writing

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Once I get home, I sit outside after a long day. Everyone wants to talk to me, but I don't really have anything to say. I like to keep to myself, because it ensures that I will not be in pain.
My train is always speeding; thundering down the track at full speed.  It heads nowhere in particular. Whenever it stops to unload a thousand passengers, a thousand more board.  Most are unwelcome.
Waking up in the mornin', picking my writing utensil. Pulling out my composition book, my brain trying to settle. Thinking to myself about becomin' a star. I can imagine myself just tryna live large.
So many poems these days remind me of a college poetry class presentation. Not the students who genuinely want to be there there. No, the students who took the class for an easy A and are now forced to write to pass the class.
The Writer   Humble writer cause I take advice Happy writer cause I feel nice
I stepped through the vale of unconsciousness. The vale smelled of bubble gum candy. I dived through the clouds on the other side and descended upon a cherry blossom forest. My toes felt the cool grass in between them.
Radical Self Acceptance    You are of my kind,  Uniquely divine,  A different breed of beautiful unlike anyone I have ever seen Clothed in angel energy; Beam and radiate fully now
A blank screen, with simple line, deleting and rewriting itself constanly. Nothing but negative space waiting to be filled with words and ideas of a madman. deep breaths of silence come
To write more would be a lie, I cannot squeeze out One more line, To copy would disrespect
It’s warmth from the fire, Expanding, expanding, and expanding until I struggle to breathe The color of my palpitating heart as it teethes,
A train pulled through my heart and let you off.You pushed your loco... motives...into my life,  
My father once told me that I had two choices: to hold the key to the worlds voices,     or to sit in the corner and write and feel warmer. I chose right.    
Some days I don’t feel like livingWhere is the calm to this storm?I was once in love and thrivingbut now I wonder if she’ll be coming home;back to our bed; and back to meThis love can be madness sometimes
you’re staring thoughtfully at the (blank)page in front of you, pencil poised, hovering hesitantlyyour hand still as you consider ·
Today is frozen in blue and white we live to stall upon a blank page This picture, now a photograph In black and white
You asked me to write for you, So I wrote of a boy with stars in his eyes, A bright soul, and his heart on his sleeve. I wrote about how he died and how the light left his eyes
Oh if my words could build a bridge, From here to unknown planes. Oh if my words could linger on, And peoples' hearts would change.   My swords are sharp but duller still,
            If the lined pages                    Were a prison                  Then the words               Were the prisoners            Whose sentences
Letters bleeding bodily into blank sheets Whispering wildly in her mind Flowing creatively through the ink Mind forgetting the outside world Only imagining the one within Wishing wholeheartedly to go
Going to college was never a choice, Gaining a degree for my mom could rejoice Then grad school came into play, My career path altered a way  
For the fear of words I have..let me write... For the never dying will power within me...let me write... You can't tie me down with your narcissism... My mind is wide open..and I am up after all cataclysm...
my body wears a pattern of scars as intricate as expensive lace. my body is branded by beautiful tattoos of none other than that of pain. my body refuses to be physically marked
My letters trace your elegance with ease. The page cannot contain your splendent smile. No sweeter voice could grace the gentle breeze Of the unworthy worlds my pens defile.
True understanding is  a function of verse.  Jumbling up a puzzles painstakingly pieced together allows full aprreciation  for the picture within.  This is why I write. 
On the Tube  The great city that is London ,Connecting,Making it possible for the masses to get everywhere,Commuting. From north to south, east to west,Amazing,The tentacles of the myriad of carriages,Engineering. Yet without the inhabitants what
The onyx of my eye confesses on this page:soft and torn with a leaking edge,My breath sinks into creamy lines:a fusion of cursive, print,and shallows of wine,My lashes accumulate dust
My body is a temple. You’re not invited in. You’ve left me empty and broken, all from within.   My body is my home. My safe zone.
To the lord My Greatest Influence   You have taught me how to write in rhymes a story's scheme and to play my voice in rhythm.   Although my writings have been shamefully thrown out burned 
A love, a memory, a habit, Eyes of lunar luminance and Fiery coldness- This is what I remember, This is what I know.   Urges to spend Unnecessary packages, bottles, and boxes
I couldn’t use a glass pen For it would break From the pressure I place All the words and mistakes It would break  
Those silent voices may never speak, but they still have a voice The darkened eyes may never see, but they still have a vision The spoken word is not always spoken Like how poetry is not always written
I like writing   Writing is the only time I like spiders Because I am one My hands turn to eight long legs  As my fingers dance along the keys And I spin a web of words Haunting Chilling
Mentally I’m falling Not physically of course. Physically I’m walking With a little bit of force.  
Maybe it’s ‘cuz I don’t know, What to do or where to go. Maybe ‘cuz it’s hard to see How those I knew affected me. What do I share? What do I say, About the person who helped me change?  
When I was a kid, I loved to write. I wrote the stars into the sky, the smile on my mother’s face. I wrote the words that my soul whispered
In a world where you cannot show your feelings, surrounded by only white walls and a ceiling.   Pencil to paper, words spilled on the pages,
Being the oldest, Of all three, You took charge, Immediately.   Care,  Material Support, Yet not, Emotional Legacy.   Tells me, You are suffering, Despair,
Aren't these things supposed to flow naturally? Shouldn't I just be able to pour my feelings out into my writing? Write eloquent, tearjerking stories  and just get it all out Why can't I?
The rain and the snow The buzzing of the bees All are important To my lifelong story.   Glancing up above And peering down below All around I see Wonderment inspiring.  
poetry is simply a writers way of letting a bit of their soul burst from the seams  of their heart and pour out like iridescent ink onto the paper of their lives.
