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Raven Jun 2018
He writes poetry
But no one knows

He writes poetry
He writes about love
And loss

He writes about smiles
And frowns

He writes about sorrow
And forgotten towns

He writes about how lost he gets
Caught up in his own mind

He writes poetry to
And about others

But no one knows

Know one knows the depth of his soul
Because they all choose to see the exterior
And that exterior screams

And preppy
Don't have souls

Or so they thought
Until the day he was consumed
By his own poetry
patty m Nov 2018
Poets don't pick the time or place, or the state of their lives.  Some write while trying to STAY ALIVE in a hellhole state of abuse. And yes like the homeless man on the street They don't mouth words, they write guts, and gall, and bruises, They write love, and levity and crazy rants or bits and pieces of hope and dreams. Poetry is  the other side of the mirror, the place of sanity/insanity and escape.

Tinny whine
by design
a wind-chime
words are snowing
trumpets blowing
where's the rhymer
the man who writes lines for two bucks
what the f- - k
Once poets were revered
now they sear through the mind
refined or unrefined, no
loving valentine.
And still I read in awe
chewing on a straw
drinking all the thoughts in
how does one begin to absorb
it all?
The aches the pain, the non-monetary gain,
the romance, and happenstance,
As to the question
Who writes poems like this?
the words were uttered like a breathless kiss

not a reprimand, or justification
supplication to that
unholy state of upper-hand,
on demand, testamentary of
vocabulary signature of solemn state
in which one contemplates tone and
that alone designates the way
one whispers when truly touched
by poetry that says so much.

Who writes poems like this?
I seek to amend,

Only the very best my friend
text is so easy to misunderstand, when one can't hear the tone expressed.  
Jeff Gaines Mar 2018
You …

My Love.
My Queen.
This Shining Light in my eyes.

My Laughs.
My Dreams.
My Soft, Contented Sighs.

My *****.
My Lavender.
My Dew Covered Rose.

My Smile.
My Cinnamon.
The Joy in my heart … ever inspiring my prose.

My Best Friend.
My Co-Star.
My Fearless Partner in Crime.

My Breath.
My Cohort.
My Side-kick throughout time.

My Snow-capped Mountain.
The Wind caressing my face.
My Vast Green Field.

The Ivy Covered Wall
that harbors my soul … ever refusing to yield.

You … are my Life.

You … are my World.

You … are my Everything

and I will always love you.

~Charlie Brown
If you don't know the story of Charlie Brown ... OR his "Little Red Haired Girl" you won't really get this. I was just trying to imagine that poor guy writing a poem to his ever elusive object of adoration.

Maybe this bit from Wikipedia will help explain his plight:

"The Little Red-Haired Girl is an unseen character in the Peanuts comic strip by Charles M. Schulz, who serves as the object of Charlie Brown's affection, and a symbol of unrequited love. While never seen in the strip, she appears onscreen in several television specials, in which her name has been revealed as Heather Wold."

"Charlie Brown most often notices her while eating lunch outdoors, always failing to muster the courage to speak to her. She figures prominently in Valentine's Day strips, several of which focus on Charlie Brown's hope of getting a valentine from her. Charlie Brown typically attempts to give her a valentine but then always panics at the last minute."


All my life, I have, for many reasons, loved and related to, Charlie Brown. Lord knows my friends and family have ALL witnessed first-hand my being in situations where, like our hero, I somehow get *******, knocked down, beaten back or just plain defeated by circumstances beyond my control, all while in the midst of trying to do something heartfelt, valiant or with the very best of intentions.

I had a plastic toy of him that was, ironically, the only toy of mine that survived the house fire that took my Father, Christmas Eve 1969. I kept it until my 20's, when I was burglarized ... and the ONLY two things this person took were THAT precious, cherished toy and an object d'art piece of pottery that I had made in High School.

Oh, good grief!

(Long sigh)

I wrote this poem nearly blacked-out after an entire night of power drinking across lower Manhattan. The next morning, I woke up and found it still on my PC screen. After I read it, I almost dismissed and deleted it as too "silly" and "mushy" ... but, for some reason, I just couldn't. I eventually became so enamored with it, that I included a slightly rewritten version in my experimental short story. Find it here:
“People talk so recklessly when they talk about other people,”
Roman said,
talking about someone else.

He placed his coffee on the table
and continued his convoluted thought,
“There is a finite amount of space in our brains,
and I just think that we need to be more responsible
with what we fill it with.

We could be meditating on peace and love,
but instead we cease thinking
the second we start talking about other people.”

“Do you really think that’s true?”
his interlocutor challenged,
“I mean,
it’s not like I’m actively harming anyone
by opening my mouth.
Speech is only harmful to people
when they let it be harmful to them.”

