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alexis hill Jan 2016
No Inspiration

"Throw me a word. Any word. I need some inspiration."
"Bleeding strawberries."
I thanked them.
it was nothing earth shattering, mind blowing, or beautiful.
I wanted to ask for a another word.
I wanted a second toss at this word scrabble.
I didn't ask.
so I just used it.

I needed inspiration.

Bleeding made me think of crimson. and crimson made me think of colors.
colors made me think of pain.
strawberries made me think of The Beatles.
Strawberry Fields.
strawberry fields forever.

'let me take you down…'

I thought of endless fields back home. before I
moved to New York.
endless prairie's
fragments of sunlight
colored the masses of moving, breathing grass
my fingertips traced them
I climbed the tall tree
the tree in which I had laughed in.
cried in.
carved my name in.
the tree felt my presence
and remembered me by name.
I asked the tree if I was living was alright.
the tree responded.

The thought of home made me feel empty. so I purged the thought of it from my mind.

I focused in again on inspiration. I needed inspiration. though I had none.

A girl in the next room is playing the piano.
the piano is out of tune.
I wonder why she is playing.
maybe she needs to hear some sound
I need to hear words of inspiration
I begin a train of thought.
the piano is so out of tune.

I lose my inspiration.

I was alone in a room full of people. who threw me words of no inspiration.
colorless words.
that led to nothing inspiring.
bleeding strawberries
had made me think of color,
and The Beatles.
which had me think of music
or the place I had once called home
a piano player lost me
all to which led nowhere.

'Nowhere man, don't worry,
Take your time, don't hurry
Leave it all till somebody else
Lends you a hand'
Nothing inspired me.
no one inspired me.
I searched for inspiration.
yet found none.
I asked for inspiration.
I was thrown unusual words
which produced no inspiration

So I wrote completely uninspired.
with meaningless words
with deep feelings of homesickness
with the music of The Beatles
with an untuned piano.

All without an ounce of inspiration.
With these broad roads and vise lands
With nothing at hand you brought me up
And gave me so much more than you ever had
You were my inspiration
My light
My soul
You gave me hope
Made me want to be different
You are my inspiration
My dedication
I dedicate this to you
Everything I am
Everything I will ever be
Everything I've been
You brought me up with nothing from the dust
My mother
My motherland
My homeland
And now here I am
Gave me hope
Gave me sight
Made me see further than I ever could
Gave me pride
Gave me light
Made me shine so much more brighter than I ever was
Gave me flight
made me go higher
Exceed the maximum with no limitation
You were my inspiration
My dedication
Maybe just one day I can venture back
Back to you my inspiration
To give thanks
Thanks for everything
But for now I dedicate this
This word
This message
Everything I am
What you made me
Everything I've been
I dedicate it to you
My mother
My motherland
Where I call home
My inspiration to be different
Had so little but gave me so much more
So much more to go on with the rest of my life
You was my guide
My inspiration
My knight in shining armor
My desert flower
Gave me hope from nothing
You was my diamond in the rough
Taught me to love
Taught me all that I know
What can I say
You was my inspiration
You was my angel from above
Taught to love those who hate me
Those who envy me
Taught me to care for those who wish evil upon
You are my inspiration
I hope that someday I grow up to be like you
To be someone else’s inspiration
Because of you I’m who I am
You are my inspiration
My dedication
My homeland
derelictmemory Apr 2014
The best kinds of inspiration comes when I'm 8 again
and I've hidden myself beneath a table clutching my teddy bear at midnight while
the lightning and rain told stories about the wars and pain that they've seen.

I grew to be 13 and I'd often cry
wondering why Daddy never came to say goodnight to me.
My pillows stained from years of tears.

When I was 16 I cried because the boy I thought I loved
didn't want to speak to me anymore and I never knew why.
All I could remember was that he smelled nice
and holding his hand felt as natural as the evening breeze.

The years weren't kind
and less could be said for the people I've met.
Many things terrified me
but the lightning and rain had always been constant company
especially during the sleepless nights.

I'm a little bit older now,
A little more broken and a little more worn
My mind is in tatters and my feet are covered in mud
My hands shiver but not from cold
And sometimes they say my eyes are flat and dead

The best kinds of inspiration come from tears now;
Some self-caused, others... just others.
The best kinds of inspiration live six feet under;
unmoving yet living somehow
The best kinds of inspiration make no sense;
A jumbled mess of screams and whispers
The best kinds of inspiration are alive;
Moving about heartlessly, more often than not, ignoring beauty

My only inspiration is locked away somewhere...
I dare not even think it to be real anymore
My only inspiration is in the winds at the apex of the night
My only inspiration rains sunlight when chills come to bite
My only inspiration...
It lives.
Somehow, someway
It lives.
I started this on 25 February 2014 and ended it on 28 April 2014
Julia R Ervin Jan 2017
1. to fill with an animating, quickening, or exalting influence
2. to fill or affect with a specified feeling, thought, etc.
3. to influence or impel

1. aroused, animated, or imbued with the spirit to do something, by or as if by supernatural or divine influence
2. resulting from such inspiration

1. an inspiring or animating action or influence
2. something inspired, as an idea
3. a result of inspired activity
4. a thing or person that inspires

Inspiration is not often thought of as something with feet. Something capable of wandering the earth.
But rather, it is thought of as a thing. A thing that occurs. Be it divine or natural, it simply is.

Some people find Inspiration in nature.
In the woods, among weeping willows whose vibrant leaves cascade upon the earth in blissful waves.
Others find it at the edge of the water, as they observe their reflection in the piercingly clear, blue ocean while the tide brings waves rushing endlessly forward into their bare, goosebumpy legs.
Others still find it under the skies, as they stare up into an endless mass of meteors, meteorites, and stars of all colors, burning ever brighter, flying through and twinkling against the night's black.

I fear many people live their lives without meeting even a subtle glimpse of Inspiration.
These creatures are not capable of living; they simply exist.

Inspire is what we are capable of doing.
Inspired is the way we are capable of feeling.
Inspiration is the difference between being alive and living.
People are born and die.
Their lives simply pass.
They exist, they do not live, for they have never caught a glimpse of Inspiration,
even out of the corner of their eye.

I am one of the lucky ones.
I sit, among the harmonic symphony of coffee and cigarettes, across from Inspiration Himself.

We sit.
We sit on a worn, green metal bench that has become familiar and comfortable.
He hugs His legs against His chest with His feet crossed, bobbing up and down as though He feels the ebbs and flows of ocean waves beneath him.
He looks ponderously at the words in front of Him, words so brilliantly crafted,
woven from His life's toils, troubles, and joys.
Words that I hope He sees fit to share with the universe;
Words that are simply beyond me.

We are no more than two young minds,
One, spectacularly brilliant, and the other, exceedingly average,
but whose brainwaves crash into each other as
thunder and lightning join in a perfect storm,
a collision of angst and unhinged emotions and laughter.

There are people in the world who live without Inspiration.
Who never even see it out of the corner of their eye.
But the few lucky ones, like me, will tell you that
you simply have to look in the right place.

You can find it in the trees.
You can find it in the seas.
You can find it in the skies.

But if your mind can't seem to focus on something so vast and universal,
you simply have to look into the eyes of a friend who has never left your side.
For an old friend who changed everything.
6 June 2015
You are an Inspiration, and an Awesome Friend.
You are an Inspiration , and Someone very Special.
You are an Inspiration, and I thank you very much.
You are an Inspiration, for you always inspire others.
You are an Inspiration, to me as well to many others.
You are an Inspiration, and an very Great Gift from God.
You are an Inspiration, and I am Blessed by You always.
You are an Inspiration, and I want to say thank you too.
You are an Inspiration, to many People that come here.
Erin Beer Nov 2018
My inspiration:

My inspiration was the man on the moon,
Who defied gravity like some kids cartoon.
A man who refused to fold to the norm,
Made his own story despite the storm.

My inspiration was the lonely planet,
Who stood as small as a pomegranate.
A girl who’s fought injury and sprain,
Yet still can stand up for her next big gain.

My inspiration was my best friend,
Who’s mould doesn’t quite fit the “trend”.
She seems content within her skin,
At least that’s what I read from her grin.

My inspiration was my mum and my dad,
They’d supported each other all through the bad.
Served our country throughout the years,
Now it was time to forget those fears.

My inspiration lies only next door,
A girl who battles a personal war.
Through day and night she slays her demons,
Piquing all of her worst ever feelings.

My inspiration is you who told me I can’t,
I’ll prove you wrong and then you’ll recant.
For what kills me only makes me stronger,
And your opinions I’ll think of no longer.

My inspiration is the man I pass on the street,
That sits happy in a doorway with a dog at his feet.
The animal who seems to keep his spirits alive,
I suppose helps give him a little drive.

I don’t have one inspiration in this life,
Nor should you for it would cause strife
But towards the top of that growing list,
Should you yourself stand entirely unmissed.
Joel A Doetsch Jan 2012
I could not write.  There was a drought in my mind
I could not concoct a single ****** line.  I told my wife
My dear, I think it's high time
I went and refilled my inspiration

I walked to the store, the one at the end of my block
I surveyed my mind, yet still it was locked.  I shook my head
I can't believe I waited this long to restock
my nearly empty inspiration

Once inside, I browsed the multitude of  sparkling aisles
Searching for a brand to match my writing style.  With little luck
It was difficult to find one worthwhile
to serve as my inspiration

I started reading the descriptions on the boxes
E­xtreme Naivete
Do you like Rainbows, puppies, unicorns and sparkling vampires?
EXTREME NAIVETE might be just the inspiration you need to
explain to the world why Justin Bieber's hair is just the perfect shade
of blonde.  Remind everyone that there is sunshine and happiness
in everyone's heart if you just help them find it.  Perfect for the 10
year old in all of us that hasn't yet faced the harshness of reality.

