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Srijani Sarkar Jul 2018
I am having writer's block
and experiencing all this anger
and hunger and love and regret,
I feel like I just don't have a bowl
for all these incredible feelings.
I just don't have enough respect for words anymore.
I want to make a cake out of this psychedelia
and I don't even have a sweet tooth.
Where do I put all of it?
Not how.... where?
I feel like drinking water without pills is vain.
Air left in my stomach
makes my mind a ****** stalker
who'll chase you down the road
suddenly have concussions and die in front of you
and make you call the police for a whole new different reason.
Writer's block is ghost town
and I am still human without a soul.
How to die beautifully?
Perhaps when the sun shines the brightest in the dusk
burning everyone more than ever.
Some people,
write from the heart

While others
still, write from life

Still, others
do, think-out first

Yet to,
some, the world; joke.

The World is a Joke.

The Heart,
is emotion,

The World is a Joke.

Are you Laughing?

or,

...are you,

Writing?
Winter Child Aug 20
In case no one gets it,
i collect my excerpts
better
than i spell my prayer.
Spills my personal feelings
and trouble,
longer than i bow
on my knees.

i memorize every shame
and quote it
in a piece of paper,
the same stroke
they did to break
my bones.
Marks down
every of their tone
when i got yelled at,
being degraded.

In case no one gets it,
i use my fingertips to fight.
Being sure of my words,
but never myself.

They can take off my guts,
break down my sanity
into pieces of insecurity.
Yet i’m here to remain bold
until the last spill of ink,
and my pen
can no longer stand.
the battle is in my head
Austin Ryskamp Dec 2018
To explain art I have to start somewhere
A space to right what I was wrong about
A place to think the answers I want to know
To search out and find where my heart hides
Where my song resides
A hole existence
With a void
Or a whole life full of joy
I write to hear my pains, and see your smiles
to explain what I can't speak aloud during the miles
Traveled in this life
Boots worn down to broken souls
Souls worked into accomplished life goals
The tolls that made this face happy
Were paid in blood sweat and tears
A poem for artists.
Invisible Dec 2018
Someone asked me if I was an artist.
If I liked to draw,
Because I had a sketchbook.
I shook my head and said, "No."
Then I said, "I'm a writer,"
"I like to imagine."
I have a sketchbook and I draw only because I imagine my words turning into images. It's a form of inspiration for me.
theblndskr Aug 2015
Let me tell you the story of my death:

Carving words on the bark of a tree
A poem that means life to me.
Glows through night, my soul delights!

        "Exist beyond my death, oh please...
            So I could live in bliss at least."


But they cut the tree, so mindlessly
Illegally. ****, selfishly!
In chainsaw, I was murdered.

        A massacre,
      ... a massacre of my every being!!


I'm a ghost that forgot, the best in me
Now writes relentlessly
To relive the words, once killed in greed
I found the "
papers*", the poems you lead...

Then before me, is some piece of me
they killed.

I died a hero,
Readers who found their hearts, in death of the writers. Is but ONE.
A M Ryder Sep 2018
Coke on my gums makes the whiskey go down like water
And so I feel nothing

I'll destroy myself alone so nothing can hold me back
So no one says "Enough."
I won't blame you for not saying something
I won't blame you for not "saving me"
How I can't be happy that you're happy

My ancestors are all angels up way too high and probably disappointed in what and who've I become
But still I don't care, they're all dead
Those lucky *****

Daylight breaks and the dawn has come
So I guess I've been up all night

These words are the very breath of my demons
And I haven't heard from an angel in ages
Through the eyes of the beast in me
I've become friends with the abyss
And it has politely invited me in

So another for the writer
Another bottle all by myself
To soak my soul
And drench any dream or hope of a happy life
I might have had left
Working piece that needs feedback, I found this in an old journal and I really see a gem in it.
“It really sickens me that you can’t take this life straight,” she said.

Her eyes were afire with a pink halo of hatred that smote her compassion. She reached for her coat and wrenched the cheap motel room door open. It made a small dull thud as it hit the brittle plaster wall. (I hoped my deposit would cover the damage.)

She was one surreal moment’s breath away from leaving me there for good.

“You’re a lonely old man because you’re a selfish old *******,” she said.

She disappeared down the walkway like some direful wraith caught in the night wind. The curt sound of her red highheeled shoes clicking the worn concrete. The inexplicable proof of her existence ferried away in a sea of incandescent tail lights that shown from the highway.  

Maybe she was right. Maybe I can’t take this life straight and never hope to. And, maybe I am selfish. But, I’m only selfish because I’m so **** lonely all the time. That’s the ***** of it. Life is a never-ending toilet bowl flush of selfishness, drunkenness, *****, and utter loneliness.