Conjure up some wit. Write, revise, and rearrange 'Til you make it fit.
I wrote a poem for you I wrote a poem for your hands and how they hold me for your lips and how they soothe me, with words and with more I wrote a poem for your eyes and how they cry, soft and quiet but loud to me
I need to write, I need to fight for every breath I breathe Without poetry, Or symmetry, Creativity,
Quilted reflections patch their way onto the page as if outlined with silken threads, scrolled - more often typed.  Sometimes the fabric is fragile, like a baby bird in my hand, fallen from its nest.
Time is wind, flowing through me Some inspire me to fly Push against my senses Take that bottomless leap into nothingness   At the edge of the precipice
The room is silent, but for the endless scratch, Of pens and pencils on paper, Words flowing from minds, Through the hands, Out the pen, Traces of ink in gleaming rivers, The endless scratching,
The smell of ink and paper The flutter of turning pages Faraway             Lands Magic             Things Incredible             People Friends.
Sometimes my brain kicks on overdrive Running in circles and swirls and lines Antsy with thoughts I can't place racing by I can only conclude that I won’t be fine.   One such day I took a walk
i am deep in a forest;  disoriented.  my vision blurs with tears, my legs buckle and I crawl hands and knees,  through mud and thickets, my skin shredded by thorns, sweat running down my back.
It’s been a while since we’ve been acquainted. I think about you when I’m watching turned backs instead of faces The refreshing feeling of venting to blank paper
    In a mind with no terrain   A way forward is deemed impossible   Instead a cloud looms, attempting shape   Stirring itself indefinitely   As if constant flux will produce its form   Its stagnant slosh makes me nauseous   So, pained, puzzled, a
  and I am sitting in my bed and i see the water turn my doorknob, dissolve the door hinges and all I can think is that “orange” is the only word that has ever seemed to rhyme
The art of writing cannot be done without first mastering the art of reading.   
The art of writing cannot be done without first mastering the art of reading.   
To have readers, one must have been and always be a reader.
To have readers, one must have been and always be a reader.
my words have power like thunder in an otherwise quiet night they reach ears miles from their source a crack of light with each ink stain while the message is carried across cities  
A gnashing cruelty and an unfading whine like A VCR spilled over with vase-water, Keeps the shadowed part of me Beating; It is not a reflection of the Upbringing that
Deep breath and wipe away a tear, “Oh god how did I get here?” My eyes fall over the words And my heart feels less of the hurt. I send my work away
Sometimes,  I wonder: Who am I  To put this pen  To this page And let the ink Swirl itself Into its' pattern? Or to breathe life Into my thoughts And allow them
We're all a bunch of dreamers Some of us advid drinkers Novelists write collections of lies I write the truth before it dies The sweet prose that I can make drip sense Or fall into a senseless abyss
Thoughts bleeding in my head. Idea's screaming, in my mind. A single pen, in my hand. The only paper, I could find. Unused ink, written words unsaid. Inspiration,
You want to know my secret power? I am an author.I can make the world laugh, or I can make the world cry.I can bring the world to the edge of its seat, then throw it to its knees.
Weauthors        are like aMagicians.       You see only                 what we put on        the page in frontof you, absorbed in that single 
my lips are like a wall but the words keep rising in my throat sometimes they are hot, angry burning my tongue, setting my soul ablaze. often, the words choke me. they are dripping with regret, and
If a picture is worth a thousand words A poem is worth a thousand pictures  A thousand realities lie in carefully crafted lines To some, the word alone brings feelings of peace
Words like water,     wittling mountains into mines,     carving cathedrals into canyons. Epitaph like earth,     steadfast in resolve,     yet constantly changing. Fierce like fire,
I'm not much of a poet, but I do write things down a lot. It starts with a phrase or two, an idea, or a feeling, a memory or just a thought.   With some practice I can bring you into it.  
"I always have half a mind to tear out things and start again." (April 21, 2011, fifteen going on sixteen, when I thought myself a scholar and a cut above myself) who wanted to reinvent herself
I always felt that my Words, Thoughts, Feelings, Were choked by my brain. Chained by my heart. Jailed by my lips. Until I heard the reverberated echo caused by poetry. There was a hum
When stuck inside a world of doubt When words you seem to be without When all seems like it’s doomed to fail A golden poem can prevail.  
The search is on. Bring out the helicopters. Bring out the floodlights. Maybe it’s behind here. Or maybe it’s over there. I can’t find it.  
Poetry is the essence of ones mind,  it is the whispers of the soul. Poems speaks words so loud, you can feel the raw emotion. The words awaken my spirit  that affects my mind, my body and my soul.
Ink
As my Pen runs out of Ink, I'm forced to stare, to stop and think.    This Pen that flitters, jumps and dances; over page it skitters, prances This Pen that colors, draws, and spells: This Pen, which over wording swells.
Life as I knew it was not fair I was thrown from here to there. Never knowing where I might sleep  My poetry was all I had to keep.   I would write for days upon end
the first picture taken of me sits in an altar by my bedside, a reminder of everything I have been given from day one. a baby, curls of onyx in my eyes, nose-deep in a book.
To see the world  Through the frame of words   The moon in the sky Above ponderosa pines This scent in the air  Of the rain and wind   To catch and pin  The world to the page
You are something new Someone my life never had before But the moment it did I knew I wanted more of you   You who I’ve always been told to ignore
it’s 2am. for her it’s the start of a bottomless pit. writing pushes her into the deepest recesses of her mind.