Side effects include:  blatant ignorance of the fact that most people
are complete self absorbed *******, increased use of smiley faces,
and tendency to dot your i's with hearts.

Dark and Brooding
Doesn't life ****?  Do you hate how everyone sits around and acts like
nothing is wrong with the world?  Do you feel like you're the only one
who has ever felt this way, like, ever?  Don't get mad,
Tell your depressing story to anyone who will listen with our brand new
DARK AND BROODING inspiration.  Tell the world how you feel like
cutting your wrists and how every day is cold and meaningless.  Write
words that are as black as the clothes you picked up from Hot Topic.  A
perfect gift for a suburban teenager of successful parents trying to rebel.

Side effects include:  Using generic metaphors that include the words
'cold', 'dark', 'lifeless', and 'pointless' to describe your life; the sudden
urge to dye your wardrobe black and gray; and wearing an excessive
amount of eyeliner.

Hopel­ess Romantic
Is there one person for everyone?  Do you want to be able to describe
the way your heart feels in excruciating detail down to the way your
"ventricles ventriculate doubly so" when your special someone is near?
Perhaps you should try HOPELESS ROMANTIC, the newest
in our ever growing line of inspirations.  Your misguided love will
reach new heights with all of the new words you will be able to use
to describe it.  you will be so mushy, that we'd recommend not
standing on open sewer grates after using this product.

Not recommended for stalkers or near ex girlfriends.  Side effects
include the inability to wipe that stupid grin off your face, random
urges to serenade women, and the sudden desire to quit your job to
search for your one true love.  We do not recommend mixing this
inspiration with EXTREME NAIVETE

Bitter Lover
Heartbroken? Lovelorn?  Sexless?  Have you been feeling alone
recently, but can't quite find the words to explain it?  Well worry
no more!  About least.  With BITTER LOVER, you can
focus all your hatred for the concept of "love" into acidic lyrics
of disapproval.  You will be able to spew forth a torrent of
spite and poisonous barbs towards anyone who even looks
like they're happy with their significant other.  Why should
they enjoy themselves?

Side effects include anywhere from snide apathy to seething anger
whenever you hear the songs "Kiss Me" or "Linger",  the inability
to see that your friends want you to stop depressing them and get
on with your life, and the urge to get drunk and tell people how
much marriage *****.

­After I finished reading, I shrugged my shoulders and sighed
This clearly wasn't the best solution to try.  I went home
I picked up my pencil with pride
at my growing inspiration
Nina Nguyen May 2019
Inspiration is fluid
It’s water at the bottom Of a well
Waiting to be lifted up
And be used

Inspiration is magma
Flowing slowly
Building up inside a volcano
Ready to erupt

Inspiration is a book
Thousands of words waiting
To be opened

Inspiration is the snow
You stand to watch it come down
You watch it fall and melt away
It only stays in the dead cold of winter

Inspiration is the flowers
Blooming brightly
Sweet scents spreading
And dying in the frost

Inspiration is the fruit
The perfect apple on a tree
Somehow growing atop a mountain
And unreachable to thee

Inspiration is my head
Speeding 100 miles and hour
So fast my hands can keep up and those words zoom by
It’s seems inspiration isn’t my friend
But inspiration is me
Crystal Peterson Jan 2017
To be inspired to create-
And per chance to inspire others-
Is either a grueling task
Where one must whip their own mind into motion
Like a stubborn mule
Or else it strikes as lightning
That can only be cast by the gods
And when it strikes it is exhilarating,
All-consuming and the epitome of creation;
Inspiration that is spontaneous,
An unfaithful geyser of sudden epiphany,
Often produces the shortest yet strongest results,
The being blessed by it cast into a conscious sleep
Where all thought and movement are otherworldly;
These works of divine intervention are
The cornerstones of human art so rare and lucky to have
As there is moderation in art as there is moderation in
All things, including moderation and inspiration:
On the other plate of the scales of Lady Justice
Is inspiration that has been dredged up from the ground;
It is liquid gold, crude; it does not shine
And it requires energy to obtain the very power we seek,
The subject work is clawed at until it is laid bare
Then robed and disrobed over and over again
Until the creator finds a fitting garment
And in this process the creator discovers a loving hate
Over the object which they have put such effort into,
That is still not nearly as fine as the works of sudden art,
Yet it is the Apple of their Eye nonetheless….
Once obtained, forced inspiration can be
More inspiring than that of the spontaneous inspirations;
A creator who has endeavored to struggle with inspiration
Is someone who can lead by example-
Where not everyone will be favored by the gods
And be given sudden wisdom and thought-
Anyone can ponder for hours on end
Until the train strikes them and the coal engines'
Fire is stoked to peak capacity by tedious effort;
Those who drive hard have opened minds and
Are more motivated than those who already have
A single goal to achieve: After divine inspiration
Has been carried out, what more is there for the
Creator to do if the gods do not
Favor them again?
In such ways do inspiration flow,
Quick and strong as lightning, here then gone,
Or steady as a slow stream, a lasting current
Which results in a slowly built and driven creation:
For those who are blessed with instant inspiration
Congratulations! Enjoy it while it lasts!
And for those who work beyond countless hours-
Congratulations to you, as well, for your dedication
And willpower so inspirational.
A mirroring of Shakespeare's Hamlet's "To Be or Not To Be" soliloquy.
Aa Harvey Jul 2018

Go press record and tape all of my dreams;
There are thoughts in my head that have never been seen.
We shall have to fast forward;
Through the parts that aren’t clean,
But I’m sure somewhere in there is the man I wish I could be.

Your words make me see what I should hope to become.
They paint me a picture of how things could be.
There is wisdom in your lyrics, but the film has been cut;
Let me complete the jigsaw to enable me to see.

Your vision!  My inspiration!
Your vision!  Clarification!
Your vision!  My inspiration!
Your vision!  Emancipation!

I’ve entered a world, where every word has a meaning.
Before hearing your lyrics, to music I must have been sleeping.
Just humming along, with the strum of a guitar;
Now I understand your message, you are so inspirational.

Your vision!  My inspiration!
Your vision!  Clarification!
Your vision!  My inspiration!
Your vision!  Emancipation!

You are so profound!  Your words have touched my heart.
There is poetry in your verse; your mind is a work of art.

So I thank every band, whoever wrote a good song
And every band, that made a good C.D.
I thank everyone who ever played a guitar;
Because your songs have inspired me.

Your vision!  My inspiration!
Your vision!  Clarification!
Your vision!  My inspiration!
Your vision!  Emancipation!

(C)2013 Aa Harvey. All Rights Reserved.
Kendall K Jul 2013
The lack of inspiration is a killer
lack of inspiration is a downer
lack of inspiration makes you write this
lack of inspiration drowns you of your creativity
lack of inspiration makes me stop writing and think
lack of inspiration makes me yearn with excitement for the next line
the lack of inspiration made me write this with no ideas
Omnis Atrum Aug 2012
Many artists create for approval, to translate the beauty they find in the world so that others can feel what they feel (which is second hand at best), or to try to better understand the world that they are in and communicate their findings with the rest of the world. I would stand here today and say that is all meaningless to me. If one cannot find their own truths, then they do not deserve the truths that they find. Everyone can see 'the beauty of the world' that surrounds them, and far too many people try to turn their senses into tangible words on a page. What difference does it make, better yet, what difference should it make to a person if others view the world in the same light that they do? It is for this purpose that I do not view the world in any light. When I create I view the world without light. Feeling my way through the darkness trying to find something that I can hold on to. I am a horrible and pitiful creature when I search for ideas, but when I can wrap my hands around these ideas with no light shed from an outside source there is no greater sense of accomplishment. I write not about the beauty of the world, not about fantastic imageries that could be on an inspirational poster, nothing of the heavens and angels, because when I write my demons take over. Every doubt that sits in the back of my mind unanswered. Every amount of corruption that I have seen in the world. Every hope that has been shot down to crash as a fallen spaceship. Every desire that I will never see fulfilled. These are the things that give me the passion and inspiration to create. Perhaps it is for the balance of the world that I write with such things in mind. As I watch so many writers fail to create what it is that they pictured in their creative vision simply because their minds are cluttered with preconceived notions of love, of good, and of this great being that will provide them with their every desire (deliverable on death, as I have been told); I know that most will surely continue to fail. The world does not have a perfect clockwork structure that they would have everyone else see. I hope that in controlling my demons I will be able to create something that is more authentic. More pure.

Art is struggle.
Creations are covered with our sacrifices.
Without the grotesque, beauty cannot truly be seen.
Without darkness, we cannot understand light.
My cup runneth over.

Seven great inspirations
I remember being young and thinking that there was no greater goal to seek than the goal of love. I had told myself countless times that my greatest goal in life was to find someone and make them the happiest person in the world. I know now that the naivety of that statement is enough to make even the most romantic shake their heads. It was from this naivety and hope that a young man fell in love. As all things that are destined to horribly fail, it failed horribly. The joy in this young man's eyes dissipated and he was left horribly confused. How could my greatest inspiration and the goals that I had set for myself fall apart so swiftly? It was around this time that I slowly started seeing the world for what it truly was. There was great sorrow in this time, but it was a time of more beauty than I had ever known. Years that I thought were wasted were resurrected as emotions and perceptions that slowly found their way from my hand to paper. I learned from a very young age that it was proper to hide emotion, and so many of these creations were destroyed after I had pushed them from my mind. It was not until I let a few close friends read some of what I had written that I realized the value that words held. I used these words to bring happiness to others and evoke emotion where there was none before. All of the ideals and emotions that I held in high regard for so long slowly withered away. It was in this time that I slowly learned that because there was so much good that came from something so devastating, that those things I once thought were so evil may have something good to be found in them. There were great inspirations to be found in those things I had once discarded as sinful and without worth. I found beauty and inspiration in what most would call corruption and imperfect. These things, which were taught to me as sins, gave me more inspiration than any rules or restriction would ever be able to. For the first time in my life I actually felt free. It was with this newfound freedom that I was finally able to express what I truly felt without fear of guilt or punishment. My outward appearance stayed approximately the same (as I was taught that appearances were always important and some habits were hard to break), but I realized that I was a completely different person. It is these differentiations from what I considered to be the norm that allowed me to grow as a person instead of as a machine that was built by those around me. It is this facade of normality that I will forever wear as a defense mechanism to keep those as closed minded as I once was from prying. It is the sins that I once fought so hard against that would help me realize the person that I truly was. This is not merely a documentation of the things that inspire me, this is a tribute to the realizations that allowed me to grow as a person. A great deal of my writing tends to come out as metaphors, but in what will follow I will do my best to write clearly and without riddles. These are the thoughts that bring my creations to life. This is the fuel that drives a man down a road comfortably, no longer worried about speed limits or street signs. Now I will explain how these seven deadly sins breathed life into an otherwise lonely and discarded man.

