTC

dead_poet

the animals i've trapped

fear is an illusion that feels more real than life itself, at times. scores of artists have succumbed to the despair brought upon by the fear of overexposing themselves. you know them - the writers who won’t write - the painters who won’t paint - and the sculptors who won’t get their hands ***** maybe you’ve even met one or two. or know someone close to you who might be of a certain poignant disposition that’s impossible to ignore. if not, perhaps it’s time to have a closer look at the mirror. it’s true that those who dare to traverse the forest of the unknown must encounter the beasts that lurk in the darkness. some are benign. some are malevolent. at first, you’re terrified of them all. but as you go farther and deeper into the forest, you soon realize that they’ve become some of your dearest friends, despite all the wounds you’ve inflicted upon each other during your skirmishes. you learn to tame them, feed them, and eventually, cage them. yet after all this, the question, or rather, the fear remains - can you ever bring them out into the real world? and more importantly, what would they do to your mind if you do? a scary thought for many artists, indeed. but perhaps these ‘beasts’ may not be as bloodthirsty for our spirits as we might think. perhaps, it’s about how we personify them in our minds. there’s a beautiful poem by charles bukowski called ‘bluebird’ that speaks exactly of this fear, and perhaps even offers an antidote. it immortalises the little bird in the writer’s heart, a rather benign beast, that sings every now and then, unafraid, and in spite of what its captor might think, or feel, or do. it reminds us that it’s okay to let the bird sing every now and then - because it will - and not let it die so finally. it implores us to not sacrifice it at the altar of perfection, but rather be gentle with its humble feathers. something i believe we could all do with our own little bluebirds.

5

my throne is made of silver and bone tarnished and alone I sit waiting for you threads tie my wrists in ribbons of red string like a pretty little parcel another play thing you toy with me a game of cat and mouse watch your fingers unbutton the top of my blouse I watch as you uncover my chest to plunge a dull dagger into my breast shock sets first I sputter and cry blood then bursts hands covered red my eyes aglow a wounded animal blood pools below I think of your lips of sunshine kisses an ocean of care until that moment love was all fair now the price is paid heavy hearts lay I foam at the mouth like a rabid stray my crown is made of cobwebs and spiders I think of your face as consciousness fades

0

Mar 19, 2019

Mar 19, 2019 at 2:00 AM UTC

caduceus

Rule

my throne is made of silver and bone tarnished and alone I sit waiting for you threads tie my wrists in ribbons of red string like a pretty little parcel another play thing you toy with me a game of cat and mouse watch your fingers unbutton the top of my blouse I watch as you uncover my chest to plunge a dull dagger into my breast shock sets first I sputter and cry blood then bursts hands covered red my eyes aglow a wounded animal blood pools below I think of your lips of sunshine kisses an ocean of care until that moment love was all fair now the price is paid heavy hearts lay I foam at the mouth like a rabid stray my crown is made of cobwebs and spiders I think of your face as consciousness fades

36

I hope I hope you I hope you know I hope you know how I hope you know how you I hope you know how you make I hope you know how you make me I hope you know how you make me feel Loved....

0

Sep 12, 2017

Sep 12, 2017 at 3:03 PM UTC

tuffy-mutombo

I hope you

I hope I hope you I hope you know I hope you know how I hope you know how you I hope you know how you make I hope you know how you make me I hope you know how you make me feel Loved....

9

I may not be Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth or Robert Frost. But I am human and just as Whitman and Wordsworth and Frost wrote, so too can I write. So too can I share with strangers words that express my humanness because even if I'm not famous, I feel, I see, I hear, I simply exist. Isn't that what poetry does? Reminds us that we all experience this world similarly, We all grieve, We all seek, We all love, We all want, We all cry, We all wonder, We all simply exist. And that is enough for me to write, for you to write, and even if we don't get recognition, It's about conveying this notion of existing.

0

Jun 6, 2014

Jun 6, 2014 at 1:38 AM UTC

anonymouswasawoman

THE Human Notion

I may not be Walt Whitman or William Wordsworth or Robert Frost. But I am human and just as Whitman and Wordsworth and Frost wrote, so too can I write. So too can I share with strangers words that express my humanness because even if I'm not famous, I feel, I see, I hear, I simply exist. Isn't that what poetry does? Reminds us that we all experience this world similarly, We all grieve, We all seek, We all love, We all want, We all cry, We all wonder, We all simply exist. And that is enough for me to write, for you to write, and even if we don't get recognition, It's about conveying this notion of existing.

13