A poem is something You need no talent for But you feel like a king As you write more and more   All you need- a feeling Something to explore To give it all meaning
She is a song, On an out-of-tune piano, And though I know, That she is worng, All she needs, Is a bit of tuning, And a bit of refining, And then she can sound, Exactly how,
Ink
I believe in the power of ink, The power it brings to create something greatI believe in the power of paperThe power to convey things that you can’t speakI believe in the power of midnight thoughtsWhen sleep doesn’t come easily I believe in the po
When my pencil hits the paper I feel the world come to a stop. Suddenly I hold my voice in one hand. The chains that constrained me drop.   I'm not small. I'm not scared. I'm not silent for you.
my souls become heavy with the colors of my thoughts  
The blank page welcomes me, The pen feeling like home between my fingers. I savor the moment before the ink begins to flow. This is the beginning.   Every character I had met,
I stare at blank pages and earbuds with grinsI open rum bottles like I do ink pens;Eager & callow & begging for answers to crawl from their depths,
I wonder at vague inspiration At the pen penning characters and, dialogue, and missing subtext Misinterpretations run chaotic like atoms, gaseous and kinetic in nature Words wander across the page of
Poetry has taught me that the more I put on my page, The less chaos I have in my brain, There’s a class of 900-some-odd kindergarteners-who each ate a sheet
Little Red Notebook   Little red notebook resting in a corner Closed to all, save one pair of eyes Stained and torn pages from cover to cover
And if I don’t speak my truth I’ve learned that eventually, the unspoken words will sting my chest. like juice that went down the wrong pipe,
legs made of stone,head full of cotton,and arms like jelly. pen lies still,page stays blank,and heart hurts more.
Bleeding onto pages its heart has been pirced  An aversion to the spill   They say the felt feels too  loud to see The crimson color Makeing meanings unclear   Only blue or black
I could never figure out love, But I could put the letters on a page. Letters smacked on a page. If I looked at it sideways, it kinda looked like him. Maybe this was it?
I purge my soul of things only I know. It helps me see what can truly be, Not just a dream of you and me. When my fingers hit the keys It lights a fire in me. I set off on a rant Of rhyme and chant
I will climb up my tree of poetry; Onto the highest branch, Far into the leaves Where the birds will sing the thoughts I, once, could never focus on.
Put down the pen for just a moment.  Writing doesn't feed the poor.  Pamphlets cannot house an orphan, Fliers don't eradicate gore. You're offended by middle fingers, But war and famine are okay.
You're my drug, my addiction. My pack of cigarettes, my cocaine.  The perfect sex that leaves me exhausted and wanting sleep.  I get so high off you, so drunk.  So lost, with no words to describe this feeling. 
I haven’t written a happy poem for weeks Probably because i’m not really into happiness anymore Except in the mornings
To all the people willing to listen, willing to read: I share with you my work, my creed I have but a simple message that’s easy to hear It’s easy to listen, to just lend an ear
Pages; pages I write and pages I seek. I search to find a source of comfort, I strive to find a pen and paper, But my hands are shy; my fingers weak.   Ink; ink that splatters, ink that stains.
Dear pen,   We’ve been together for years Changing with the seasons And yet our character is still the same. Across thousands of pages,
I once paid bargain price for a ride on my River Styx It was a deal with the devil, not with my soul but with my spirit It was good economics   Life’s edges display on the coast and I am sure
I do not want you to be  just another poem. You are not broken into stanzas I write. You are not a metaphor because nothing compares to you.  
1. Going Opposite: Tomato, Tomata, Hakuna Matata.I always find myself going opposite of my mentor, drawing a wedge more extensive than the grand canyon.
The breeze flutters the inked pages softly, A reader’s gaze follows every a word.   Nose stuck in a book, in hand a coffee, Far off places and new worlds most unheard.  
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Dear Kayla,   I can’t make you walk on flower trails. I can’t force you to see only the good things. To promise you
Oh, Dear Paper, Clean as God Crisp sheet of blinding white Why must you hurt me, so?   You wink back at me, mockingly
My fingers are itching to pick up a pen and start writing; my heart is jumping at the thought of my favorite activity; my brain is yearning to pour all of my thoughts out in lines of poetry
You told me to try and write happy poems So it would therefore be wrong of me To not make such an attempt I give you this As I figure out how to write "happy": Without you, I would be dead,
I am confusing. Like a deep sea current. I change direction, rapidly, swiftly Left Then right. My mind a sea of spiraling thoughts
one sense triggers another, and so they create   silky songs from a young tailor that sound smooth and strong and caress like a savior-
silky songs from a young tailor that sound smooth and strong and caress like a savior-   its glimmer smells medicinal as the musician’s instrument reflects truths unconditional
The words bottle up inside me Where they come from, I don't know   But they flit through my thoughts like butterflies, just passing through   A dash of dialogue A sprinkle of humor
Dear Numbers, You represent that which words can easily explain.   You represent something lonely and lost.    You are solitary objects that only result in a continual pattern of more numbers to be defined. 
Aching hands Bloodied taste Bottle caps Dirty clothes Ink stains Letters returned Old tears  Broken heart Music blaring but yet still unheard: The price to pay to fill these pages 
Start. Crumple. Fidget in chair. Start. Crumple. Twist of hair. Now I know what to say! No, I don’t. Lean away. Start again. I’m in a daze. How do I count the ways? Crumple. I’m dead.