Are we all not more important than everyone else in our own universe? Is there some secret kept within the recesses of our mind that perverts this self preservation into something that is frowned upon? Are we not supposed to be proud of our accomplishments? Where are the lines between what is appropriate and a horrid vanity drawn? Would we not become Lucifer if the feeble minds trapped in these mortal shells were placed in a shell more beautiful and eternal than anything we have ever seen? Are we so quick to judge those guilty of our same crimes? Tell me that if you were given the chance you would not change places with a god, and I will never believe another word that pushes its way past your lips. We are wired to attempt to gain higher standing wherever we are. When I have created something that I believe holds truth I am proud, and I am proud that I am proud. If it were not for pride where would that sense of accomplishment come from? Should I allow my pride to turn to shame, and **** a driving force to create something even better next time? I think not. In the universe of our art, we are the gods. We manipulate every word, every pixel, every stroke of the brush. We have ultimate control of the characters, the situations, the emotions, the outcomes, and do not have to provide an explanation to anyone unless we decide to. When we are done with our creations we stand back and say that they are good. A faulty attempt to turn the artist into a god, but the intentions are thinly veiled. To create and to have others look upon your creation with wonder and awe, is that not the intentions of almost all artists? What purpose does this serve other than the creation of pride? I would say that there are none. My writing is the universe where I am god, and there are none other as powerful or that have as much say as I do.

Call me cynical for not seeing the absolute beauty of the world around me. Sloth, the great sin of sadness and despair. I look at the world and am dissatisfied with what I see. I have always been fond of Poe, because he wrote about this more than anything else. Why should I be any different than this? The only love I have ever known was ripped from my hands, and I was left with nothing but a feeling of wanting. I watch people walk by with their masks of happiness and content, and when the day is done I see these same people left shaking and world weary. How much rain should fall from my eyes before they become as black as the clouds they do their best impressions of? With every attempt to better the world thwarted on each turn, it seems as if things are not going to change. The problem with writing on the subject of sorrow is that many view it as unhealthy or look down upon it. It is only after putting words to the things that bother me that I have control over them, and can manipulate them as I wish. Sorrow and pain are less of a threat when they can be controlled. Where is it that this sorrow and despair comes from? Perhaps I read too many fairy tales as a child. Perhaps I have yet to get to the end of the story of life where the moral will be revealed to me. Perhaps it is this surreal world that I could never persuade myself to live in. A world where I am to put on a mask of happiness and pretend that everything is going just the way that it should. A world full of everything that I could ever desire. It is because I cannot alter my senses that give my perception of the world that this demon resides within me. My writing is the realization that the world is not what I was led to believe it to be. My creations are the sorrow and despair of living in an imperfect world, and wishing that it was perfect.

Do not overindulge in anything, not even those things which bring pleasure and have no consequence. I think this is a flawed statement at best. In my writing I discuss extraordinary circumstances or situations that I have been involved in. Many of these situations happened only in my own mind, but a number of them occurred when I overindulged in certain things and saw the world in a completely different perspective. If we all lived in perfect moderation, would the world not be boring and uninspiring? I choose to do those things that bring pleasure, and if I do them too often then the result is simply more pleasure. Gluttony is the cause of many interesting nights that allowed me to step outside of my protective shell and experience things that I would have never experienced otherwise. How could I not pay homage to such a thing? How could I desire to cease doing something that only opened my eyes? Gluttons will be looked down upon and called drunkards and addicts, but I have never met a being that has not committed gluttony at one point or another. I was once told to overindulge in moderation. Where does the line between an altered state of mind that we can learn from and a sin stand? In my creations there is no line, because there is no sin. My writings are guilt-free and full of overindulgence of thought. My words are my minds altered vision grasping for truth.

These **** words will not flow from my mind, through my hand, and onto this god forsaken medium. What is it that I need to do to express my emotions so that others can understand them? If my words are too abstract it is only because of the thoughts and emotions that they follow. If people cannot follow my metaphors and hidden meanings then it is of no concern to me. The fact that they will not try to stimulate their intellectual ***** in order to understand something more complex than they are used to drives me insane. My pulse quickens with each thought of the issue. It is impossible that I left my metaphors too veiled or did not give enough surrounding exposition. These creations make perfect sense. Then I step back and look at the gibberish that I have created and hurl it across the room as harshly as possible. The thoughts and ideas are all here, it all makes sense in my mind, so WHY WILL THE WORDS NOT COME OUT RIGHT? The inability to explain senses or perceptions in a concrete manner that the audience will understand creates more anger in me than I will ever understand. An anger that refuses to subside. With a clenched fist the pens and pencils are broken, the keyboard is shattered, and the words are broken down into the letters that sit in a pile on my floor. My creations inspire nothing more than they inspire my hatred for ignorance. My creations are an angry conglomeration of letters wishing that they could show the emotions that inspired them. My words are children beaten for insubordination.

Greed is the greatest inspiration that most will ever know. To bathe in golden bullion and never have another care in the world. Greed not for the sake of greed, but for the sake of freedom. I am inspired by greed of a different sort. The desire to gather every idea that I can find and horde it as my own. The greed of knowledge and experience. When I was younger it was interesting to be the most mature person my age, and now that I am older it is not knowledge that is sought, but wisdom. I horde this knowledge and wisdom in my own personal compressor and squeeze them until they are in the purest possible form. It is this ink that I dip my quill into hoping that my faulty hands can transfer such a perfect concoction onto the parchment without ruining it. Without poking a hole through the parchment. Without deciding after I am finished that the words do not hold the meaning that they carry, and having to destroy everything and start over. I would gladly give all the wealth that I have to be able to sate my greed for the expression of perceptions and knowledge. These are the pains that I have endured, and they are mine and mine alone to claim. There is no greater value on this Earth in my eyes. People can have their tubs of golden bullion, and I will help them with generous contributions when able, but if they ever decide they want my words there will be war. A war of greed. A war of necessity. My creations are my glorious mansion that holds the treasures of experience and knowledge. My words are the golden bullion that so many men have fought and died for, and I will horde them until some greater force can pry them from the hands that created them.

Love is an illusion that was created for your confusion. Those that speak of love are disillusioned into believing in some extrasensory emotion that they allow to consume them. Love is the most abstract emotion or idea that anyone could ever base a creation on. I tire of reading of love at first sight, love found upon a spring morning, or love that has been discarded. These things are boring, and as long as people persist in writing on these things I will always have kindling for my fires. Tell me about something that I know. Lust is the most pure form of the idea of love that is kept in circulation for no apparent purpose, besides creating sorrow for those that cannot find something so perfect as it has been described. Lust does not mislead and has no ulterior motives. The warmth of another being pressed tightly against you in a shared ecstasy. That is all. There are no complications, there is no confusion, there are no forced rituals that you have to fake your way through to get to another goal. Has the world become so confused that it forgets its instincts. They tell me that lust is a sin, but I know very well that it has created more pleasure than any restriction I will ever be given. I have heard many times to wait for love and it will come in time, but never have I heard anyone told to wait for lust. There is something unexplainable about finding oneself in a passionate situation that they had never even thought about before the moment that it happened. It is the same way with my writing. My writing is the beautiful girl whose name I do not know, as she is leading me across the house to a more secluded place.

I was taught never to keep up with the Joneses, and I will never attempt to. I had planned to accomplish such great deeds that the Joneses would be found as a wreck of green helplessness. In my great plan I had no intention of ever envying another person. It was not until I fell in love with words that my great plan fell apart. It was these words that would be my downfall. Writers, publishers, artists, and editors all held titles that I wanted for my own. Those that were far more lucky whose works were published. We use the same letters and words, but I could never convince people to see the appeal in truth. It was when I realized this fact that I became envious. I was not envious of the titles, or of the money
Mona Mohamed Mar 2017
I am the greatest poet alive.

In my body, I am the greatest poet alive,
In my continent, I am the greatest poet alive-
Yesterday, I was…

Today, I am the worst poet alive,
Because I know that yesterday
I was at the peak of my poetic diffusion,
Inspiration stayed the night,
and greatness happened to have occurred,
So yesterday, I was the greatest poet alive,
in my population-of-one continent.

Today I'm just a jealous bitter soul,
Cause I know I wasn't good enough
for inspiration to stay,
Today I know that inspiration fears commitment,
I resembled everything appalling,
I was desperate and needy,
So inspiration left me for another poet
without a second glance.

Because inspiration doesn't want to be
chained down to the grounds of monotony,
A room with four walls is all I could offer,
And it needs a castle where it can trespass
to the wilderness of the sky any time,
It needs the freedom where it can soar
above and look down
in fascination at the array of poets
that it has touched their minds and hearts,
Because that's when inspiration feels alive,
When it can see the power that it has diffused
into their -now- luminescent hearts,
A picture depicting a sky adorned with stars,
An earth adorned by poets that never sleep.

