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Micheal Wolf Apr 2017
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.
Garrett Burger Mar 2018
"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.
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.
its strange how  although  unseen yet here my opinions are so easily on display  I always  write of the top of my head and straight from my heart.
Ana S Apr 2016
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.
I write and I write
I am Amadioha the earth goddess  of Igbos,Ngai wa mugo wa gatheru
who created the nine daughters of mumbi ,and Gikuyu a man,
I am Wele of Dini ya Musambwa,creator of Elijah Masinde
I am  Katonda the creator of Kintu and Namiremeb hills at Makerere
I am eshu the god  of the  Ijimere and Achebe and Soyinka,
behold today  I stand in Egypt,where the sun comes from
where I similarly  stood billion and billion of years ago,
to create all the stars the moon and the universe
not even known to the son of man until today,
this is where i created my first born of  humanity;
dear Africa the generations of Negroes,
the beacon of my eye, i enjoy a look at you  minus blinkers,
i stand here a fresh to correct my creation mistakes
i formerly made, when creating my dearest son in Africa;
Kenneth Binyavanga wa wainaina, who hails at Nakuru hills,
he is the sweetest song to my heart, classical music of my ears
i contrite much , as i were not to create you a blended blood
from an  Omuganda  girl and  an Omugikuyu  boy,
i  was to create you a pure Muganda, like Okot P' Bitek,
or a pure Kenyan , like Francis Davis Imbuga,
i were to control your academic fortune , that you  don't start,
your maiden education  Lena Moi primary school,
an epiphany of a divorced woman,spelling curse of wifelessness,
on those that pass through the very  school , i was wrong.
had i known i could have not  sent Cleophas to work
in your fathers home , for him  to sleep in the horse shed,
cursed is the ******* memory of what he did in that quarter
as you preened  and eavesdropped outside like a hen
listening to the eagle's contralto,
why did i sent Wambui to be your nurse maid ,only to preach
the gospel according to the power of peasant ****** to you,
she tangled her buttocks before your **** eyes,senting
your young heart to sensuous extremities, Wambui ,a she devil,
Wow! Kalenjins are bad neighbour, they are dark and ugly
slow in the brain and sadistically malicious in the heart,
i  know not why i made them to abode with you within the
great valley of kenya, they throng schools and they cannot learn,
but i have now held them captive, i have made them your footstool
for ever and ever my dear son ,as you hold the scepter of power,
i goofed beyond  remedy by all ethereal to send you to Njoro boys school,
for you to meet Sigalla, that extra-masculine Sigalla , the ******* hunter,
i gave you wrong sisters, they made you put on your mothers dress
and her long hair,then you posed to the female public as an Americanness
your romantic number was fwive fwive fwive fwive , fwive at New-york,
i wonder why i did not give you enough power of languages
so that you generate a numberless fantabulousies and Goalies and so forth,
only to borrow from a young woman;Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie
the  yellow sun's slapslap  slapslap slapslap slapslap slapslap   slapslapp!
Mangu Boys School to you was a blessing , had it not my fault,
of giving you a mutton headed faculty full of annentcy,
that went for the persiflagery and aesthetic phantasmagoria,
in the art and theatre prose and poetry; the Bigger Thomas Lawyer,
your only  misplaced  mentor  that gave birth to what i love in you ;
hence i am writting about this place now,this place kenya,
folly of folly is when i goofed to take a natural writter like you,
to commerce class in the land of apartheid, Nadine Gordimer's  front
that sired Brenda Fasie a top Lesbian, the song bird of my times
as you all know we the gods also jealously love,
she only charmed you with her naked ****
swinging like a pendulum on the  musical stage,
after her communique of being a top lesbian,she call it Africa,
o! no,  Africa never came from Lesbians, it comes from simple nature;
mother and father, in natural and collective  heterosexuality,
You only saw and revved in dope culture in the cubbyhole of Victory,
and hoped clubs from Dazzle to the rest , in hunt of  your boyhood,
sadly to be befallen by dark clouds  in victim-hood of optical nutrition,
abiding among the  tall, beautiful, smoking bunch of Lesbians.
My son, from  today and henceforth,  i the Africanus,
the god of African fertility,poetry and art,
humbly chose to recreate you the king of kings and queens,
of African story telling  at global status, to tell all African songs,
beyond sham fallacy that gay and Lesbian literature
are the begotten  apex of modern and Global literature
these are only white lies featuring a death bound imperialism.
shilha madhuri Dec 2022
🤍✍️I want to be a writer, but it's hard to be alive like a word ✍️🤍