I was named for the stars Those illuminating, bright specks of light painted across the night sky In a disorderly, puzzling manner
Stained By Shelby Haley   Dear Journal, A dark ink flows through the tattered page Humans dancing, laughing, singing on the monochrome stage. No matter how hard I try
 1. Catch a feeling, connect that feeling to the way that butterfly wings flutter, shutter. The way the wind protests against the trees, creating music with a breeze. 2.
Words have power but have you forgotten That power comes with a price? You did not consider (that) as you wrought in Trouble; with a pen, be wise. You ruined us with that darned stylus,
Poetry is a goddess And we must all sacrifice our manifestations to her
The words they lay unbending on the page they wait for her She blows The words they tumble as rivers of ink off the paper She knows
The clock ticks past midnight Text lines my pages Black ink runs, smearing them But I ignore it Blue ink stains my hands But I ignore it
It's been so long since I've scratched down a poem,   that I barely know how to let thought run out onto paper. All these emotions bottled up and I've seemingly   forgotten how to take the cap off.
I know a writer She seems like quite the fighter her arms and legs are covered in scars But her eyes are so full of stars   I know a writer
I Will.   I will lift you from the ground when you fall, Be at your side with even just one call,
Once upon a time… There lived a women with devouring beauty in the deepest woods of a quaint city. Not a single soul dared to travel near, for she eliminated all who she could hear.
Mom
Mom I am scared. I’m scared because I feel alone. I’m scared because she made me.
Him
He is a body of water I never tiptoe around I plunge headfirst arms firmly at my sides The depths are intoxicating, I breathe all the same
To write about happiness is unmarked territory and I wonder what it's like over there. I wonder what it's like to be in love with being alive.   Is it like entertwining my hands
Anger rises in me today, But angry things are not what I want to say. I don't want to say how I'm angry at man, For doing as much destruction as they can, I don't want to say how I much I hate,
The purest of thoughts are the ugliest in kindThe prettiest of faces have the darkest of mindsIt is a fact, or maybe a foul But the most hurt of people have the brightest of smiles
Why not write poetry? Who says you can't create New words on a blank page To make another smile To bring back memories To pass a lengthy day
One
It starts with one word. A single, simple word that rings well in the mind Takes it’s time to develop and before I know it The word has found a soulmate
Words are a blessing to all who write, From the words' beginning to its end. Let words be used to heal and not to hurt, And let love flow from my pen.   Many hearts are breaking from the words
A friend asked me how to be a writer.I wanted to say,lock yourself in a room,scream until you have a poem and no voice.Open your veins and bleed until you know that your bones
I write because  if I didn’t you’d find me dead with a pen by my side.  I try to break free from the bones that control me,
Pen in hand. Blank paper before me. As my pen hits the paper, words begin to flow. As if it were a river of language flowing from my mind to my hand;  And onto the paper before me. Words become sentences.
Whispers and shadows were all around As someone knocking the door But no one was there Illusion No, not at all Than what it was It was love That never came to me The shadows chased me
  Words written in a book, Pages nice and clean. Who knew paper and pencil, Had such impact at age fifteen?
The question “What is the meaning of life?” Is like asking the question, “What do all poems, taken together, mean as a whole?” You search for a single meaning through the entire realm of possibility
The last time the leaves turned orange I didn’t take notice Because I was too busy being sad And crying myself to sleep at night And wondering why
What once began as a thought flourished as the words were wrought like cascading raindrops falling from a single spot   The words my hand created told a story that was dictated
My fingers graze the back of the page on which I spilled my soul. I run them over the indentations where my pen carved my feelings into the pure, white, sheet. How is it that such an act could be considered normal?
From left to right and back again they swing: The golden disks, the pendulums depended. Indifferent to those who onward tread, They click in perfect time, in time unending.
And with a stroke of a pen My pain became joy, My tears became smiles, And I became myself.  And with a stroke of a pen
Typing was easy -- Writing was hard. What then was the point of the words If there lay no meaning behind them? If no cause stood before them? If no purpose guided them?   And then a demagogue,
although i have not kept count of the amount of people who have walked out of my life, like a train leaving the station—fast, abrupt, all-at-once; i have kept count of the words that follow.  
Frail, weak, innocent You don't taste the poison in your tea You don't notice the thorns in the roses But as you begin to grow, So does your mind You see things, experience things, learn things
I want to be something to give to people.  I want my words I one day write,  to make people feel something. To be so strong, they feel like you’ve been punched in the gut. 
I write because its me. Its who i want to be. I love the feeling i get. The feeling makes me lit. I love giving the feeling to the readers as well. And telling a story only i can tell.
I lay my head on my pillow to rest.My eyes gaze at the ceiling,and catch the dancing shadowsamongst the darknessthat encapsulates mealways.
I wake to the song of a thundering call A summons to a world just beyond Lost long ago in the grimoire of time An empire forged by rune and sword The far away lands of spires and lore  
A pounding initiates inside the layers of my flesh. It moves like the feeling of the bass that accompanies that lyrical-catastrophe. My feelers tap on wood. My headlights become unfocused.
Night—I’ve loved you long time. Your shadows no longer scare me, as I have finally realized that you provided my mind, restless with questions
The one thing that ignites the light Which excites my mind from day to night Is the delight I feel once I write All my focus is on the trains of thought All I notice is what I jot on the spot
Writing My one true love that helped me know me We met through a mutual friend that suggested we would be great together But I thought, it wasn’t right for me, so it got blocked
The struggle to put into wordsThe thoughts that run in my mind like a herd.Shall I speak of my life?Or a fictional lie?Wh
The unheard words cluster around me Tortured souls begging me to save them I refuse I push them aside, burying emotions I put them 6 feet under
From pen to paper, ink seeps and spreads out, corrupting the sweet innocence of white. A simple line morphs into subtle clouds, then spreads to form a strong and gallant knight.