Today, I'm heartbroken because I know inspiration will never be 'mine'.*

It will continue to break hearts, then come back,
And I know that I will continue to accept its apologizes,
Even if they weren't uttered,
I will make one up inspired on spur of the moment,
Because without it I'm nothing but the worst poet alive,
In my body, in my population-of-one continent.

And when the days click and the words rhyme,
The world isn't always forgiving of the greatest poet alive in my population-of-one continent,
Because my poems are me,
And I know that I'm flawed,
I have bad hair days, my nose isn't pretty,
sometimes there are bags under my eyes, and I'm not always the nicest person,
Sometimes my appearance is disheveled,
Just like my poetry,
Then some days I spend the extra ten minutes in front of the mirror,
I care for the details,
And some days people actually like my words,
those are the good days.

And today, I am the worst poet alive,
Because I don't have hope,
Inspiration didn't leave me a note before it left,
It didn't give call me and said I'll be back in a few days,
So today I'm the worst poet alive in my book.

I've cleaned my mind though,
And threw away all the disposal pins
where I burst the bubbles of words that sound ridiculous,
I also folded away all the negative feedback
that my cerebral cinques have given me,
Hopefully inspiration might want to visit the greatest poet alive … tomorrow?
You can call it a rant. But it was actually an attempt at a Slam poem. I wrote it at a time when I wasn't inspired at all, I hadn't even written in months. So it meant something at the time.
Shivani Lalan Apr 2016
In shaking verse
She writes down the gifts of his divinity.
Her trembling meter pays homage
To the ruby red circles seared onto her skin.
Every stuttering syllable is an offering
That she conjures as a devotee,
Who has defaulted on the repayment
Of words, now long overdue.

He demands epic proportions of gifted wisdom,
He asks for legendary lines in his honour.
He demands for glory to his name,
Written in red.

The patron saint of inspiration
Retains his light,
And casts gifted shadows over her,
As she struggles to her elbows,
Drowning in loud, blank papers.

The patron saint of inspiration
Waits at the altar of poetry,
Watching tributes flow in,
Mounted on her fragile skin
And faded rhymes.

The patron saint of inspiration
Inspects the fabric of the writer's soul,
And passes judgement
On the worth of her tears,
Ever smiling, ever watching.

The patron saint of inspiration
Lures her to the gates of Eden
Only to have her trace her words
In the eternal dust of the ephemeral
Gods that gathers beneath it.

His grace against her fatigue,
His divinity against her anguish.
His grand schemes against her hope
His knowledge against her intrigue.

The patron saint of inspiration
Watches her from the walls within.

The patron saint of inspiration
Encourages her divine sin.
a piece from the series of poetry for the NaPoWriMo.
Lauren Gorger Oct 2014
A friend once told me that all of his inspiration was lost, it was a half past 2.
I wondered how much of himself it would cost to wander a bit, and try something new.
Maybe this is out of the blue, but perhaps we can find inspiration in all of its absence, too.
Inspiration is in me and it's in you.
It's where you sit right now, just enjoying the view.
It's the smiles that graze by you, if only a few.
It's the change in the space that could never be replaced.
A positive embrace that becomes written all over my face.
I told him, "sometimes, we must change our questions and readjust our eyes. And by surprise, the sunset becomes the sunrise."
The difference between a decline and an incline.
The distance between looking forward and falling behind.
Inspiration that is in front of us -
The heart invested trust that sends us a rush that is never undone.
The cold-hearted lust that turns to love under the sun.
Your words are not lost, they have only just begun.
To wander is to observe.
We find inspiration between the fine lines of all the words that we've heard.
I told him that I think we deserve to imagine our world...
To become what you desire to serve.
To see all the lessons learned and unlearned, in the midst of your hurt.
My last words curved, without a slur -
"Stay grounded. There is always inspiration implanted in the dirt."

- L.G.
Daniel McDougall Aug 2015
Stop looking for inspiration in your Facebook feeds. Stop looking for inspiration in the words of the media. Stop looking for inspiration in places it doesn't exist. Look for inspiration in books. Look for inspiration in nature. Look for inspiration in music. Look for inspiration in yourself.

Ann M Johnson Jun 2016
Searching for inspiration where can it be found?
Searching for inspiration while glancing on the ground when
deep in thought.
I look within to see what I might find coming up empty
I continue this quest
I desire only what is best.
I look in the face of family and friends
I glance above and seek strength
I read your poems to see what message they hold my poetry friends.

I suddenly realize that I'm not all alone in this poetic sea
true inspiration is not all up to me.
It surrounds me but often seems unseen
It is found in the wind, earth ,air and sea
It can be found while we are awake or asleep.
It can be found above or here on earth.
It can be found in both public
or in solitary places.

It can be found in the loving faces of family or friends.
It can be found in poetic pages or in printed books.
It can be heard in favorite music that lifts you up.
It can be found in an inspiring speech.
It may be found in the words of a favorite teacher that is remembered throughout the years.
For some, it may be the words of a favorite preacher that offers encouragement and is inspirational.
For others being out in nature in a natural cathedral provides ample poetic inspiration to last for years to come.
It can be found in heartbreak or emotional turmoil that inspires you to turn your scars into stars that shine brightly for others to see.
It may be found through both love and loss.
It can be found despite the cost to you and me.
May inspiration help us weather all the storms that this life holds.
May inspiration be found in all of us  may it continue to strengthen and help us grow not only as writers but in life too.
Dev A Dec 2012
I was looking for some inspiration
but all I found was a crowded courtyard.

We walked the streets
all we saw was a man blowing fire.

We screamed and cheered
while he almost burned down the tree.

I was looking for some inspiration
but all I saw was a place full of people.

We headed for the bathroom
but the lines stretched for miles.

We talked and talked
in a small little corner.

I was looking for some inspiration
but there was only fireworks.

We ran to watch
only the reflection on the building could be seen.

We recorded the sky from an odd angle
hoping to catch some real fire in the sky.

I was looking for some inspiration
but all I found were empty words.

We walked the streets
and I guess I finally found some inspiration.

We talked and talked while watching the sky
hmmm there was some inspiration in that I guess!
Umi May 2018
Inspiration, alike joy comes in different types,
It could be as simple as a little wallflower, or as complex as astrophysics, or even more than that, what counts is the source,
Allowing us poets, from a simple emotion, to develop a piece of art,
Allowing the artists, to express themselves within beautiful illustrations, each unique in style and shape, even if some parts may look as if they have been repeating themselves a couple of times,
A word of love can be enough after all, to set a lonely heart ablaze,
Such is the beauty of this earth we are living on, the beauty of being different from one another, but finding what ties us together is truly magnificent, with each difference may come a nice mutality,
Some look up to the sky, shining beyond the scene, the sun brightens up their mood, followed by the dearness of the dazzling white clouds,
Others may find a rainy day wonderful, the raindrops which can be interpreted as tears are but for them falling jewels from the heavens,
These are a few examples of what may birth inspiration, but it can be even smaller, like a small, delicate corn of dust.

~ Umi
Oliver Philip Nov 2018
Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
Perhaps it may take a while to wake up
Perhaps you may never sleep and dream
Relaxation’s funny thing.You can or you can’t
Ever mounting stressful situations blight a day
Coming to hauntingly appear all thru the night
I try to memorise a favourite poem by heart
Appreciate the simple gift of inspiration then
The rhythms of that favourite will give tempo.
Eventually the tempo will give the inspiration

Tempos will give you the medleys in your head.
Head becomes a power housing for the brain
Establish then that white light in the centre

So relax into a meditative state of mind.
I appreciate the simple gift of inspiration
Meditation holds the key it links you with all
Poets of the bygone ages that you’ve read.
Like a spark of genius , you’ve come alive
Eventually you may write fifty lines of poetry

God given inspired poetry and it rhymes
In the space of a few minutes a masterpiece
Fortunately the simple gift of inspiration is free
The freedom that you hold is a key to the city

On certain good days it is the key to Xanadu.
For do you remember the dome of Kubla Khan

In Seventeen ninety seven the poet Coleridge
Noting his poem from a drug induced dream
Simply wrote this epic poem. But lost half a
Poem when a person from Porlock knocked
And interrupted the genius and he forgot lines
Reiterating the old saying dream and not make
A dream your master , think and not make
Thoughts your aim, to meet with triumph and
In disaster, treat the two imposters the same!
Onymous with the simple gift of inspiration
Never anonymous be forever simply proud.

Inspired by Philip.
Written November 22nd 2018.
See what happens when you stock up on inspiration
Thomas Crone Dec 2012
They say Inspiration
Comes from within.
It helps you rise up
And strike down your
Giants; your enemies.
Inspiration can fix a life,
Create a life, and save a life.
If there is one thing I know,
About Inspiration,
It is that it never has a price,
But a lock.
Some locks can be destroyed,
Others picked.
Not the lock on Inspiration.
A special key is required
To open this lock.
A key made from
The size of your heart.
With true passion,
Does your heart grow;
With true passion comes
The key to Inspiration.
A giant to defeat
Find that passion.
Act on it, and
You may be Inspired,
Act on it, and
Change your very path
Of life.
Clarissa Clark Dec 2010
The streams of pastel hues
run from the dissipating horizon.
Mother Nature's arms hug my skin
in the damp breeze.
Inspiration has found me...

Traveling from the depth of my soul,
it exudes outwards from my goose-bumped skin.
It travels from the fleeing sun
and enters my heart
with an impact of emotion.
What is inspiration?

An energy with the ability
to change a perception.
A feeling
that drives an inner passion
to a long-lived dream.
What inspires?

Life can inspire;
beauty can inspire;
sounds and words can inspire.
if we allow the energy
to encompass our essence,
if only we have harbored
the ability to receive
unlimited power
through barriers
that no longer exist.

A sense of bliss
is accompanied
by the energy of inspiration.
A thought conceived
following the shiver
of God's gifted force,
can be one of greatness.
Overpowering a lethal cognition,
one has conveyed splendor
in a mere second.
Stature for life abound,
joy is prevailing
because of pure inspiration.

