#poetryaboutpoetry
four-thousand feet in the air
looking over the edge of the basket,
the feeling of wind in your hair
like a pipe has burst and you’re the gasket.
the feeling we’d feel if the world spun slowly,
if the poor were rich and the rich were lowly,
if the strong were weak and the weak were strong—
when Words are art and art is song.
my cup runneth over, it is filled with ink
and doubts and depths and doublethink
the wool is spun, this mess of thread
is the sunlight, the shadow, the sea in my head,
and i untangle it the one way i know how—
i pick up the pen and i write it all out.
Oct 1, 2025
Oct 1, 2025 at 5:33 PM UTC
I promise you,
Doom and gloom
Isn't all my poetry brings
I just have so much to say -
So let me sing!
I know they're long,
Mayhaps laborious
I like to use big words
Like noctilucence
But give them a read,
If you please
I'm no tease
My poems -
You just need to
Let them breathe
.....
🍒
Pretty please?
Jul 21, 2025
Jul 21, 2025 at 2:50 AM UTC
Are we meant to dissect
These poems with laboratory
Efficiency and precision?
Are we meant to
Pull them apart and
Split their seams and
Inspect them for flaws?
Or
Are we meant to
Let them spill into us and
Let their loveliness warm our
Souls!
Let them speak and sing and
Sweetly stutter, with a flutter
Let them trace our spirits back
Let them, like a flame, attract
Us until we are, like moths, consumed—
To love a flower, let it bloom.
Sep 30, 2024
Sep 30, 2024 at 3:34 PM UTC
The poetry
Claws at my rib cage
Like it’s a real cage.
Like it’s minimum wage
Come to pay up, pay a price.
It 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵 𝘣𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘴 like blood
Or bone.
It blooms like a flower
Then crashes like stone.
It flows out of my lips
Like music’s own bile—
Life’s a trial by fire
But this is fire by trial.
Jan 13, 2024
Jan 13, 2024 at 11:12 AM UTC
Poetry
Is our humble attempt
To describe
The indescribable.
Jan 11, 2024
Jan 11, 2024 at 1:54 PM UTC
i sit next to you
and we are silent and
i am scared but
you are more scared than
i am and when i
look at your eyes i
see a burning man
being stabbed from the
inside out and
i do not know what to say
because some things are
just not built for poems and
this is one of them.
Jul 20, 2023
Jul 20, 2023 at 1:32 PM UTC
I'm beginning to wonder
if I lost that magic touch;
These words used to come so easily,
to frame my dreams and nightmares
The paper used to beckon,
gleam like a beacon
While I was lost at sea, the words
would be the rope to pull me free
They gave me just a little bit of clarity,
until they faded away.
I reach and grasp,
maybe catch loose threads,
But it's never strong enough
to pull me to safety.
I miss the magic of words,
of creating invisible images.
It's just starting to feel like
my magic has faded.
Jun 28, 2023
Jun 28, 2023 at 12:18 AM UTC
Poems have been trying to pour out
of me for years.
But life gets in the way,
time gets in the way,
anything gets in the way.
But life without poetry,
without outlet, without art,
without the outlook
they all bring
is not life.
Life is meant to be
full, colorful, playful and bright,
even when all that flows from the tip of the pen
is dark and gloomy, especially then,
because when the darkness comes to light
and surfaces on the blank page,
lightness, color and love draw nearer,
swaddle, soothe and refuse to ever let go.
May 16, 2020
May 16, 2020 at 2:58 PM UTC
Within my mind, these little birds
fly around, nesting and living.
When one of them decides it's their
time to go,
they come up to the window.
They sit upon the sill and
patiently wait to be noticed.
Once our gazes meet, they
begin their final song, asking me
to memorialize them, their lives
into words and lines.
When they've sung their final breath and
all is done, they fly away
for good and float on.
May 10, 2020
May 10, 2020 at 11:51 PM UTC
Betwixt words, lines,
Poetry's music fathoms
The depths of our heart,
The heights of our intellect
And imagination,
Breadth of our spirit,
Well of our soul,
Alluding to the unknown,
Saliently. For, the muse
But whispers, silently,
Moving in mysterious ways.
Painting's music?
Inexpressible and felt,
Unknowable and experienced,
Of echoing images, silences.
Even the shadow
Speaks of the light.
Apr 29, 2019
Apr 29, 2019 at 10:48 PM UTC
A form of alchemy
By which
Emotional pain
Is transmuted
Into verbal pleasure.
Oct 7, 2015
Oct 7, 2015 at 10:51 PM UTC
“We make our meek adjustments,
Contented with such random consolations
As the wind deposits in slithered and too ample pockets.”
Hart Crane, “Chaplinesque”
A footstool in the desert.
A napkin in the netherworld.
A coffee stain in the margin.
Perfumed remains.
Systematic garnish.
Dorothy Stratten climbing Mt. Suribachi.
My late father’s toenail clippers.
Pale clouds over Slauson Avenue on the day after the L.A. riots.
A rhetoric of purpose.
A philosophy of decay.
A poem written to an audience of one.
©David Adamson 2015
Sep 27, 2015
Sep 27, 2015 at 8:33 PM UTC
Poetry is subjective
Relief and escape are relative.
My relief is another's hell.
Some pour their soul into words
Like their body was made to write
Some must force themselves
Into the confines of a word,
Their brain oozing out the top.
Beauty is a man-made concept.
The worth of art
is one soul's opinion.
She digests the poem
As if it is hand made pasta
It slips and slides through her
And she appreciates the chef.
In my body,
It is garbage.
The gritty texture triggers
A gag reflex.
I mash the letters with my teeth.
I cannot force them down.
Poetry is personal
These realizations cannot penetrate
A being who has not been pried open
In preparation.
I am not you,
Nor are you me.
My art is not yours.
Feb 5, 2015
Feb 5, 2015 at 11:36 PM UTC
My poetry lies there forgotten
Amidst the bustling crowd
Piled up books weighing it down
Books about practicality, books about reality
My poetry is still bursting
With possibilities of magic and of love
Ah! But the weight of logic
Weights down upon it
My poetry is all I rely on
Because the real world
Is too much to carry with myself
So I don't let it in
My poetry is my only visitor
On days when all is lost
It comes passionately, doesn't stay for long
And it retires exhausted
My poetry is.
My poetry was.
But, will my poetry be?
Ah! My poetry is 'me'
Jul 31, 2014
Jul 31, 2014 at 11:53 AM UTC