Human minds are silly little models The birth children of originality And the forcibly adopted stepchildren of Society Cousins of melancholy
A crowd of wandering people Small talk and small smiles Surrounded by others with no intention of paying attention This is not for me   A coffee shop with quiet music Dark roast, creamer, sugar
The night is soft and pliant in my palms like Silly Putty, traced with finger and newspaper-print. It has imprinted the sound of bells clanging in the forest
Ink
Ink   Quickly the ink spreads, running across the pages. Making sense within their lines, keeping records through the ages.
It’s not what wakes me up in the morning it’s what keeps me up at night. Because I wake up and my first words are “I’m going to take a nap later.” Then I get home.
I just can't seem to think. Sometimes, it feels like it's a sink or a sink. The order I put my words seems in accordance to discord; I want to be a lord To create fictional fate To desecrate reality
They babble in my head, all day and night No one knows they're there, my silent warriors Different shapes and sizes, saints and sinners alike They live on the page, whispering to me ideas I both love and hate
To live on when I am gone thoughts that were once in my head may always be read thoughts that were once in my head live on when I am dead to live on when I am gone
i dont call it poetry, i call it  letting go melting onto paper like wax, the words heal me in a way that the body can't. when was the last time i ached with pain? when was the last time i felt more than what
With a pen I can't erase the things I get wrong, pen, pencil and paper just take too long.   A typewriter, so I've heard, is difficult, and besides I don't want an impersonal note.  
it felt as though his words danced in my ear his wit sparked interest and showed no fear always in awe,  i would listen without doubt that my own thoughts soon would sprout every moment a new subject would brighten
With heavy feet, I treadForcing myself to my bedI lay on my backBreath in and outAttempting not to focus on what I lack
You know We’ve been faced with assignments in middle school Dealing with subjects like Reading, Math, history And writing too
“Not good enough?” “Not good enough.” How is it I can work,               My fingers bleeding,               My lips dry,               My shoulders aching,               My legs numb,
I write small so you can’t hear meI think things in sentences, which formulatesometimes through nauseous thoughtsand I don’t take too kindly to insults,even if I’m the one directing them at me.
 It's not blank verse,  Free verse,   Or iambic pentameter                   It's just poetry     It is fresh and free,   Flowing and beautiful                   It's just poetry 
when i first began to write poems, i kept them hidden in a little pink journal tucked in between my mattress and my box-spring. it was a dirty little secret i kept locked away.
“Poet, breathe now.” Adam Gottlieb’s words soon stuck in my head. “Louder Than a Bomb” sketched in my notebook. Poetry. Enthusiasm from those slammers on stage.
Souls stride with unbridled passion, Beings coalescing into a society as A heterogeneous fluid of Raw, fearlessly flawed humanity.   Yet why is it
Vanishing thoughts To purely placed words. In the middle of struggle I see something awakening; These bitter blues could fall away like rain.
Everyone and everything here is old; archaic.The new things and people are but copies of generations before.Arranged a little differently, perhaps.They are restored classics; cliché- yet contemporary; chic.
I have always been a child of the ocean.
I give my love my everything: The nooks and crannies of my soul. His mask then fell, unveiled a liar, Spilled every secret: none untold.   Friends come, they go, all while they know
Forgive me,  but I have such a hard time believing that you're being sincere. I feel my fingers rattling— tapping other bones, nervously checking my phone,
I wonder how one can live in two worlds I pretend to speak, to grow, to live in one I want to share it with the other  
5th grade, yellow pencils out Another lesson to forget “Tomorrow is mother’s day!”   Do you remember anything? I don’t remember much But I do remember 2008’s May  
rain settles in. dank, organic breath of steam.   i spit out my life: sweet, sweet beginnings to
Bring a pen to paper, Hear the scribbling sounds Do it now and never later What you write may be profound.   Constantly erasing,
The pen hit my paper, and my thoughts just started flowing A constant stream of love, hate, joy, sorrow, confusion, clarity An endless documentary of middle school crushes, lost friendships,
I'm writing, I keep on writing My mind is speeding through with so much rhyming. I'm looking at the news seeing what it's protraying about August 9, 2014. Listening closely, and catrefully about what they're saying.
And she felt a deep longing A need. To fill a beautiful world that wasn’t hers with beautiful words that were.   And she was filled with a desire A need.
Thoughts- Thoughts race around my mind,  Racing and whirling,  A hurricane, living inside   Sometimes it is comforting, For I am not alone with these thoughts inside,  I have voices, 
The lights on the ceiling blurred my vision As I lay on my back, Humming low. The world is cruel to The young who Have no place to go. And the first thing I saw when I stepped into the open
Short note: the following poem is in Villanelle style. As words that infuse life into a dark place, Poetry gave a face to the tangled mess in my mind, As strokes on a page that probe a soul’s triumph and waste.
Cherry-picked exactness and I’m trying to tell you exactly what I mean. Will you listen? Because some days I hear beautiful things that I don’t like, and wonder why they are even here. I used to read all the time.
Black bodies.  Black boys. Dying every other day. Mama's tears.  Heavy heart. No amazing grace, how sweet the sound. Oh black boy, covered in blood. When will you return
Listen on SoundCloud: soundcloud{.com}/jake-gillespie-6/god-bless-the-pen/s-q80Qg (remove the {} around the dot-com)  
We are writers, scrawling ideas on the sides of notebooks, frantically tearing out the paper and sticking it in our pockets. We highlight our favorite parts of you, write hearts
So I've come to a conclusion, Everything and body is an illusion. Any sense can feel a tense delusion, Not sure what's real-- I feel deep confusion. So open, so crucial  So dangerous, so brutal.