An energy of power
that can transform
moral conceptions
into motivational actions.
A force simply within
and without.
Let yourself be immersed
in the omnipotent power
of inspiration.
Let it whisk you into benign change,
and lift you beyond your boundaries.

Be inspired;
and you will be.
Anon Apr 2014
it doesn’t matter where you get your inspiration from
as long as you don’t believe that inspiration makes you better than some
and if you aren’t inspired, remember there are always more ideas to come
from the richest neighbourhood to the poorest slum
that homeless man you thought was dumb
that businessman that you thought was ****
it doesn’t matter where you get your inspiration from
as long as you don’t believe that inspiration makes you better than some
N R Whyte Dec 2012
It's a harsh burn, inspiration.
That despicable, clawing feeling at the root of your being,
You're there, just trying to get something down,
It's never just right.
It's always a finger, a hair, a sliver away.
Or maybe more, but it's never there.
It's never just right.
Baby Bear, how did you do it?
Goldilocks, you lucky *****,
You found it, and stole it.
Inspiration, I guess, comes from the right chair,
The right porridge, the right bed.
Then, a swift infallible blow to the right side of the head.
Oh! Right in the creativity!
Though you try to force these words to be something that they can't be,
Make them do something they shouldn't,
While English speakers ruin the language,
Inspiration ruins it further.
It's never just right.
Kavya Mukhija Sep 2018
The other day when you told me that
You had ran out of the inspiration
To write anymore,
I stood holding the mirror in front of you
While you stood there,
Just blankly gazing at the shiny silver screen
Oblivious of how to search for something inspiring
In the scrapes of something so obvious.
I still stood there holding the mirror
Though the pain in my arms had now
Crawled up to the cliff of my shoulders.
I saw your riveting beauty across
The oceanic stretches of your mushy skin
The crevices that made imperfect turns and curves
The layers of hair that sat on the plateau of your shoulders,
Occasionally peeking in from behind the ears
Or even the plump lips of yours
With the tectonic cracks that flaunted the brown musk.
The inspiration sat hidden in between
The stretch marks and the stress marks
Inside the pimples or even
In between the chubby folds of your being.
My mom used to say when I stood in front of the mirror
Just like you are standing now, with a downward curve of your lips
And shoulders that are drooping at the lowest
That, beauty lies in the eyes of the beholder
And now that she is long gone, I reciprocate her words to you, swapping beauty with inspiration.
The world remains the same, it's the perception that takes a leap,
Just like a story comes to life when told by a dramatic teller,
The usual springs to life when looked at with eyes searching for inspiration.

- Kavya Mukhija

Woke up early morning in a fairy dream,
She swam **** in a cool water stream
an adorable, elegant, celestial beauty
in her teens, She is looking naughty
Liking her innocence and perfection
I remoulded  her into verses in an inspiration.
Sweet, seductive, natural, and desirable
She is tempting, shy and so admirable
She has natural  tastes, novel  talents
Everything seems to be  right for moments
And one of her must-liking  is a  pool
Where she can enjoy the tides of cool

Williamsji Maveli

Visit my web sites
Poetry is like an impulsive steady flow of powerful feelings in human life: it takes its origins from emotional recollections in tranquility. Poetry is the art of substantiating shadows, and of lending existence to nothing. Williamsji’s lyrics cannot be treated as poems, but represents an image or a sketch from different angles of human life.. His writings are simple and generous. The title of his latest work is "Arramviralthumbath......" (On the tip of the sixth finger) is a legendary concept of a writer's pen, which is similar to the sixth finger used for scribbling the emotions into paper.

Williamsji  has written three collection of lyrics to his credit, namely RAGHAPOOJA (Offering of Love), RANAKHANAM (The War-front) and ARRAMVIRALTHUMBATH (On the tip of the 6th finger)

Please email your comments to:
Myles A Roth Mar 2011
I have no inspiration
so I walk down my street

but being suburbia, I
have no inspiration so
I drive to the end of town
where I can be alone except
for the occasional car
driving by,
and the occasional bird that
flies by
and perhaps the rabbit that
skips through the dry grass
waiting for spring to awaken it.

I sit next to a barbed wire fence
on a little rock
crouching, slightly uncomfortable, taking
in the moment.
Still no inspiration.

Slowly the dusty afternoon gives way
to a dusty sunset and
night eventually takes the land in its
purples and reds
and blues. And
I sit there,

shivering in the cold Colorado evening
and think.

Still no inspiration.
This work is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivs 3.0 United States License.

March 25, 2011
Anastasia Webb May 2014
Give me your inspiration.
Come on, you have enough already.
This isn’t fair, I protest;
how is it that you can create
a dozen pretty iced-cupcake poems
a day and I can’t?

Honestly –
sharing is caring.
I don’t want it all,
just a little bit.
A tenth will suffice.
It won’t take much from you,
I swear! you’ll still be writing
ten-point-eight cupcakes
a day.
Now would that be so bad?

No? Well, then.
Be like that.
It’s not like
I need inspiration …
Never-ending, incessant inspiration, is welcomed by the hand
Sweetly held treasured from the very start
As a silken caress of soothing persuasion, stirring the steady flow
Of your imagination, nestled gently in your heart

A release of cherished wonders, splendid in their course
Dignify the expression in their flow
With the breath of enticing bits of passionate emotion
Gratifying in their bliss, pleasing as they show

Deeply captivating is the gravitation to incessant inspiration
Ensnaring and hypnotizing the consenting soul
To express admiration with a measure of immense flourish
As an exhale of unrestrained emotion with no control

If you find you are intensely drawn into this sweet continuum
Of fascination gently rippling in the flow
Treasure the inspiration nestled gently in your heart
Express your imagination in the show
Copyright *Neva Flores @2010
Mike Hauser Apr 2013
I bought a packet of inspiration
From a highway roadside stand
It only held one seed but that's all I would need
Is what the old man at the stand had said

So I went home and started the garden
In the very middle of my back yard
Planted the seed one inch deep
As per instructions on the card

I religiously watered it faithfully
Each and every day of the week
When the sprout of inspiration
Shot up to the sky like a ****

It must have had a gazillion branches
That birds of different colors landed and chirped
The fruit of inspiration is delicious to taste
As I now savor every word

If I ever come upon doubt and confusion
And find going on to be hard
I step outside for inspiration
That now grows in my back yard
KM Jones Jul 2010
Inspiration is a fickle flirt. He comes and goes, leaving my notebooks full of erratic bursts of passion. Sometimes I almost wish we had never met. I remember the first day; my thoughts were a collision of naivety and girlish impropriety. It was pen to paper and I lost myself in discovering the "inner" me.

Inspiration guided me blindly through heartbreaks and near self-destructions, preserving the sanity my mind so desperately clung to. But then there were other nights when I blared my music and lit some candles, but inspiration never came. I just sat in the dark, wide awake with hands of stone and a restless mind. Of course, inspiration always called the next morning, making sure I had survived the night, begging me to take him back.
Published in Feb 2009 edition of Teen Ink.
Inspiration strikes a sadness in my mind
Lightening fires of truth so bright I go blind
Wide awake yet dreaming of another time
Another place where things used to be fine
But in the back of my mind, where that inspiration strikes, I feel alive and alone in the sadness that overwhelms me at times, surrounded by the dream floating behind my eyes uncontrollably, bouncing off my mind getting ideas of time and space and distances between two places, satisfaction and depression, a thin line rests between my eyes, like a target, the bullseye is my soul and it's slowly disintegrating with every shot, look and insult fired my direction.
I'm losing control.
And my dreams are gaining ground, taking over and my reality is lost in the background.
My soul can no longer hear a sound.
I think I've died.
I've tried to come back around, telling myself it'll be alright.
But I lied.
Inspiration grips my soul
And gives my mind no peace;
I try and try to let it go,
But silence baffles me.

Sometimes in the darkest night
It's dreams that haunt my eyes
And sometimes, inspiration's height
Looks about agony's size.

Ideas sometimes look like pain
And memories that hurt me;
And beautiful though my song may be,
Perhaps its roots concern me.

But art, it lies within the choice
To make a lie show truth
And find the love inside the voice
Of your heartrending youth.

Don't build your statues with ashes:
Compress them into stone,
And watch as sorrow clashes
With love that builds a home.

Darkness is no shelter,
But is an invitation
For light to burn the better
As fire: my inspiration.
Pliny the Elder said: "The depth of darkness to which you can descend and still live is an exact measure of the height to which you can aspire to reach."
A Spate of Inspiration for Global Turn-up [SIGT]