“Are your nerves to blame, then,
for the pain you feel when I punch you in the arm?”
Roman responded,

"Is your skin left with any other option but to separate
when someone marries a blade to your stomach?

Words are weapons, Friend,
and until you understand that,
I’m not sure you know what love is.”

“Words as weapons makes for bullet holes in everyone.
How am I to speak at all if I am paralyzed,
scared of speaking?”

“Words are wonder, too, Friend.
And until you understand that,
I’m not sure you know what love is.”

“Words as wonder might make them complicit.
How am I to speak at all if I am to paralyze them,
lackadaisical and lazy?”

“Affirmation does not inspire apathy.
Wonder inspires movement.
Wonderful words are seeds in a garden in the first place.
Love grows from the water that is the act of listening.”

“Words as affirmation might make them think
they are loved the way they are,
needless to change."

said Roman
just an experiment with two people: a privileged guy named Roman and a nameless interlocutor
rubben mwangi Mar 2019
Morning gorgeous,
Is what he writes every morning before dawn!
Cause he knows she is not beautiful but she's beyond ravishing!
You wanted me to write about you
But words cant be quite enough to describe you
cause it will just be a glimpse of the real you!
Sometimes he calls her Juliet like the movie stars, he the Romeo!
Just to set a beautiful masterpiece of art of what they are!..
living life like an opera,
The cupid must have known to shine your way on my path!
I serenade you as we esplanade
Through the journey of our fairytale!
Your curved lips are so kisspiring,
I cant help but kiss for a while,
Your eyes makes the dog star just dull
As they lighten up the sky in the night
Your beauty makes me
understand why am blinded by the spell you cast down on me!
You the priceless gem that i fall for!
I fall for you everyday!
Day Oct 2018
he came like my
s e a s o n a l - d e p r e s s i o n

way too early

left hurricanes in my path
floods at my feet

let's do it again
where has all my motivation gone **** it
anthony Brady May 2019
The secret’s out – Hip! Hip! Horray!
Meghan Markle has had her way:
no papparazzi just a note to state.. framed upon the palace gate..
a baby born to her and Prince Harry.

It was a very private affair - narry
a Home Secretary  was there to see
the birth - a custom ended by decree:
though historically meant as inclusion
t’was deemed at last a male intrusion.

Now in an age where all is bi-
ethnic black and white tie
parently neat and true
with the royal blood line’s
red, white,  and blue.

By George! To Will and Kate
in poetry  - I must relate
there is no comparison
other than that word
rhymes with Harrison.

Hey. Nonny. Nay.
Alack a day -
I must away,
for this verse done and said
I could withall lose my head.

B D Caissie Nov 2019
When faced with turbulent seasons
I weather the storm like a paladin knight

Constantly searching for my holy grail
So I may quench my thirst for happiness

Lost in a shadowed forest of poor choices
Yearning guidance from my round table

Drawing my sword I ****** forth my quill
Shield raised guarding my fragile heart

I pray my fate is not yet written in stone
For I've not yet vanquished life's dragons

ryn Dec 2014

                       wishing, for
                              your writes to be
                                noticed•simple sign
                             that they have not been
                          missed•with every view
                     and every like•your popu-
               larity does spike•somewhat
          places your art on the poetry
      map•between major players,     
  you close the gap•constantly      
checking to see  who's been              
reading•you're always deli-               
ghted to see the 'yellow                      
•a wish...                            
    for those who                             
     are writ-                    

secretly hope not only for your words to be
reaching far and wide, but also... trending
* the above does not apply to everyone here.
Sandra-Lee Hutt Dec 2019
Writing gives me rights , a release in my struggled silent speech in days right into nights.  Writing has removed me from the woods, instilled wisdom in my growth.  Oftentimes, I have walked, pranced, pounced through a forest, in-between trees, stepped on and over soil tilted paths, paved by survivors, many sacrificed their lives, forbidden to express dreams,  never given the rights in freedom I express in my writes. My silent speech speaks of the struggles they endured just to lessen pain I may have to suffer in this life. Many had visions, I see images. My rights are a welcomed blessing from their dreams and clearly defined in my writes.
Cheyenne Jan 2015
Emotion is not tangible--
But when The Poet speaks,
she stumbles upon sculptures of
the emotion that you seek.

Emotion is indescribable--
But in The Poet's lines,
it nestles up upon the words
and engulfs them in its tides.

Emotion is a fickle fiend:
unsure if friend or foe--
But when The Poet writes
it's as if they know.