There is nothing as strong as a tidal wave. It crashes over your head,  douses you in salt, and pushes tears from your eyes whether you want it to or not. I was eleven when I first drowned. 
Girl How are you tonight?  A shield made of dark brown hair You tremble, turning away Are you cold?   Girl You've stopped talking The light from your eyes has faded 
I remeber the rush. The moment pen touches paper. The smooth glide on blank slate. Infinite array of options, Potential, that I never had.    The feel wasn't all however,
Sun kissing my neck, memories licking at my toes Kinetic energy running through my body Itching to release the power of the prose Take a deep breath, let the feelings I feel bleed on to the page
writing poetry I'm not very good at it Although I do try
It's always been there, Whether I've known it or not. Never had I known that song lyrics were poetry. Never had I known that poetry held feelings. That they held meanings. That they held stories.
Touch the paper with a pencil Shouting thoughts come alive My mind is leaking ideas The words explode on paper Eventually coming together To create a world of mine Thinking becomes out of control
Words have bodies At least to me The way they flow off the page  Is pure poetry The more I wrote The more I craved The words that are written Fly right off the page They come to life
oh oh the mighty pen  all others bow to you  oh oh the mighty pen  not many know how to use  oh oh the mighty pen  that builds and tear down worlds  oh oh the mighty pen 
As I hold the Pen in my hand And the Ink flowing from the tipWhile I Write the Words that flowFrom my Heart to my handI get frustrated.Writing was Never Frustrating.It Never used to
It's a layer of defense Soft and Smooth It crackles , it can breaks if you have a wound.
  I take notes during class. I take notes at home. I write in a planner. I write grocery lists. Those are just the things that keep me organized.
I’m not much of a poet But then other times I think Maybe I am if Only in some ways   In a rush or a trickle When I least expect them to Words have a way of Flying from my hands  
Me
Not hiding from, but embellishing reality was a game I played since three.  In my head and on the paper I hated the judgement from Teacher since five.  Books built walls to protect 
We write what we know what we feel what we perceive.   Everytime we write we leave a little of us behind in hopes that someone will pick us up and find us fascinating
The books my Grandpa read, The words my Grandma wrote, The things my Mother said, The voice my Father spoke.   A song without a melody, A gentle hand on tears, A rythmn like a symphony,
The books my Grandpa read, The words my Grandma wrote, The things my Mother said, The voice my Father spoke.   A song without a melody, A gentle hand on tears, A rythmn like a symphony,
Sitting by myself Daddy’s crying in the corner Mommy left us behind But I have to be a strong little soldier   Feeling abandoned not just by her But by the tears I try to hide
I'm nine years old  and what do you know?  I got these feelings,  how do I show?  At the computer I sit and out my fingers, poems flow. One, then two, four, five, ten,
I can't tell if the war between acceptance and fear is raging around me or inside of me. Cries for peace surpass my lips, but my voice isn't loud enough. With so much to say, 
Red
I am red,like an ambitious flame,angry and risingand my voice echoesloudly,demanding to beheard over theendless whispers andincessant criesthat fill the void in my mind.I am fire,
The world around me, is full of words;  Not the things that you can see; but those you feel, and can be; they are not visible to the human eye; until pen and ink begin to fly; simple objects become beauty;
There are so many words that have left my body, that don’t graze the inside of my skin anymore.  I write knowing that the word and the moment 
The first time I walked in I smelled the scent of her candles and penciled in meetings She said speak So I spoke Then I cried.   It began.   The next few consultations
it was like clay: a keyboard. molded everything she wanted to say. when she was bored had a desire to record needed a sword or a place to explore poems were that medium.
  Suffocation. Pent up emotions Boiling up inside me, begging For release. But how?? Is there any way to release the pain?   Talking doesn't help, only hurts Ignoring my heart only allows for
I began writing as soon as my young hand could grip a pen. Poems regarding ice cream and messy rooms outpoured  from a faucet previously untapped. I fell in love with words, with language,
Late nights With music in my ears And demons in my mind, I feel water filling my lungs, Weights sitting on my chest And ropes around my throat. My mind racing 
Write because your best friend died  Because your boyfriend cheated on you  Because you son is sick  Because your depression is consuming you  Because you just got married 
I’ve had a passion for spoken word for the longest time now. But, I never thought I was capable of becoming a poet. I knew I had the desire to write, To open up people’s minds.
A laborious craft Where you spin Words of silk And satin Stories of fire And raging war Legends of dragons And battles of lore Myths of demons And ancient enemies
It pounds through My bloodstream Paralyzing And choking I can't see Anymore What's important It sits in the back Waiting for me To notice But I'm stuck  At the front
Words I can't say, I'll write down today. With this pen the words in my head Will then be read, again and again. The truth comes out. But I still can't open my mouth.