🤍Shilhamadhuritanguturi🤍
Writter ,poetry and quotes these all are living things where as feelings, emotions are passing clouds...
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.
Eddie Starr Jun 2014
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.
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.
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.
Geno Cattouse Mar 2014
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.
Quentin Briscoe Aug 2014
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....
Frodoey Xanders Apr 2014
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?
Im no edge, nor edgy
But im sharp like a razor edge
And i am on the edge
With my hedge on,
Im no short-circurt surge
Might feel under siege, might seem like a purge
Wants all the courage,
Needs to discourage this purgatory merge
And a new dawn emerge
Rawbust/Robust
Like im busting rhymes
Although im no "busta with no rhymes"
Cause i burst hymes
Bursting ghost-writter bubbles,
Like the shakespeare bubble,
You can call me " ghost-writter buster"
Sanity in a sanctioned sanctuary
Madison Sep 2018
ryder is the worsf qoem writter ever
My bff wrote this looking over the computer so he couldn't see the keyboard very well. That's why some of the words are spelled wrong.
Micheal Wolf Jul 2018
When I was born it was 66 The Beatles were trying to work it out. The sounds of silence crossed the ocean and
These boots are made for walking, set the rebel scene as teenagers went to war.
Elsewhere they said the sun ain't gonna shine anymore and wanted Somebody to help me. You don't have to say you love me and Pretty flamingos were all about.
Then the war in Asia had the ballad of the green berets a **** storm clouded all their minds and paint it black made people think of those who didn't come back.
Then stranger in the night and when a man loves a woman were sung to make us forget.
You can't hurry love so reach out ill be there made the summer of love seem good again.
The paper back writter took the last train to Clarksville on the poor side of town where the song on the radio just keeps me hangin on.
But in the end December came and ended on a high. Good vibrations from the beach boys was merry xmas to all.
Joe Julian Grace Oct 2020
Living in a world of Snapchat and Instagram,
yet our generations hardest hill to climb is communication.
Endless characters to use and send yet with no meaning at all.
Instant messaging with almost instant disatisfaction.

An A4 blank white sheet, a canvas for your expressions.
Joy, sadness, love and loss, all which can be painted with only one colour emotion.
Ink illuminating more than light on a phone ever could.

The beauty of letters with their poetic constructions.
From Heaneys letters of longing, to a sixteen year olds first love away from home.
Both understandably an act of strong passion and weakness to love
The choice of words hitting with a weight the writter and reader could only translate.

This is the sacrifice made by those who are oblivious to it.
The simplicity and satisfaction.
The lost joys,
of a simple letter
Kaley Dec 2016
Like a poet to its beat
The strongest always take the heat