I have spent time tracking my routes that is where actually l came from forgetting where I am going because it’s already brighter than I thought. I have seen many ups and downs but the thing that surprises me is that every time I was down the next thing was to rise. There is this time I think of running away from the point that somebody inspired me to move and rise but I get back when I see no option but that.
Inspiration has a long history originally said to come from divine or supernatural forces. It is a blessing or a gift that cannot be bought from the physical markets but are found by grace in the gardens of wisdom not willed. It’s something that we cannot live without and without it, will be living but in void.
Inspiration gives us hope. It allows us to transcend our ordinary experiences and limitations and is a strong driver of the attainment of our goals, productivity, creativity and well being. It helps a person to transform from experiencing a culture of apathy to experiencing a world of possibility.
The storms are darker but they use lightning as the lamp to see where rain can be dropped in the midst of the night. No meter how black the cloud is the light will always shine in the inner core of the darkness. Learning from nature we are inspired to know that the darker the clouds the faster the lighting will be meaning that in every harsh situation the chip of hope will flash from the gardens of wisdom in the innermost being.
I usually say to myself if we are guided by the theories and formulas of some other wise and principled people why can’t we create a wisdom machine in our souls to give us the same formulae or otherwise but recreating the way we think and the way we act to guide us. Why can’t we just make our own beings, creating a trail for our tail, as we sail in the sea of darkness? Bringing life to the dead’s darkest nights and make them see the light in their day dream so that maybe they can wake up and start to live a real life of hope.
In the midst of darkness take any opportunity to make your light shine brighter
like know just time mind life feel world lost say we're things think love there's does people night away way thought got words long reality want better left make end eyes day man human dark experience remember really right death memory going place high good live city thoughts soul meaning great pain home sky believe shall change living oh fall light choice god consciousness existence years cause hard feeling thinking fear times 'cause dreams ask alive heart need past felt days dream sensation truth true use power knowledge wrong stars understand baby tell state thing face wave broken old you'll wave new broken nature you'll **** mental look far ah drug moment best ago air lose sleep dare try leave beautiful blue born lives escape sublime doesn't body dawn friends waiting feels young daze game control perception gone story mean sun head given writing act difference reason poetry philosophy psyche little trying touch deep greatest wonder choose drugs exist we'll moments score hold play set run self forget coming hope word future dead wish burn music emotion rain stop gaze pleasure glass one's what's lies sense wake hit remain real work bad stay open brain art seek space present happy spent acid pill social we've they're half-light used land held gotta help lie path finally listen actually longing rave water cold seeking caught energy reflection information anymore venturous goes came red hide start truly hand evil divine subtle matter kind lonely yes told eternity keeps line black edge ego context dusk horizon gonna spiritual tripping dimension data die white **** seen means care getting saw places sure freedom looking hurt fool wind flow search chance la took broke existential summer content flowing belief praise empyrean empathy discovery chemical aeon couldn't who's turn forth bit question eye judgement pray passion sound personal worth memories sanity accept universe embrace lack knows free makes rise language decide consider temporal society gain wander conscious stuff religious comprehend particle psychedelic metaphysics you've entheon absurdia entactus maybe ready fate realize family meant return perfect learn miss spirit doubt rest loved minds health moving mortal bring expression sleeping cast lines purpose quiet known strange infinite king months madness haze depths ate party patterns oneself psychedelion inside guess crowd later silent clear soft breath hours hate dust forgotten arms drink fast year war longer close searching morning ashes calm beauty darkness different justice fell friend shadows knowing fine youth heavy standing sweet enjoy explain vain simple chasing hidden ends smoke gold heaven follow point person breaking necessary today relief action cool possible bass generation lying listening machine yeah substance hath engine forlorn problem subject intangible study effort quantum definitions dopamine psychedelics we'd sigma cybran apotheon isn't empathion clouds practice gave warm wanted stand poem wait storm met asleep course skies crime surely grow depression write loose fair ecstasy knew dreaming humanity waves share taken simply faith playing sands view fix winter afraid began wise welcome comprehension sought late big zero table says bliss changed repetition everybody blame unto maze understanding mr explore states ignore addiction venture define teenage american humans billion she's wasn't 'til sonder walk smile tonight speak dance skin blood breathe fears illuminate worse peace girl crave easily emotions feelings **** having force ways lets catch meet hair doors worlds hearts destroy heard walking near hurricane wisdom lights second suicide ignorance fresh waking sadness grand happiness appear rising scared save join adventure neon outside alike liberty particles wonderful compounds killed somebody grace merely closer company desert master twisted realm respect trance ridiculous *** exile pondering noble dangerous absurd nation progress culture contradiction perceive irish urban phenomena cyberspace scoreboard psi ain't you'd mydriasis entheogenesis **** ones taste throw watch painting room alas lay history spend apart sea staring poet fact cut smell happened admit river wasted brought leaves making answer sorry glow learned decided grasp breeze bed begin pretty floor lived sole sand cure awake sight tears barely kept running safe roam willing prefer mist heads asked prose wandering sounds imagine looked hour growing recognize soon falls mirror treat ***** brother climb hero problems granted digital proud changes birth quest age spring aware doing witness names amazed ****** despite takes condition intoxication level beginning worked pupils decision object insanity rhythm medium quality weather physical false process strife individual journey doth code effects abandoned channel judge notions moral swear experienced greater chain natural thunderous cleanse determine shivering hallowed plus reckon caused adolescence media superposition addict connection indigo ethics survived definition reasoning internet feedback vibrancy serotonin cyclone hacker sardonic surreality virtuality here's he's sunyata temporality ******'s empathos apotheotelos flash shining green forever anger carry son moon selfish written supposed feed ya quite loop hooked pure feet hole paper flag sick voice burning attention fly utter wicked tremble endless form infinity talking piece shores verse chest rules food placed plan hallelujah called gun fading drinking emotional measure inspiration suffering belong west read sly instead bear erase furious shame conclusion drunk roll ******* depressed calls taught died defined tire everyday answers sacred acknowledge speaks perfection games ground spoke stood motion sway keeping pretend hell movement magic park key spin kick sake jump hanging animal begins orange streetlights fade crazy honest warp puppet chained survive apathy chains claim prey science diamonds begging grip tale hang powerful wonderland heal dealing plant twice painful daylight mastery desires recall school conviction miracle yearn empyreal weekend actual court value chalk hurts humankind rabbit eggs potential offers temporary pupil atlas nostalgia serenity happens yearning ponder hypothesis worthy witnessed ideas azure tools alpha curiosity consume singularity typhoon revelation stimulant liberate application projection criminals communication throes fraternity enables actuality starshine ethos apotheosis sardonicism aren't mind's teleology empatheon entheos hear mydriatic transcendention fight tear ash minutes wanna taking nights forgot tales lest desire lust darkest single shine slow allow destruction money comes anxiety contemplate nostalgic offer continue happen ink brings brave created holding create thunder produce talk sail philosopher creating distant illuminating drive dancing ease wishing higher pass excuse figure essence angel hopes child ahead sigh using door vast loves awaits strong tornado ok sorrow immortal ghosts certain remains stained insane reached lot discovered plain poison streets killing ending tried session vs poor woke stare watching grass slick emptiness falling box painter series children virtues awareness clean rolling reach advice heavens rend half cherish bay started relax focus laughed ashamed fiend melody drop exhale void occurs beneath win chose robes thrall shield ended sons normal sunrise road forged onward burden actions unlike colors curious street observe chosen silence shades returns technology race vengeance swept bag civilization strive reconcile trouble cloud described replaced substances whilst finding euphoria dear chemistry events deal message eternal masses beliefs vision apparent honestly dr seeing idea domain soar books frames rule law pleasures eat dread bare blaze raise compassion kindness wandered objects expressed sin declare mistake smoking drum heavenly honor lands fountain renew happening aspect gotten issues divinity teach matters pills goal follows significant job romantic gazed envelope elements identity group sell foolish lucid dimensions brothers owe education november difficult recognition express properties glitter considering illusion appreciate discover resonance derived transcendental buzz notion risk scares riot rainy teaching drizzle direct experiences elation normality quote evolution versus lamplight method reflective endeavour cloth eats teenagers eventually haul club result relative breed threat subjective concerning solstice interpretations allows rational ultimately basis aligned numbness hypocrite charade morality dope chaser continuum undead exploits aeons research freeman appropriate ion ****** teachings dilation binge beatific intuitive transcendent escapism psychedelia metaphysical beta untitled mescaline otherworldly dreampt contextual experiential symbiosis codex dissociation cybernetic weren't life's let's mirror's well-being any-more entheogenic junkiedom signifiers mescalito zero-summing won't 'pataphysics window million pair logic alright whisper stone walls notice fun picture lips whispering dying wanting hands pull remained pieces poems built push house choices united turns blessed lucky drifted sane demons demon external slowly worst angels town needs needed drifting watched abyss crimson liquid arch planes add souls questions leads flicker thousand swallow note strings player despair offering realms drift caressing enter gentle closed bodies letter beat gorgeous indescribable smiling laughing probably pick grown shade precious shooting background yesterday woman ocean sober lead clothed ghost flows turned conscience alphabet contain spun luck atmosphere vagabond completely surprise rock creed drawn book autumn rays spinning bottle early regrets lake kids sad acceptance stuck melancholy formed slip draw clearly scars collapse del sit satisfied jungle realized bunch favourite laid fit breaks notes plans anyways spoken produced echoes den trees steps ugly cover explained glance stole gazing current raised travel scratch haunts played women apathetic conquest naught goodbye midnight asking passed waste loss fallen rapture absolute positive walked mistakes lately bound patience nurture fog stranger men wants prevent forfeit asks arose easy quick sing allowed prove pitch mad closest deeply tides praying root poets sentence pulse nightmare deem coffee commit golden insert mock innocent whispers offend low tea strength captured attack stories baseline joint innocence neural chemicals plains blanket dripping reflect blink concepts psychosis plucked tidal radiance roar bathed wonders thrown moves suffer unspoken exists glad shroud plunge scorn bane asunder enslaved harvest possibly fail allure drank danger unsaid veil gravity assume sum receive bloom reveal odd whispered likes news fractured wisely gathered seraphim intention wrought plane weeks mere haunting aspects ha distance hungry eternally swaying eden foretold breach advance pains balance design event forgive significance confidence error alter paying unreality cost chronology thoroughly resembles vivid steal poetic illegal understands maelstrom temples amidst perpetual lesson pathos behold reborn produces scale heaviness ascend talked **** forsake valuable andor relinquish dismiss usually kid nervous sort fierce disguise demands abandon encourage avoid minor relentless identify loneliness web alchemy cosmic rhyme coil suffered basking dropped standard spark mates hearth swore steam myth native wonderfully occasionally solace ventures determination galaxy opportunity justify political prophecy steadfast healthy forsaken chapter facebook worried ex struggle shatter gentleman including convinced profit comfortable twine deity responsible adrift sage fortune immortality theft damage examine deliverance ultimate immersion response access test physics magnitude occur member relation acts theme signal shivers mire coin planet anybody vicious nirvana pendent applause glimmering benediction consuming glint refrain renewal myths manifest nocturnal reflections limitations teenager naturally material matrix columbine giveth inseparable singular proving lifestyle coherence humane ideals starlight sincerely prudence underworld infamous perspective presented pretends excitation viewed regard enhanced zen reverence arcadia theory realization typing construct statement subjugated exploration vote hazy reaper **** streetlight artificial trespass definitive device exceed complex finality surreal petrol proposition inspiring totality originally recurring narcotic cometh juxtaposition reckoning represent inability proclamation syntax continuity nevermind avoidance irrelevant veracious arcadian commence rumination aesthetics ubiquitous nonetheless variable exploit experiencing underlying villain cola rictus ketamine corporeal electronic graciously input cannabis manifestation comprised socially proportionate insofar ethical hedonism junkies vicissitudes cognitive determining psychiatrist palindrome lucidity remix reduction dissociative reclamation detract aer enhancement intoxicants qualia world's shouldn't wouldn't other's nothing's man's summer's today's who'd everybody's y'all 'the all's t'was ethereality thought's drug's noumenon skystruck shroom alexithymia transhuman you- -the in-between self-sufficiency -one zed's 15 11 liminality immanence adrenergic symbionts sublimeoblivious medina's buckfast psychonautes determinative serotonergic psychedelos skyglow cyclica 5-ht2a noumena pharmahuasca jeans role proper loud aching grows concrete cruel strains conversation ill paint wet couple calling mouth kiss senses case keeper torn pause middle setting whats pulling bone reminds likely remind wrath karma reading sunlight prone ***** phrase enemy familiar levels careful source adolescent small straight driving courage rush flaw suppose starting deny stayed weary worship trust turbulent troubled letting absence leaving wearing college proclaim spirits gather ear lady hey garden boys winning alcohol pay foolishly banish song cross encounters plays belonging famous shift burst alice tunes hood flickers glimpse gleam fleeting grant ride deja vu anticipation spot switch boyfriend order faded wrapped definitely short fish beach clock older dusted block station anchor longest deserve passing mark awhile lovers muse ache island totally existing comfort pride phone greek apollo bleeding unknown psychic powder remembrance tree train helps painted gambling tide tired acting blow build apologies silver fabric especially suspense band cascade flawless heat hunger nearly numb bread bright minus wide looks differently dive beating veins settle turning couch holds saying impression suspension meaningless plastic rich pointless occupied brief tiger sticks stones mask cake bitter concentrate drown forbidden shell dry walks unless regardless moved type shirt lone burns songs negative momentary staying police swing unseen ability analysis worries determined dreamt sink hopelessly chances abuse palm week existed ignorant blind dice sheep agree joke spy spill odds immeasurable *** pushing wanderlust softly midst presents blade guided ripped round ball lovely rhythms beats cars glaze wash fates evening vein gloss juvenile sides faces graces month circular rung wheel rises permeates father supreme portal liked rip fades october sitting grin showing surrounded explored opened confused wall quietly deftly scene sighs lingering radio altered evaporated suns dreamed vibration important appetite exactly devil inhabiting brains ordinary beckons constant local organic soothing linger meditation moonlight lads height ethereal simplicity kinda cigarette suggest violence blew bombs arise trips predict surface guy movements grey car stepped large bank forward landed lied ancient purely crash direction inspired release warned melodic rhythmic telling mysticism blues riddle blur floating drama neck lover nerve poisonous glare factory wage character suburbia escaped gates suspended followed pierced hall marks ruled influence functioning contained losing stopping effect electronica relate fed temper facts dependent malleable convey bent delve horror wolves won lacking certainly fooled temple oblivious watches extension molecular random subtlety rem price sear covers truths judging stage frost conditions victory millennium realised confront trickster eve daughter defines awoke terror remembere
Composed on 00:53, 21/09/2016 using Hello Poetry's 'Words' algorithm. We don't assume this means something.
Joe Cole Dec 2014