It started with me falling in love No not like that I didn’t fall in love with a boy, or girl, a moment in time But I fell in love with words At the tender age of three
Sleep deprived, zombie like,as mindless as air and as mechanical as the shifting gears of a manual transmission.Some have a spark in their eye or a bounce in their step;
Words cannot change the world And it will never be true that We can make a difference just by writing The written word Is not able to replace Advancing technology in our society
Words can be strung in an order,given purpose—made into an illustrationof what’s in a child’s mind, a childwhose mother and father are fightingover and over, all the time.  Thescansion marks where the child
I could feel my hands gliding through the silk of the sea Perched on the edge of the sea I longed for the water's clam to rest against my skin To be caressed by ideas and possibilities of life
When the world is dark, And the tears stream down my face. When I can’t breathe, When the weight of the world rests on my shoulders, That is WHEN I write. When the colors fade to grey,
I'm not feeling myself tonight. My fingers are itchy, frantic with a rising anxiety fueled by the bitter ink that I have denied in my blood. Those former words that have been the creation of the nerves under my fingertips,
I remember the day When I had a lot to say Not yet knowing Jesus as the Way So my first thought wasn’t to pray   I didn’t know God was real And He could help me with the way I feel
The words hit the paper like the tears hit my wrists; The ink flows like the blood from my arms; The open spaces Letters spinning Words shaking
Writing will always be my first love, No matter how great I become in math, science, history, There is always a place in my heart for the art of words,  
From the first coherent sentence, there have been ink-stained hands leaving prints on select souls and few regrets using points and keys to paint the walls with the colors of joy and anguish  
She woke up every day with colors in her head. Visions of blue and green, pink and purple, and pounding blood red. The girl tried to capture the fleeting moment, to pin it down in her mind, 
The girl gave herself to the poem because it was self preservation to set the words free.  There was something about emptiness that got the fingers moving, twitch of
When the raging battle seeks to steal my joy, My tears trickle down my face. That's when I like to employ, My unbeatable fighting Ace.   I lay down the Truth, Let the lies flee.
Line, Line Line, STOP Eyes' movement stop. Images flash across the blank expanse. Haha, think about that. Mull. Ponder.  Imagine that. Ears strain.  Ears listen.  
Every year since kindergarten, We begin with a journal entry. Entering our thoughts on our day,  and writing for over a whole century.
"I feel the beat of my own words as they tumble A stutter, a jump in the waves of age that crash Down, encircling my head, shooting an emotional gun A bang in bed, so hard it breaks.
My mind is a labyrinth of riddles and mistakes And stories my heart yearns to share. My mouth is numb and stiff, A silent machete destroying the tangles of my brain,
Need an outlet  Need to breathe Need some hope Need some sleep Scribbling and scratching under the moon Blankets warm A snug cocoon  Painting pictures in the mind Sigh and relax
Beat to the rhythm. Tap your toes to the music. Trapped in these prisms, This tune is our rhetoric.    Who will speak for us? What is speech against singing? Words are all we trust.
I sit awake in the hours of the night I am very young The pale face of the moon sits in the sky as my only friend "Little Girl, why are you sad," she says to me. "Because I am alone and they left me."
He walked in and he left He left and he came His heart and his soul Was put to shame   I watched and I waited I waited for his gesture I couldn’t compare him To any other sinner  
My voice is the dead air on the sea-span channel. My words feel as flat as when I used to play the violin. My writing makes me shriveled up, crinkled, and embarrassed. I can’t be a writer when it's so daunting for me,
I write to open a door that only has one key. Me. Behind the door lays  A society that is governed by me alone, here in my mind I am the ring master and audience of my private circus.
I promise to write every day, Even if it’s only a sentence Or a short paragraph That kinda sucks And sounds like I was drunk
I wrote my first poem
It’s easier to write than to Untangle my thoughts In my jumbled mind And put air behind them. My voice shakes with uncertainty,
Imagine this: Life in the dark,no sound and no action.Static in safety and peace of mind,but you can't feel, you don't do.The darkness too consuming,you can't even take a breath.
I've realized it's really hard to write without having someone in your mindbecause, in your thoughts, they spend most of their time.
Blink, and the delicate parachutes whistling             with white-spun dandelion seeds drift to form the rich parchment of             my thoughts,                         channeled  
It is you with whom I speak, when the pen becomes my voice.When the cell bars of this prison-like mind slide open,you are the haven I seek under the full moon at 3 a.m.
Writing is to me as oxygen is to fire, or sunlight to the welcoming branches of a tree. The ink that courses through my veins, thick and black,
Without Writing What would there be? No records.  No stories.  No reading at all. I Write for me but more for those who will listen. Those who care. Those who have not been abducted by society and technology.
A notebook. A pen. Swirling thoughts raced inside my head. Biting lips. Darting eyes. My emotions were in disguise. Overwhelmed? Yes that’s true. It left me with only one thing to do.
I could live without a phone. I don’t need an Instagram, I don’t rely on siri. I could live without electricity. The sun and moon shall light my way,
Typing inching Eyelids tiring Heroes crying Villains dying   Sleep depriving Caffeine failing Planets burning Magic learning   Resolve crumbling Block existing.
To live, to breath, connect, to see this place Without writing, what would we be? Like a canvas with no paint, space Within this world would seem so lonely.   Would a canvas white be less appealing
Crisp, white pages fluttering in the wind Calling out to me To write. I am my words. My ideas. And my journal stores them all. It is my companion, My ally. Without it, I would be stranded
I write to ease the pain of the day, untold with many stories to say. My pen moves swiftly along each line, while I sit here and wait for the words to align. Hours upon hours, while each word empowers.
The one thing I can’t live without is this   Writing   Pen on Paper Mind to Word   I can’t live
The beat will come to mind, and words will leave my lips. The lyrics written when I was down, to remind of a dark place I wish not to experience again. One day I'll create a song and I'll sing, dance, swing my hips.
