It was never sought after
The lost laughter
The slaughter of innocence
In exchange for greatness
The debate is
It takes great pain
To write greatly
And lately
I kind of agree
The best parts of my poetry
Are the lines that bleed me
Of my darkest emotions
And though I would not change my past
Mostly
I would not seek the sorrow of suffering
To become a revered writer
Or would I

"So you're a writer?
That must be what brings you here.
Tell me where you've been."

I love words that make you visualize
The intent of what the writer desires.
What the writer sees within the mind
Conveys what I can see in mine.

Drama Drama, Problems,
Difficult Problems, Disasters.
Governmental Power The Greatest
Dictator of Egypt The new world
of black and black, black, dark
midnight, black blood, astrologers
and astronomers are found
throughout the world. If this is not
true, you can see George and George,
George, George and George
on the roof. George Jackson
is very dark, down, hot and black.
East East 16 Viral Electronics /
Blind Blind / Sharp, Blind, Marshall
Handheld Hijiji Toys or "stand"
Independence, Education, Children,
Errors, Errors, Legal Sales, Mothers,
Moments, Future Satisfaction
and Darkness; Prevention Writer
and Answers. Penrhyn Du. Listen
to the Australian Drama, listen
to black protesters, and remember
Australian airplanes and nightclubs
in Australia. Search for the service
at any time on TV.

Pretending to be
a functional adult
is exhausting.
Pretending to be
a conventional writer
is much more
frustrating.

25.5.2014

Our minds function with familiarity.
When your nose picks up a scent you’re familiar with - your mind plays parts of your life where that scent can be placed. It triggers memories.

I was close enough to hear her breathe and while I was lost in conversation, my mind was playing all the memories that associate her scent to different parts of my life.

The notion of your life flashing in front of you in a near death experience is one half of the truth.

What happens when your mind associates a scent that’s been a part of you long enough to play a movie reel of most of your life, based on placing that specific scent to parts of your life?

What happens when she’s been a part of your life long enough for it to seem that your whole life just flashed in front of you, based on your mind associating a scent to the times in your life that it was present.

Her scent tied to so many memories that my mind got a little confused into thinking that my life just consisted of memories of her.

In actual fact, my mind went a step further to associating the feelings tied to the scent, and memories being associated with time I had spent with her, and my nose triggered the association of the time I spent with her so my mind opened up the archives just to find that the clear memories are recent, and the old memories seem recent but they’re not, but every memory is tied to parts of my life that seem to make up most of my life - she’s been there the whole time.

The memories associated her voice to parts of my life when I couldn’t hear my own, and her laugh to parts of my life where I couldn’t stand being away from her. She reminded me of how much I’ve always wanted her and now she reminds me of how much I need her.

She holds the second biggest role in my life, after myself, of course. I’m the lead actor, and not only is she a supporting cast but she supports my craft, too. She’s a Creative, an Executive, an Editor, a Narrator and sometimes even a Writer.

She creates scenes that make me believe, again.

She executively executes her role so effortlessly that I’d be a fool to downplay her importance.

She edits the bad parts, so they make sense and she narrates the story from different perspectives, plotting the synopsis, and playing one of the biggest parts in this story - she’s my favorite character.

She writes my wrongs, and I right my wrongs.

She yells “Cut” every now and then. Between scenes, when I’m on the verge of breaking, she takes me to the dressing room and she helps me take off my insecurities and my fears, and that’s when things usually get clear.

All of this just because she breathed in my direction long enough for me to remember her scent.

A musician who plays guitar at 2am,
A writer who writes in a dark room,
A painter who paints in silence,
An actor who rehearses in the mirror,

It is a choice to be an artist?
Or is it a sacrifice to be creative?

Pen glides on paper,
As smooth as black ribbons
Draped across the snow,
Or black thread
Stitching up white silk.
The lines of words
Imprint themselves into my brain.
I breathe language,
Feel my heart beat with songs,
Dream in the rythm
Of poetry.
Eventually, the
Ink
Forces its way into my veins,
Carried throughout my body
So that I bleed
Ebony rain.
It infiltrates me
Until I am crying
Midnight tears.
My hearts pumps the
Unformed phrases around and
Around again
Until I dissolve,
Becoming a mirror of darkness
On the floor
To inspire another writer.
'Tis the fate of the poet:
To become one
With one's work
And dreams
And life
And soul.

what a blessing for a writer,
to suffer.

adds validity,
better to speak
from experience
than imagination.
see, fiction writers
write to escape.
us poets?
we write
to release.

ink allows us
to bleed
onto
perfect plain paper pages,
our true canvas.
a ‘healthier’
way
to bleed.

perhaps
it’s because
they don’t see
the wounds words leave.
never experienced
that punch to the
gut, i’m sure,
from
one
single
line.

does that make them lucky?
i’m unsure.
perhaps it suggests
they’ve never
been that
misunderstood,
neglected,
lonely,
as to where words
are their only friends.
on the other hand,
they’ve never known
the pure
bliss
that is
understanding.
sweet, sour
relief.

those of us
that have experienced
it,
we long to feel it
again.
so we write,
to understand ourselves,
and hopefully,
help others do the same.