Like a writter to their ways
The brightest are always
their best days

Like a bird with their wings
Imagination sours in many ways


When a purpose takes place
Live it up till your last days

Your like an angel without wings
A hidden soul, lost on earth
Mateuš Conrad Oct 2020
there was a poem here...
now there's only a title...
i'm pretty sure: i was assured
that there was a poem, here,
but now that there isn't...
perhaps because of my...
spaghetti fingers so used
to typing and typos that i mishandled
a play on thumb and index:
whether it was the right hand's
or the left hand's "braille" reading
of how best to salvage
this least: this very little...
whether i wanted to edit before
publishing: and i highlighted
the entire body... and while holding
down the ctrl key...
or not holding down the ctrl key
all that came up as the draft was
being autosaved: archived as
a blatant impossible donkey
a stone of Sisyphus nothing nuanced
or new: not a cedilla "c" but a mere C...
that i don't read my poems...
that i allow myself enough space
to merely look at them,
sometimes my own, mostly of others...
i have lost so many poems
like that: by way of fudge and by way
of spaghetti...
although i have not eaten any of these
words...
i am somehow: don't know why...
comforted by...
words of a richard seaford...
              it's heartbreaking for mankind
to have lost anything (that has
been lost) of the Aeschylus oeuvre...
well i'm not an Aeschylus:
true as: and i haven't been dead, yet,
and that it's not like
i might expire with such marble...
such... expansion of time:
would i tire of this sort of immortality?
now i like to think of:
the type-writter: and how i might require
proof-reading... to correct me...
that's ever hardly necessary:
i can do that myself...
but the plague of self-erasure...
by mere chance!
           then watching a 1963 andy warhol video:
eat...
then watching a hart crane video:
whereby no contemporaries seem to
speak... just the elders...
but it's not that...
i like how he has become a man
so completely: human...
by a showcase of anecdotes...
clearly an anecdotal man...
i'm tired of being rational:
    in between herr sapiens and
herrschwine similis...
i'm tired of the safety ******
between me and the 19 century
abyss... i'm tired of the beginning
in ape...
i'm tired... once upon a time
i might have been this tired
but at the same time given a sly-of-hand
of having poker-invigoration
to toy-up-with-hey-presto for
the mind to metaphor in gymnastics:
a quasi telekinesis...
an audience of stones, shouting
at mountains without really needing
to know why no echo bloomed...
then of course i knew i would
require caves...
it's all rather pitiful... this...
staging of a voice... perhaps an audience...
it's truly three-dimensional:
and by that...
it's borrowing on never-finding...
a cushioned little breath of forest...
something: all of this "thing"
whether it's cultural relativism...
whether the geocentric est. shaken
by the heliocentric blurp...
or the gynocentric: feed the altar of
your birth...
otherwise castrated out you go:
but pandering the voices
of homosexuals: it's not like...
it will necessarily be deemed angst riddled...
the over-stated obvious...
i just lost a poem because
of my fat fingers...
i would die for a typewriter and a spelling
mistake: a proof-reader...
self-
      self- beckoning employed prefix
one man toys with a hydra
of expectations...

i think i remember something
from the original...
  something about spacing
and how i look at poems: not necessarily
read them...

a congested myopia / claustrophobia
of paragraphparagraphparagraph...
how i would start my verses
thin at the top...
and wait for them to bulge come
the nearing of the end...

how... scandinavians write sparingly...
without the need to double that
sparingly into a haiku...
that they write a hiatus-esque
"comorbidity" of wording(s)...

something along these lines...
to write a "poem" is to...
sometimes forget to read:
a visual fetish... almost ****-esque...
to look: and not read
in linear / cascade focus...

of note: i do remember this...
what the hell happened to...
henry parland... to henry parland...
i was drinking a cider
and i know that it was raining...
it was impossibly important
for it to be raining...

i said... that you can't write a melody...
to "counterfeit" the sound
of raining -
not the sound of falling rain:
simply... raining...
it's not a polyphony...
but it somehow is...
        you can't exactly...
you can't: but can...
which is that: not exactly... write
a lyric for the sound that encompasses
the sound of raining...
but it's not like...
the choicest of orchestral finicky:
can't exactly summon the violins...
or... tame the drums:
orchestra and the drums...
jazz in its quintet
doesn't really 'elp... ******* either...

IFER vs. IVER... clearly the latter...
phonetically...
but as it stands:
it's still either aether -
E'FER / E'VER and 'effin'
                      falafel eiffel...
                    e (morse count, do the dot dot...
hyphen) feral! theta thou!
- veering into ALVOU...
written: although...
  and you'd need to extend that first
vowel... no diacritical marks in
english... so... insert a vowel!
AULVOU! ah... better... much much! better!

new thought: no need for paragraphs:
- sputnik plate nuanced...
and therefore spinning, too...

thank god!
it passed the beijing censor critique!
half of which is me being
paranoid: and half of which is me
being perfectly adaptive...
the mongols are an elsewhere...
they're rigid halal butchers
and are not beijing sorting
packages omnivores...
so no doggy dog-eat-dog salutes!
if china was a germany...
and vietnam was saint anders
fault...

     and i were an ego fault worth
a ******* doughnut!
yes... i might gresticulate
at imitation cwy-bab
in this foreign tongue of:
VELSH!
when... no tetragrammaton
sire needed...
enough of the demiurge and
the genius pockets of critique
when the parasites are being
investigated...

     a scaffold of bones...
arriving at a muscular brittle...
grieving use of brick...
this tenure of muscular exhaustion.

— The End —