Emotion and The Poet:
a conundrum to say the least.
Each tries to slay the other;
Each fuels the other's beast.
Christian Ek Aug 2014
My pen is a wand. It can write a curse or a powerful charm. My pen is a mirror. It can show you a monster or a beautiful figure. My pen is a key. It can free you from a trapped door or it can lock you inside that door until the oxgen runs out and you can't breath. My pen is a weapon.  It will fight righteous battles or make a gruesome dissection. My pen is a balancing scale.
It is a balancing scale because it tilts when the yin & yang of my being begins to out weight one other.
Nothing is safe from my pen if i choose it not to be, my pen writes freely without filters or censorship.
My pen is a ship in the sea unable to maintain equilibrium set on a course to land. One day it will stay still, but on that day my pen will run out of ink.
am i ee Sep 2015
when the oh, SO smart phone

puppyhead barks,

wood! wood!
yúyīn Mar 2018
The poet writes,
The reader feels.
Sentir - to feel
Amanda Jean Jul 2018
I write for me to right my rights and write my Wright’s. To right my rights would be the only good thing but what I’m doing is writing my rights which is just writing in circles. I should be rioting. But I’m sitting here in circles writing repeating gossip and politics and feats such as the Wright brothers I wish to overcome Dayton but we are just writing in circles not rioting within them.
Penelope Winter May 2017
It took sixteen years to become acquainted with my old self.

The self that:

Could not write on crumpled papers,
Or sleep in untucked sheets,
Played her scales robotically,
Left no word incomplete.
Labelled all the cupboards,
Books were organized by name,
This was the life I led.
I never knew that it would change.

it took 4 weeks to fall in love with my new self


writes on ollld receipts,
   kicks the covers        off the bed
     ~lets my fingers play freely~
         not every sentence has an en-
            stores shoes with coffee mugs!!
               writes in mArGiNs to save time
                  not all rules need to be   f o l l o w e d
                    not all poems need to

                        sound the same

who knew that little pill
would teach me how to live
not erase the 'me' that showed
but bring out the 'me' that hid
16 years of worry
of obsessive, anxious thoughts
who knew that little pill
would change me
for one,
did not

- p. winter
ryn May 2015
Make me your emblem
Adopt my colours
Let them be seen
Through actions and verse

Make me your flag
Fly me high upon the sturdiest masts
Watch me billow with purpose
Catching the wind that forever lasts

Make me your anthem
With truth in words that rings so clear
Sing me loud and true
Sing me always for all to hear

Make me your creed
Pledge yourself to always uphold
My name in thoughts and writes
Emblazoned across as your brand in gold

Make me your home
Your shelter for when the day's done
A safe haven to return to
With the setting of the sun

Or just...

Make me someone...*
So at least I know that I exist
Make me a simple somebody in your life
Not just a name on a forgotten list
Inspired by Depeche Mode's Somebody
Skyla Feb 2019
I’ve written so many poems
But all of them are irrelevant
Just meaningless words thrown together
By a meaningless girl in a small town.
She writes about her suffering from sickness and disorders.
She writes about how deep the knives in her chest go and how many times she’s been stabbed by grief.
She writes about how sharp her monster’s teeth are and how deeply they bite.
She writes about the devil and why hell is actually our current world.
She writes about demons and angels of darkness and numbers and dancing skeletons with aching bones.

She writes about dead, rotten girls. Who died in a choke hold at the hands of a scale or drowning in a toilet bowl.

She writes so many poems but the ultimate poem of all is her body.  Her body is the one true poem.  Scars that line her ribs where she sliced with her mother’s bone-handled knife.  Scars on her thighs from being cut with shards of glass because she shattered so many mirrors with her aching fists.

Bruises that line her legs and her arms.  Iron burns caused by her own hands because she just wanted to feel something.

Bags under her eyes, wrinkles corrupting her youthful face, dry and ****** lips.  Don’t even get me started on her teeth.
Oh, what eating disorders do to teeth.
She doesn’t smile much anyway.

Deep, red scabs on her knuckles from purging too hard, to the point where her teeth scraped off chunks of skin.

I am a girl.  I want perfection, I want affection.
But all I have is depression, and numbers and mirrors and food and shards of glass and my bones bones so many bones ;

Hollow eyes and on her way to join the rotten girls club.

How do people think this is beautiful?
Are dead, rotten girls beautiful?
Are they glorified because their bones stick out in places they shouldn’t?
Are they romanticised because they can fit into a size 000?

Does no one see their bloated corpses?
Does no one see their grey-green skin?
Does no one see their stitched up mouths open wide, with blackness and abyss pouring out when they’re in fact, trying to scream?
Maybe your lips are glued shut and you have a blindfold on.

Dead rotten girls should be your worst nightmare, not your dream look.

As unfortunate and tragic it may be, am I the ultimate poem? ~
ymmiJ Apr 2019
early dawn writing
peace by the fire, thoughts free, one
Canadian ace
winding approach, dodging limbs
nervously descends, eyes wide
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