"writter" poems
I know no matter what I say or do.The words will sound so very hollow.For I am forever a stranger to you.Just a name in a sea of others.Fellow yarn spinners.Snakes and thieves friends and brothers.You cannot read the truth from a lie.The recluse writter the drunkand just another guy.A page filled with words andempty meanings.A seedy downtown theater that shows the best latenight screenings.My face is unknown but my soul is already there.Blind are the truths of a scetchy past.So I remain forever a stranger toanyone who may care.Beautiful eyes that go unseen.Shadows on a clear night.So is my nightmare and how is your dream?I cant say I'll ever know the uptown citys respect.Im more of the twisted citys slums and back alleys favorite reject.I remove the ******** to expose thethe gritty side of what to me is brutal and true.I ride through the darkest part night.To remain forever a stranger to you.
Feb 22, 2010
Feb 22, 2010 at 5:14 AM UTC
A note slid underneath my door.
How marks on a page can crush the heart worse than
steel breaks the bone.
The oceans tide has come to take me away.
I dove twice as deep.
In laughter apon the first.
In regret of that which I could not grasp.
Glimmers of light lost in the waters depth cast
so far away.
Missed lines the old sometime must think young.
I found hope on nothing's promised embrace.
A ring of lies one moment of truth.
Remember me for times I can no longer attend.
Troubles untold sometimes outside is easier than
A insiders view.
The cards werent right and thoose at the table
knew a jokers laugh was a far off cry.
No words can be spoken in the emptyness
of loss for which there is no return.
A shore apart a heart jaded but always true.
no blame is to be placed for a road must surely
one day end.
The words read last a souls release.
The tide must always kiss the sea.
A city of emptyness reflects all that is left
inside of me.
Stay as was my plea.
Crazy how could anyone truley know the madness
that is seldom understood by even me.
Words apon a page ive traded ink for life blood
of my soul.
I left the note unread.
As spiders cast webs woven of time.
Cold as the peace final rest to torment.
That is the barbwire within my head.
It was time for a much overdue rest.
A co writter in life is better than apon the page.
Niether is my path no hope as the clock
points to a dark hour shadows have returned to stay.
Heaven was mine for a moment.
Hell is more my style I guess.
As in stories and legends im already on my
way.
Voices all speak within there own key.
Torment, addiction and isolation.
Are all thats left of me.
Jan 28, 2011
Jan 28, 2011 at 10:48 AM UTC
Partys for couples new lovers and just friends.
Music to fill the night the streets of New york
breath life to old flames keeping even jaded souls warm.
The lonley gather round the TV.
sharing a glimpse at something we all yern to have.
And from the up high the streets seem magic tonight.
the soudtrack of the night will echo
into are hungover minds with a painful yet happy reminder
of last nights celebration.
Late night lovers will smile and go there awkward ways.
So many acts in so many different plays.
creeping back to are corners in lastnights suit and tie.
Tight little black dress kiss worn lips
acting happier than two kids ragged in need of a shave
you with hair in a mess.
And for friends that gather to relive not so real
past glory.
The pages are left to the writter.
To add to lastnights not so original story.
As the barflys gather to battle another unsober day.
I watch this first new day anew.
Take a sip from my flask and thank the lord
for one more year with you.
And tonight I say to you all raise that glass.
kiss that stranger you know so well.
Laugh love and live.
And thank whomever ya choose weve made it through another
year to tell.
Dec 31, 2009
Dec 31, 2009 at 8:48 AM UTC
I am not perfect, but I am whom Christ created me to be.
I am not the greatest man nor the best writter in the world.
But I am the best at being me Eddie Starr whom loves God.
For whomever you are you are the best person that you are.
For we are all different with our unique gifts and talents.
No two people are exactly the same , we were created that way.
For we all have different purposes to fulfill here on the earth.
Jun 20, 2014
Jun 20, 2014 at 8:25 PM UTC
"The world is in my hands"
It's a metaphor
Pinching the moon (with one eye closed)
It's an illusion
The spiders under my bed,
Tell me it's okay to dream,
And then they bite me
In my sleep
I toss and I turn till morning
I turn away from the day,
And I toss the remains into the night
Despite it all, I dream.
Mar 7, 2018
Mar 7, 2018 at 9:53 PM UTC
I am a blankhead writer. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I used to sell my 1000 words of claptrap for a one dollar bill to the low market publishers in town for a hopeless living. I used to walk on the busy street of Metropolis looking for job-flyers. I was scammed, robbed, snatched and been kidnapped. I even been tortured to death but managed to survive. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. I dreamt to be a famous author in town. I imagined my scap works on the best seller bookstands in the corner of the bookstores. I tried to call myself brilliant despite of my incapabilities---mind incapabilities to be exact. I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Like how I used to be. I wrote a nonsense poem. I write a pointless prose. I usually forget the goals along the way. I always choose raw emotions over witty decisions. I always make a plan for everything and give up. I let every little opportunity slides on my hand. I wonder how I called myself a writer. Maybe because, I am a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writer. Alive but barely living. Trying to keep up on everything that was left behind. Dreaming but can’t find the urge catching up. Losing tracks continually. Lost determination, inspiration, everything to keep myself moving. Yes, I was indeed a blankhead writer.