Hello my name is Mario William Vitale I'm an established writer. Having 1,000 poems & two short stories toward my platform. I contribute my success to writers John Ashbery & Major Jackson. My main concern for are country is with are nations youth. There are no more good wholesome role models for them to look up to. I personally met Roy Rogers in 1983 if you want to talk about a hero his name comes to mind. We as a society have become lax in demonstrating ethical principles toward their well being. Having war zones we call schools. Abortion as the accepted norm. Heads in are streets that stand for love yet it's really lust in disguise. No one has a voice anymore in addressing these issues to are needed children.

I need a Poet,
Someone who understands the clichés of my life,
The imagery of my dreams,
Someone who writes poems with their heart and not their hands,
Someone who can write through my bad days.

I need a Poet,
Someone who understands the paradox of myself,
A person who sees beyond words,
I want that person to know that my criticism is full with love to make them better,
Like Euphemism,
Tell him I love him,
For his poems,
And only his poems would reach my heart.

I need a Poet,
A writer,
Someone who comforts me with rhymes,
Someone who words flow like a river,
Someone who can hug me with prose,
For in art there is no mistakes,
He would know that this love is not an error,
I want him to be as perfect as Nature,
Please send me a Poet,
For his poems I would cherish,
And his heart would be mine forever.

A poem
is never an ornament
nor
a cheap sentiment

Well have your travelled
beneath moon and sun
despite odds, you have prevailed
a life-story richly-spun

The poet's nightmare
when words revolt
and the entire poem
it starts to tear

A poem is a journey
that leads to a new territory

he snarled at me
accusation embedded into each word
I thought I knew you
I thought I could trust you
but you're nothing like I thought
how can you bear to live with yourself
how can you not feel sick
- collaborator!
he expelled that last word
as if he would be the one to *****
you gave in
while the rest of us struggled on
you gave in
we thought you were with us
but all along you had betrayed us
you betrayed yourself
you didn't write that alone
you had a partner
didn't you!
didn't you!

I paused
not sure how to respond
it was true
I couldn't deny it
I had stopped working alone
I had
- collaborated
I had fallen in step with another writer
and it had felt
great

When I stare
At nothing in the air
And smile

Or sneer
Behind closed lids
At villains
In my dreams;

Do not despair
Or wonder.

I am neither mad
Nor glad.

I am merely a writer
Doing work;
Sowing seeds
In the fertile fields
Of my imagination.

AYO

~ P

the next course.



may be to meet the writer at the plas.

it is a big house, remember we walked

there this summer from the oakley.



up the drive, then back down again

later.



things change, i hope to change with

them.



this autumn.



sbm.

Dear God,
                 Why did you create us?
                  Yet now,I can't make it out!
                  But,the quest is can't you see?
                  What mischief your spouse doing here?
                  So,how you can be neutral?
                  What's the reason you bear all these?
                  My elders said that you're very powerful
                  There's no limit of your power
                  So,why don't you punish these stupids?
                  Why don't you reply?
                  Are you deaf or a dumb?
                  I see
                  Ya,I can make it
                  Actually,you're nothing but a imagination
                  As a creative writer
                  Create characters as per requirement
                  You're also just a comic character
                  Having no existence in reality
                  Till moment;I'm silly,stupid,innocent
                  But,not more
                  Now,I'll be too as you're
                  No comments,no controversies,no cacaos
                  Then only can be happy forever as you're
                  Thanks for such a great lesson
                  Sorry,for the initial misunderstanding
                  You're really great....
                                                                               With best regards from,
                                                                  One of your innumerable spouse
                                                                                               Gourab Banerjee
Written on 21.07.2012,Saturday

you were a sight for sore eyes.
you asked me for pizza two seconds after you told me how far the pen had gone this time.
the scars would never go away.
and this time, it was for both of us.
red liquor, red paint, red tears, but nothing could have prepared me for this.
my melancholic release methods, one being this paper itself, had failed me.
they had failed you too.
parallels like this are always ironic.
i forgot to tell anyone that i was drowning too.
i forgot to care about myself, even when i was told the opposite.
you forgot to tell me not to call your parents.
at least it’s different than last time. at least you didn’t tell me you hated me and at least you didn’t wish i was dead.
trying to search for a hidden meaning when it isn’t there was always one of my best qualities.
this time it was as simple as can be.
this time i increased the repetition to the point where i could no longer be in denial.
this time you left me. maybe next time i’ll be the one to go.
i’ve always been so afraid of losing purpose and losing the love i’d forgotten to tell thank you, and you, and writing something no one wants to read about, and obscurities,
and me.
i’ve always had this irrational fear of myself.
they say that time will tell, but all that time has told me is i am ******.
i am a tragedy collapsing in and i am a terrible writer anyway.
i am bad at hidden meanings and i am not good at painting. or crying.
i am a broken record playing the same track over and over.
you had bandages on your fingers that looked like snow capped mountains.
you always knew i was afraid of the cold.