Oh such inspiration, such brilliance. Art still lives in my words
Tommy Johnson Dec 2013
You can hear the voices of our peers being silenced, ignored, shunned and distorted.
Staggering out of their bedroom doorways to the street corner to score a dime bag.
Bright, insightful millennials freezing in search of warmth from something to believe in that will encourage them to look forward to see another day.
Where our economy has made financial prudence clear when talking about education, yet price tags of university tuition's skyrocket.
The refused, the ones with hope but no money or scholarships; tread the streets with the echoes of electro house pulsing in their skulls.
Those who strip themselves down and shred their own morals to scraps just to find themselves and to see their own limitations.
Searching for answers to the unknown, to ascertain what they are, who they are and why.
Timid in high school, pushed along with nothing and no one to put their creative vigor into.
The squeakiest wheels that were never even considered to be given a good greasing.
Faculties giving them lethargic hellos on the first day of school, bestowing celebrated goodbyes to them on graduation day, diplomas in hand.
Now are the ones slumped over in a lackadaisical position contemplating how they can afford an education.
They work eight to ten at seven twenty five an hour Monday to Friday; and weekends staying in as not to blow their earnings.
Those who commute to university and balance a job with it, I applaud you.
The bewilderment of adulthood, the overabundance of pressure and responsibility.
Awakened from nightmares of lost opportunities, missed trains and lost contacts.
To step out of bed and splash water onto a severely distressed face and staring into a mirror with a despairing look.
Then hoping a bus to Garfield to bring back weight for all the embryonic smokers not yet at the point of make or break, just save up enough to pave my own way.
Gazing at the town on a roof top, chugging down the tenth…no…twelfth beer of the night wondering how this all happened.
Wild sensations of kissing an attractive stranger, the rush of touching on things never felt, tasting pleasures only the lucky have known.
The passionate, yet dissolute yearning for that ever eluding ******* adrenaline. Pounding, Pounding, Pounding until the culmination of energy has come.
Flip sided to those dizzying, tear jerking thoughts of suicide, annihilation of ones being, the contradictions of their faith in themselves and the people around them.
Unexplainable waves of anxiety crashing onto the shore of a diminutive island of optimism
Striving to look past the panic, the gloominess and fury that may or may not be present. But to remain composed and press forward to what awaits them.
Coffee keeps them going. Cup after cup, late night cramming every bit they can; into their caffeine driven psyches until the indisputable crash and failure.
Packs and packs of menthol cigarettes to calm their rattling nerves but at the same time killing them slowly. Their lives will seem shorter than the time it took to finish one bogey when death is near.
Marijuana induced ventures to run down burger shacks, laughing hysterical in the car ride, eyes heavy with a most ridiculous elastic grin extending from ear to ear. While inside millions of thoughts and realizations of consciously simple speculations and troubles become clear and unproblematic. So the joy is mirrored outside in.
LSD trips in Petruska dancing and singing in the rain! Making music, making love; playing pretend and creating art. Becoming a family while kicking back under the warmth of an illuminated tree on a cool fall night.
MDMA streaming through the body, everything is as it should be
Beautiful, lovely to touch, wondrous to stroke, marvelous to move.
To contact and connect, converse and converge with the dwelling desire to share what you feel with everyone for it would be selfish and unpleasant to keep it in.
Mushrooms oh the emotional overflow I need not say more but ****.
Then there are over the counter candies, Oxycontin, ******, Adderall and Xanax, painkillers and antidepressants. Ups, downs, side ways and backwards.
Selling addiction and dependency legally to kids. Making heroine, ******* and speed easily obtainable to them. Changing the names and giving out prescriptions so the parents can feel like they're actually helping their children but are subconsciously making it easier on themselves because they cannot handle the way their offsprings actually are. Some parents a feel it is the only way, I wish it wasn't so. Becoming zombies, mindless addicts before they even start to mature into puberty. I've seen it, firsthand front row.
Oh, the monotonous, mundane rituals and agendas of our lives. School, work, sleep eat, the sluggish schedules and repetitions of yesterday's conversations and redundancy of itineraries we had plotted months prior.
Same people, the constant faces of boredom that groan in apathy and hold the fear of complacency.
We talk about how hum drum out lives have become and what we could to put some color in our world but don’t.
We speak of how unfair the system is but ultimately confuse ourselves and everyone else due to lack or organization and dedication so nothing is changed.
We speak of breath taking women we want to share ****** fantasies with but can’t even muster enough courage to send a trivial friend request.
Texting away for hours trying to court those who now occupy our minds and possess our hearts hoping they may allow us to acquire their attention and affection. Calling them only to receive futile dial tones and know we are being evaded.
Weeping on and on for seemingly endless time frames of a dilapidated relationship that was so strained that a miniscule breeze could cause it to collapse but still clinging to every memory as if they were vital hieroglyphics depicting your very essence.
Brilliant theories blurted out in a drunken stupor.
Ingenious hypothesis shrouded in marijuana smoked out room.
Remembrance of friends long gone.
The marines, the navy.
The casualties of drug addiction.
The conquerors or their afflictions.
The scholars.
The insane locked away on the flight deck never to be seen again.
Teenage mothers unsure of themselves, abandoned by their families for they believe that they brought fictional shame upon the family’s name. The fate of the child is unclear but the mother’s everlasting love shines through any obscurities in its way.
Dear mother of the new born winter’s moon may the aura of life protect you and your baby.
The father gone without a trace.
He will never know his daughter.
And it will haunt him forever.
Parents bringing up their kids with values and morals, The Holy Bible, mantras and meditation, the Holy Quran, The Bhagavad Gita, and Upanishads. Islamic anecdotes and Jewish parables.
The names all different
The message the same
The stories unlike
Goals equivalent
Kabala, Scientology and Wicca
Amish and Mormons
All separate paths that intertwine and runoff each other then pool into the plateau of eternal life.
But do we have faith in our country, our government?
They do not have faith in us. Cameras on every street corner, FBI agents stalking social media, recordings of our personal lives and police brutality. 4th amendment where have you gone?
We say farewell to Oresko the last veteran of the last great war. And revisit the Arab spring, Al-Assad’s soldiers opening fire on innocent protesters, one hundred fifteen thousand lay dead. Bin laden dead, Hussein hanged, Gaddafi receiving every ounce of his comeuppance. War, terrorism, the fear of being attacked or is it an excuse to secure our nation's investments across the sea? Throwing trillions of dollars to keep the ****** machine cranking away, taxes, pensions, credit scores, insurance and annuities all cogs in the convoluted contraptions plight.
My dear friend contemplates this every night laying in bed, fetal position; the anxiety if having to be a part of this.
Falling apart on the inside but on the outside, an Adonis, *******, Casanova wanna be. Who worshiped the almighty dollar, gripping it so tightly until it made change, drank until he had his fill falling face first into the snow. The guy who lead on legions of clueless girls wearing their hearts on their sleeves not knowing he had a girlfriend the entire time. Arranging secret meetings in hidden gardens, streaking into the early morning. Driving to Ewing in his yellow Mustang to woo a sado masochistic girl. The chains and whips do nothing to him he is already numbed by the thrill. Then he comes home, lays in bed until one, with no job and having people pay for his meals.
He knows what he does and who he is wrong. He recites and regurgitates excuses endlessly. He cries because he knows he is weak, he knows he must fix himself. I sit on the edge of myself with my fingers crossed hoping maybe, maybe he will set himself straight.
My chum who can talk his way out of any confrontation and into a woman’s *******. Multitudes of amorous affairs in backrooms, backseats, front rows of movies theaters. Selfish, boastful and ignorant, yet woman fling themselves at him like catapulted boulders over a medieval battle field just to say hello. These girls blind to see what going on, for their eyes were taken by low self esteem. A need to be accepted, to feel wanted even only for fifteen minutes. Poor self image, daddy issues, anorexic razor blade slicing sirens screaming on about counted calories and social status. Their uncontrollable mental breakdowns and emotional collapse. Their uncles who ***** them, their parents who split up and confusing their definition of love and loyalty for the rest of their lives. Broken homes, domestic abuse and raised voices, sending jolts of fright into the young girl’s fragile minds. I send my sorrows to you ladies, to see such beautiful creatures suffer then be used and thrown away with the ****** that was just ****** deep into their *****.
Then I see women and men of marvelous stature, romantic in the streets holding everyone and everything in high regards. Finding beauty in anything and anyone. Enjoying every second as if the rapture was over head eating exotic foods from unheard of countries and cultures. Bouncing to the sound of whimsical , reverb ricochets and sense stimulating music. Huffing inspiration to create something out of thin air. Dancing to retired jazz and swing albums as if no time had past since their conception. Wearing bold colors and patterns, thrifty leather shoes or suede.
Dawning pre-owned blazers because why spend hundreds of dollars on new clothes just to look good but feel uncomfortable with a hole in your pocket. Dressing up but dressing down, so class yet urban I love it, chinos, pea coats and flannels so simple but chic.
At night they go to underground dens, sweaty bodies, loud music and freedom. Expressive manifestations glowing fueled with MDMA and other substances to further their enjoyment of the dark glorious occasion. Kandi kids sporting colorful bracelets, not watches for time is of no concern to them, they have all eternity they know that.
Going to book stores, coffee shops just to have some peace of mind and a moment of silence to themselves so that can weave the tapestry of imaginative innovation. Writing their own versions of the same story, endless doors of perception, reading news papers and taking it with a grain of salt. Watching the news on TV with a hand full of salt. Searching for the real story so they can know if the world they all live in is actually safe.
She who made her own way breaking hearts, rolling blunts and making deals. The flower child of the modern age, left the rainy days in search of radiant sunshine, idealistic. Reality was subjective, purple dyed hair, multicolored sweater with sandals on her feet. A ten inch bowl with bud from California packed in tightly. Coming from Dumont to Bergenfeild then on to Philly to Mount Vernon. Off to Astoria and the Heights. Now to Sweden laying in the grassy plains below the mountains. Good for you my friend whom I have loved, may fortunes of unsullied joy come to you and all you meet.
Since you’ve left I have encountered drunken burly firemen just trying to have a good time. Pounding down Pabst Blue Ribbon as if it were water; as if it were good tasting beer. But heroes none the less.
EMT's, young eighteen years old high school graduates, saving lives reviving people who are a mere inch close to death.
Sport stars getting scholarships thanks to their superior skills and strength.
Striking beauty school students who are into making the people of this world a little bit more beautiful on the outside.
All these people, successful, doing things. Departing to their desired destinations. I see inside them, they carry baggage, loneliness and insecurities. I can feel their guilt slowing them down. All have their loads but it’s the way they carry them that shows who they really are. And to me their all gems.
Not far in Paterson I watch the junkies limping across busy winding street, perusing a severely needed fix. “Diesel!” they shout beneath flickering streetlights, asking for spare change and if bold enough a ride to some shady sketchy place. I give them a dollar and politely decline. They’ll die without it. Vomiting up bile and blood, twitches and shivers are all you feel when it’s not in you. They cannot stop, they need help. Why not help them instead of “assisting” those who are homosexual? Cleansing so they can be granted entry to the kingdom of God. Looking down on people who have found love and understanding and a deep attraction to others who just so happen to share alike genitals.
Narrow minded uproars about the spread of AIDS, nonsense! The puritanical onslaught of those who want nothing more than the rest of us, love. "Gay", "****", "******", "queer", how about "kind", "funny", "genuine human being"? The right to be married and divorced should be an option for everyone to enjoy. The strains and hardships of matrimony are yours if you want them. If you don’t agree don’t hate or harm just allow them to be peacefully. Same goes for anything for that matter, Jehovah's going door to door, Mormons from Burbank. New ideas are never a bad thing, they’re not a waste of time. On average you have about eighty years to mull over your options.
Some people don’t live long enough to do so, cancer is rampant, blood diseases, ****** diseases, natural disasters coming right out of left field and blindsiding the innocent bystanders of both hemispheres. Some go through life handicapped, autism is apparent these days. Schizophrenia, Asperburgers, ADD and ADHD. Some lose their golden memories of their many valuable years walking down Alzheimer's Lane, not being able to remember whatever transpired only a few moments ago but revisiting gold nuggets from from fifty-some-odd years ago with ease. Some go through life delusional or bipolar. Some can't even sleep at night but they still carry on. And if assistance is needed it is our job as a race to help our brothers and sisters, no one deserves to be excluded from the gala of life. Or be denied by society and pumped with brightly colored pills from doctors promising a cure but prescribing a crutch.
Finding solace in sincerity.
The serendipity of it all hasn’t been uncovered and that keeps me going.
“Radiate boundless love towards the entire world above, below and across. Unhindered without ill will without enmity.” Oh Buddha the truth as it ever was.
Who is he who keeps these thoughts from the conscious minds of the population?
Who is it that distracts us from the humbling beauty and overwhelming devastation of this place of existence we’re in?
It’s they who do under the table parlor trick behind our backs.
Those who broadcast mind numbing so called reality TV shows without an underlying value or meaning.
Those who produce music, proclaiming extravagance to be the end all be all gluttonous goal we all should aim to achieve.
And those who turn noble causes into money making scams and defile pure ideas.
And of course those who give false promises of easily obtained  bright futures, those who don’t care, those who steal, ****, curse, bad mouth and lie. But still manage to get elected into positions that more or less decide out fates. Monsters, demons, banshees howling inconsequential worries and leaving us deaf to hear the real issues.
Ryan Kane Jul 2014
It's one of those days
Where I've got no inspiration.
Where I'm writing
Completely out of desperation.