I am a blankhead writter. I loved and been loved. I leave and was left behind. Was hurt just how every human named it. I cried, so hard that I even want to **** my eyes out from it’s socket. I starved just how the poor lost child felt along the busy street. I fought and I lose. I have been bewitched and have never been reclaimed. I am a blankhead writer.
I am the blankhead writer. Yes, its me. . I wrote this nonsense poem. I wrote the pointless prose. I know nothing but breathing. I never fought for the right nor speak for the good. I never look in the eyes of those old weak men I met in the road. I am afraid and scared. I am heartless and brainless. I have nothing but dead conscience. I have ... I have nothing because – I am the blankhead writer.
Dec 3, 2018
Dec 3, 2018 at 8:56 AM UTC
Sometimes vulnerability comes through in a person's character as strength or determination to succeed.
All to often it becomes the portrayal of weaknesses and past failures.
Yet in a minority it shapes them, it gives life to their dreams and ideas.
It's easy to sit back and say it's "destiny" but are we the victims or the stewards of it?
They say if a writter falls in love with you they will forever show it in their words.
What if you fall into the heart of a writter?
Do you tumble falling from word to word as the lexicon of their being shrouds you?
Or do you become like two stars colliding?
For what one admires and respects in the events that lead a soul to a point in time and space, is all we have of them.
A signature of sorts,
their comets tail in the universe.
From that point all that we do entwines in each others script.
I had never thought of life as a script, written daily with characters passing in and out of the storyline.
But it seems true!
If you look at it that way it is simple.
The question is...
Will a character be given a leading roll next to the star.
Or simply a walk in part for a few episodes.
Who knows
Only
The writter.
Apr 5, 2017
Apr 5, 2017 at 7:17 PM UTC
give m3e.
August 4, 2014 at 9:51am
give me a pen and a pad or board and a key...and im sing you a song a haromonic mellody...This what I do..this is what I choose...Not matter how you feel I just cant loose....So give me a letter a word a thought or a phrase....and Im lay down a piece and have you singin for days...Cuz my methods are ill...You get sick i got skill...These are more then just words there intended to heal...Give me a sight or a scene or a vision a dream...And i'll paint you a picture that you've never seen..So Im more then artist..Im kinda the nicest..Some people would call me a Wordologist...Give me an oo or and ah and F or an O...and I'm a make you feel good im a put on a show...Cuz Im your director...Writter and actor...My stuff is so sweet like your suckin on nector...Im a passionate fruit... an aquamarine.... I'm the water for Oceans... everything that you need....
Aug 5, 2014
Aug 5, 2014 at 5:41 PM UTC
Truth be told...as mysteries unfold
Let seven be one all falshoods undone.
Standing on the jagged cliffs
Looking inward.
Touched by the hand .....words revealed
Revealed........now and...always.
The revelator.
Enumerator
Enunciator
Eluminator
Written.
Who's that writter ?
John the revelator.
Mar 29, 2014
Mar 29, 2014 at 11:35 PM UTC
🤍✍️I want to be a writer, but it's hard to be alive like a word ✍️🤍
🤍_Shilhamadhuri_tanguturi🤍
Dec 29, 2022
Dec 29, 2022 at 3:12 PM UTC
Indeed I fight.
I write and write.
No no violence.
Violence is how people get killed.
Can't have that happen now can we?
Instead I stay up at night.
I write and I write.
The voices that scream in my head.
I put them on paper.
I've lost most of the light.
I write and write.
A friend drags me back.
Put discovering the light takes time.
Time I don't have.
The silver bites.
I write and write.
The silver runs down places only I see.
Others can't because it's covered.
Nobody sees thin lines.
Nobody sees scars left behind.
It exposes my frights.
I write and I write.
The shadows that haunt me.
They tap the wall in the dark.
Mom says they aren't real.
Dad says it's not a big deal.
I hear them.
They want me to do things.
Terrible unthinkable things.
Luckily I have some self control.
Barely enough.
I walk on a line that's very tight.
I write and I write.
The line can snap anytime.
It has before.
It left me falling into nothing.
Chae pushed me off balance.
I fell for someone not worth falling for.
I fell hard for someone not worth falling for.
Please help me.
I don't sleep anymore.
Atleast not without the drugs.
Not without the silver.
Not without the voices.
Not without her.
I still feel her here.
Somehow I'm glad she's gone.
I like staying up with the voices.
So in the dark of the night...
I write and I write.
Apr 16, 2016
Apr 16, 2016 at 9:47 PM UTC
Im not a poet
merely a writter
I lack the words
to be impressive
I just spit out
words that connect
my inner feelings
my pain & laughter
it plays the music
that gives me flow
welcome to my world
simple...words
How can i compete?
Apr 3, 2014
Apr 3, 2014 at 1:12 PM UTC