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Leone Lamp Apr 2021
Do I have to write a poem today?
And attempt forced creativity?
Or is it just another way,
To achieve some authenticity?
Art is art is art is art.
And yet,
People judge based on their own perceptions.
Expression is still truth, don’t forget,
And critiques help us make corrections.
Written by my own free will. Inspired by a high school poetry class.
~2009
Salvador Kent Feb 2021
time end
beginning
past
good bad
was
now you see
say
this be nature

things inevitable
in the grand scheme
this be nature
so

call absurdity to
old man on side of street
who with sign calls god
god god god see

for god
say he

so he point
mouth and brain
say very
primitive you be
see
this be nature

this this
be nature
see?
the first in a series of deconstructions.
time makes things inevitable.
Meta means above
Meta means transcend
Meta means “next level up”
With meta you’ll ascend

So when it comes to daily acts
Choose those with “meta” powers
Build a business
Write a book
Plan for years - not hours

For meta-choices carry-on
Far past the “choosing” day
Earn a black belt
Frame a house
Vision - paves the way

Meta-Decisions - Meta-Thoughts
Will build both wealth and peace
Release yourself
From “pushing”
Meta - “pulls” increase
This is Prosperity Poem 110 at ProsperityPoems.com and you can see it displayed on a beautiful background (copy and paste the link below). https://prosperitypoems.com/delivery110Meta.html

Meta has become a kind of slang in come circles, but the real meaning is above or transcend.  I've used the term "Meta-Decision" for years to describe decisions that impact your life for months or years to come.

We all make decisions daily.  Sometimes we make meta-decisions, like choosing to get married, have a baby, start a business, or go to college.  These thoughts and actions are "above" regular decisions because they are commitments that set your trajectory for years to come!  We all make a few meta-decisions in our life.  However, you can gain greater success by thinking "meta" more often.

You can sign up for free weekly delivery of poems at Prosperity Poems (.com)
Max French Feb 2021
Soft bedding shielding my body
From the axis of frigid air that thrives
Off the edge of everyone's bed.
But as always my mind is
Wrapped up in something else.

The cord attaching me to
The sail of blood and bone
Tugs deep at my ankles and legs
And moves me off, and out
Into the waking world.

And when did the world wake up,
Breathe heavy and rub yesterday's dirt
Off its dry and heavy eyes?
Lifting itself from a cold pillow
To pirouette the day away 'round the sun.

I question it only because
It feels, most days, like the planet
Is sleepwalking.
Shuffling and spewing nonsense,
Just like me.

At least I got to write this down
Before I go back to bed.
Salvador Kent Jan 2021
Your imagination is wicked,
Says an old friend on a train,
I don’t even exist.
your mind takes you places
Makoto Oct 2020
Sometimes she smiles first, asks easy questions
and acts like your responses aren’t ridiculous.
She tilts her **** in your direction, exposes **** rhymes, assonance, and alliteration,
and whispers something
about being free
tomorrow. Alone. Bored. She,
like you, could use
some warmth,
some jokes,
a good

****
Other times, you’re drunk
as ****, and so alone
you need to take your mind off bridges, pills, plastic
bags— the face in the mirror
getting deeper creases than you thought possible. So
you find someone
who looks bored and alone
and say something
awkward, stupid,
not funny—
she doesn’t even look at you.
Zyxia Oct 2020
I'd give anything to get poems out my mind
They're putting me in a bind
But in time I may come to find
That they're worth something once refined
Zyxia Oct 2020
Sometimes the muses gift you with inspiration, meters tall
Sometimes they curse you with none at all.
The muse's presence can be a blessing and a curse,
But I'd still prefer that over the reverse
Zyxia Oct 2020
This poem’s not in
Iambic Pentameter,
It is a haiku.
Old silly poem
Henri Coetzee Sep 2020
There exists a special type of insanity,
Only known to poets
And those who adore poetry.
It is something that cannot be explained
Or described, only experienced.

And those who experience it
Are never the same. They know
The burning need to write and read
And the comfort of finding yourself
In someone else's words.

This madness holds a hidden truth:
No one chooses this insanity.
Instead, it reaches out to those
Broken, disillusioned, embittered
And held captive, by life itself.

I do not ask you to pity the poets,
Or those captivated by poetry,
But the next time you see one
Ask them: Why do you love poetry?
And watch as their eyes light up.
The other day, I started talking about poetry and my friends couldn't understand why I loved it so much. That conversation led to this poem
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