It took me too many years to figure out that the problem wasn’t her, or even with other people for that matter, it was with me.

It’s only when we figure ourselves out that we realize that we’ve been doing a lot of things wrong with our lives. Listening to the wrong voices in our heads. Taking the wrong advice from strangers. Avoiding the admonitions of those who really love you. These things happen all the time. None of us has the answers. I don’t know anything.

In fact, after all the years I spent searching for meaning in academia perusing dusty libraries and old bookstores for that gem of knowledge, I can tell you definitively that only ignorance is bliss. That it’s even true when it comes to dating. The less you think you know the better you are.

I guess this is where the train stops for me. Time to get off. Try something else. Take to the woods and grow a manly neck-beard like Thoreau did in Walden. Adhere to the early American philosophy of rugged individualism and all that. Too soon would I realize that life isn’t about solitude, or a separation from others; rather it’s about the connections we make. Solid connections.

The hedonistic Epicurus tells us to live a life of pleasure through the temperance of desire, and warns us not to seek what is inappropriate for us mortals, but to enjoy our mortal needs.

I do not know if Epicurus ever found a mate, a friendship, or even a partner to share his most intimate thoughts with besides his raucous audience, but I do know he died in isolation away from society. I’ve never been a hedonist. I’m far too traditional for all that.

My sordid love life is more akin to Ovid’s Metamorphoses and the tragic story of Echo and Narcissus.

I’ve been Narcissus for too many years to count and what’s worse I was in oblivion. For too long have I been unto myself. Admiring only myself. The time has come to choose. Either die like Narcissus or live and love with Écho.

I’d like to walk in the sunlight, drink from the cool springs, and with a Shakespearian passion bask in it’s eternal glow and live inside the warm,  but ever ethereal, love of another’s heart.

To love another with such Shakespearian passion would lead me to realize that the only thing my love can save is myself. And, all the time this duality would haunt me—to unequivocally know that without the tenderness of Echo in one’s life there is only the vain Narcissus.

For now you know the duality, that is also the tragedy, of this man. Let that echo in your ears and see if it does not ring with the truth of all men.
KiraLili Aug 2016
Write me a moment with your body
Pen us a day of love
Edit my form to fit your pages
And turn each one slowly
Bury your head deep in our book
Let the heat of your words burn
Take your writing as seriously as your pleasure
Find escape in the story
Dip your quill in black ink
And let it drip on white sheets
Apoetisonly Feb 1
He’s  a copycat writer
Trying to woe with spoken words
He’s a copycat writer
With a forked tongue

Yeah, He’s a copycat writer
Lookin so cute with his rhymes
Machew don’t you know, I know you’ve seen
Everything meaningful you’ve written
Has already been written by me
Never fall in love,
With a writer,
For a writer will grab your hand and whisper run,
As she pulls you,
Swirling twirling,
Through a world of imagination,
Never fall in love,
With a writer,
For she will drag you on adventures,
That you never wanted in the first place,
And all you could possibly say,
Is “as you wish”
So never fall in love with a writer,
But if you do,
Always tell her that you love her you’ll regret it if you don’t,
Never fall in love,
With a writer.
for the boy who dares to love me XD
annh Sep 28
The writer is unwritten until he writes;
But ne’er of the unwritten does the written writer write.

‘There is nothing new except what has been forgotten.’
- Marie Antoinette
em Jul 2016
“Have you written about me yet?”  you asked.
“I write about things that make me sad, you’re not one of them.” was my response.

But even as you made me sad,
Even as my heart started to crumble.
I never could write about you.

I am a poet I string stars into constellations
And weave words into stanzas.
I need someone whose eyes can be twisted into metaphors
And the mere sound of their voice makes my hands tremble so gracefully
That I can make my magic with a pencil.

I was in love with all the poems I wished I could write about you.
How badly I wanted to sculpt you with sentences into something
Too beautiful to call mine.
But you are not a poem.

Yes, your eyes are quite a gorgeous blue,
And your arms are strong.
I’m sure you would make a beautiful painting,
An inspiration for someone else’s art.
But not mine.

You wanted to believe all of my broken pieces
could fit in a cardboard box.
That's what attics are for, to hide **** things.
You're beauty was skin deep.
And thats how you wanted me.
I didn't want to be empty.

“Have you written about me yet?” you asked.
“I write about things that have meaning, you’re not one of them.” should have been my response.
This is not my best but I have been in massive writer's block and this is kind of an explanation why.
She loved to swim in
Shallow seas but I dived in
The deep dry ocean
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