Yasmine Mar 2017
through words,
I heal my wounds
by completely exposing them
Bear D Apr 2014
where's
the man
with
the crazy pen,

why isn’t
he
writing?
American Spectre Apr 2016
A poem about coffee
How cheap
How over used
A poet speaking on coffee
Is like a politician making a promise

But this is where we live
Our inner self brought out by consuming
Coffee, booze, drugs, love....

Pick your poison and get writing.
"Why one writes is a question I can never answer easily, having so often asked it of myself. I believe one writes because one has to create a world in which one can live. I could not live in any of the worlds offered to me – the world of my parents, the world of war, the world of politics. I had to create a world of my own, like a climate, a country, an atmosphere in which I could breathe, reign, and recreate myself when destroyed by living. That, I believe, is the reason for every work of art.
...
"We also write to heighten our own awareness of life. We write to lure and enchant and console others. We write to serenade our lovers. We write to taste life twice, in the moment and in retrospection. We write, like Proust, to render all of it eternal, and to persuade ourselves that it is eternal. We write to be able to transcend our life, to reach beyond it. We write to teach ourselves to speak with others, to record the journey into the labyrinth. We write to expand our world when we feel strangled, or constricted, or lonely … When I don’t write, feel my world shrinking. I feel I am in prison. I feel I lose my fire and my color. It should be a necessity, as the sea needs to heave, and I call it breathing."
('The New Woman', 1974)
Courtney Pruitt Aug 2014
The writer poured herself
a glass of wine,
to cloud her mind.
Anonymous Jun 2014
The word disappointment weighs heavy inside my mind
It hangs on my shoulders like an anchor
It seeps from my pores
and causes blood to run from my veins
The girl in the mirror stands hollow and emptied by the world
lost in the desolation of space and time
she does not feel warmth;
she cant even will hot tears to flow from her eyes
she is left in silence-
with the word 'disappointment' haunting her thoughts
Roberta Day Jun 2014
You can’t have your cake and eat it too. Not for long, anyway. Cake doesn’t settle well when it’s all you’ve had to eat. It’ll churn like butter inside you, and creep up your throat to project like a cannon, barreling through a wall. Cake won’t sit right with you anymore. At the mere mention of cake, your insides will crawl with disgust and an association of icing will replace your taste buds with vomit. You will never be able to enjoy cake—at parties, as a delicacy, with ice cream—because you got greedy and wanted to eat your cake first rather than save it for such an occasion. Now all the different kinds of cake you fantasized about trying—black velvet, coffee cake, buttercream pound cake—will only be a reminder of your pitfall that led you to make yourself sick with desire, for cake. You can’t get the icing off your tongue, the smell of batter baking has festered in your nostrils wired to the pungent taste of red from between your teeth. But it’s all you can think of when you’ve been wronged by your favorite dessert. What sort of chemical reaction in the bowels of your stomach caused all of this sorrow? What rejected the cake? Your body has a way of telling you things—we should listen more. Cake is not sustenance, it has no value as a nutritious food. It doesn’t help, only hurts.
It hurts deep inside, a hurt you can't describe. You can't place where and you don't why, other than you couldn't bide your time.
dazmb May 2015
a 4am fox
inspects the night's carcass
under the sodium delete of street light
and to the sound of my wife's gentle snoring
often it is the only
thing
between you and
impossibility.
no drink,
no woman's love,
no wealth
can
match it.
nothing can save
you
except
writing.
it keeps the walls
from
failing.
the hordes from
closing in.
it blasts the
darkness.
writing is the
ultimate
psychiatrist,
the kindliest
god of all the
gods.
writing stalks
death.
it knows no
quit.
and writing
laughs
at itself,
at pain.
it is the last
expectation,
the last
explanation.
that's
what it
is.
from blank gun silencer - 1991
NOLWAZI JOUBERT Jun 2015
I found my pleasure in writing poems.
But technology has tought me how to type.
But today i have decided to go back to my old roots.
I write this in pain,
Tryibg to wipe away all the opressions that is behind technology.
I just want to vanish into the channel of my thoughts.
Mybe i might come back happy once again.
hate snow Oct 2013
Felt like quitting writing poems then nice lady
posted words at me that kicked me in my tail
and made me stop being sad. She messaged
me that I should use more punctuation and
look things up when I see that red line under words
I don't know how to spell good she said capitalize
my I and first word of sentence thank her for that
and makes sense. I will be good at writing before
to long she said but I can't get sad cause somebody said
things I don't like about my writing and I gotta practice hard.
Asha Jun 2015
She barely existed in the world of people;
those faces, masks of lies and deceit,
she concealed her joys and tears,
for her companions - the pen and the paper
Madisen Kuhn Apr 2014
write from your heart: scribble down words
when you’re crying at 2am, or right after
you’ve gotten home from spending time with
someone you love, whenever your emotions
are at their peak. writing is bet when it’s
pure and raw and genuine. don’t filter when you
write, just let your soul flow out on the page.
written on 9/29/13
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