The pen is dried up,
But there's still ink inside.
I thought I had something going
but the stanza was denied.

I hate these types of days.
It's the potential for writers block.
My inspiration is on the edge,
it's got the gun loaded and cocked.

I feel a lack of dedication.
A lack of education.
There needs to be medication
for a lack of inspiration.
Follow me on twitter: @radicalmartian
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"Blue Lines" Available Soon!
marga Jun 2018
your precious smile,
that never failed to shine;
a heaven-sent beam,
that made my heart your realm.

2. your tenderness,
that gave me bliss;
how could someone be
like you, so dearly?

3. your good vibes,
that surpassed all tribes
in giving off the positivity
i need for my stubborn reality.

4. your talents,
that awakened everyone's hearts;
you are my significant inspiration,
you give life to my life's ambition.

5. your humility,
that's filled with sincerity.
while everyone else is toplofty,
you remained lowly.
not everyone as wonderful as you,
could show meekness too.

6. the happiness you shared,
at times when smiling is something
i never dared;
darling, it meant everything.

7. for your meaningful silence,
that gave me a better comprehension.
although your stillness was tense,
i knew in my heart it was never a rejection.

8. for your music,
that never halts to flourish.
music, your depiction of aesthetic;
through you, the melody will never tarnish.

9. for being your genuine self,
you gave me potency to do the same.
shamming is no longer something i'll play, for you taught me how to
end that witless game.

10. for bringing me daily sunshine,
for setting the moon & the stars aligned;
my everyday became better,
and i will treasure you forever.

there are way more reasons
on why i love you for real.
through the passing seasons
i could slowly & slowly reveal
and show you how i truly feel.
as time passes us by,
i would no longer hesitate
and keep my sentiments ensconced.
through the coming weeks, months and years,
as long as we have all the time
i would dauntlessly lay out to you
that the way i feel for you is true.
written with whole heart for my dearest .
let me tell you
that i am true
ㅡ and i always will be.
lachica Jan 2014
inspiration comes from everywhere
in our hearts
in our dreams
in our hopes
in ourselves
in our surroundings
people we meet
people we love
people we lose
people we loath
people we seek
places where we've been
places where we've never been
places  where we've seen
places where are hidden
places where are shown
emotions we have
inspiration can come from within
inspiration can come from an exterior source
but we will always find inspiration in anything we're given
its one of few things that can never be taken.

— The End —