My guiding light, my friend, my paper and pen Growing up I haven't had a steady friend, a diary to confide in I don't ask for a response Just that someone listens to me
Supportive, dependable, yet completely silent. Tells stories of complete fiction and the happiest of memories In a language only comprehensible to me. There for me when I need to cry
What is this pain, a growling monster deep within? It bites and screams, making my vision spin It yearns the light of day, it longs release The more it fights, the less my stomach feels at ease  
Give me a pen to flourish and nourish To allow my mind to grow and explode For words to escape my mind's gate I want to know Will you give me a pen?
Stuck trapped Sand invading my every pore HOME I want to go HOME What is home? Home is the memories  But if you fall They fall with you. The pen is my chance To not be alone
A world of intrigue, the gateway to unimaginable things, blue speckled plums and fairies with dusted wings foxes with three eyes furry creatures found in the dark reaches of caves.  
How could I stop?  How could I just throw all those years away?  Leave behind that little jewerlry shop?  Act as if my characters don't have a say?  I need to write. 
Don't panic, our blue planet's a wonderful placeDreamers, we live, we fly, we soar, we singUnlike the desolate rest of outer spaceAlthough all curious wonders always bring.
Black for her darkness hidden. Blue for her not yet cried tears. Green for her pain that is there but not found. Pink for all her fake smiles. Purple for the laughs that pains her but she tries.
She sits in the room full with her friends. They all laugh and talk. But why cant she seem to smile? She tries but their all fakes. She had plenty of reasons to be happy. She had her friends.
Wisdom in each droplet like a sea of broken roads with each forgotten memory to lighten the weight of loads . For every breath forsaken and every tear forgiven
ME
I choose to be meIn a world where others disguise who they truly areLiving a facade to hide any imperfections or scarsPressured to live their life just like everyone else
The minute she steps foot in a libraryShe has an excited lookAnd before you can even blink your eyeShe has her nose in a book
Authors are powerful peopleThere is no limit to what they can doThey have the power to make you ecstatically happyAnd make you have a heart attack, too
When I look to my fingertips, On writing, typing, seeing Sights in stories, the imagination, Of the yellowing pages of stories,
Not at all materialistic, but possessive of my possessions. Things that mean a lot to me, not much bit scraps of paper, pages sewn together. I made them to fit perfectly and They are my most precious of things,
Without them, i am Only shapeless emotions, unable to Relay my thoughts, Direct my ideas and Share my passions.   Writing them collects the  Overflowing ideas, connects them.
Toto, we are not in Kansas anymore, We are neck deep in denialshouting from our lungs,We are starving head cases.We are two am phone calls to our mothersaying, Mom, I messed up.
My body rejects the writing because writing is like an I.V. in my veins. It clears the venom out of my body and dries up the river of words in my mind. I do not want to be a skeleton 
Life between words Images between Printed sentences Haunting the depths Of your cavernous mind Come alive
I have many universes in my hands They go beyond the limitations of this concrete world My hands instead hold countless worlds crafted by graphite and sweat
The last thing I'd thought I had lost, my thick oversized journal I wished I had it then, And not stacked in boxes, my hubby has his prized books in Those infallible words, and thoughts, and reflections and poems
Nothing more Nothing less Just myself My notebook And my thoughts at best To write is to love To love is to hope To hope is to be And to be is to be happy So all I need
Pops, you watch too much TV.   I feel convinced that I have now become a faceless memory,   That only photographs will bring short-term remembrances of me.   Pops,
After the first time Everything has changed Maybe the second time is the charm Maybe words can fly into my mind But silence and borders keeps your mind quiet And erasers are wasted like time  
  I believe in every word I speakAnd I believe that love is not for the weakI believe that passion can consume, like a fire left to bloom And I need you to understand That this pen, I hold in my hand When I put it to paper, I'm bleeding my soul on
I’ve got enough thoughts to fill books, songs, poems about confusion, sadness, rage But if I tried to write them down,
Yeah, I'm cryin' in bedwithout a line in my head, I'm deadbut you don't hear me cryin' or lying when i'm dying with dreadthis life burning instead while I reach ahead
The idiot stares at the page And reads his own death sentence And signs his name proudly on the bottom I guess I'm an idiot then. Cause every word I write takes time,
Thoughts trickle down the muscles and tendons of my right arm, Tightening, loosening Useless gesutres, meaningless waves over a page brought to life By you.
A poem's secret language in itself is that. A secret language  we all long to understand, to see the beautiful similies as they unravel like a present on christmas morning.  
I’m seated in a comfy chair, he’s running his fingers through my hair, I’m thinking aloud as I write,
She sits down to write on her laptop.    Her delicate fingers trace over keys as she tries to make something from the tangled wires in her head.   
  Slow me down Limit my speed Dwindle me down to my thoughts   My feelings don’t matter At least not to me
A God:A being beyond comprehension.The greatest possibility and impossibility,an image of parting seas and fire raining from the sky,an embodiment of love and justice,a redeemer and a punisher,
My fingers wildly compose literary sheet music of emotions. Scaling keystrokes somehow translate my inner entity and immortalizes it with words. 
Sitting down with your thoughts and a new document, you know who you are. Is it dread? Perhaps excitement.
I will be immortal! because words never die. I will not have to face being forgotten from my last goodbye because each word I put between the lines.
When it seems I'm alone, I'm not, I have my mind, And my soul, My morals, My life, To look back on, To hold tight, To introspect with, To think of solutions, I'm not alone.
All you ever read about are the girls that are made of light and smell like summer and speak like walking through molasses  all people ever write about are the soft-to-the-touch girls and
You are his Summer Girl. His Early June. His Late July. You are his quick fix. His in-between. You are his fall back. His default. You are the One That’s Always There. Baby. Do not mistake this for love. 
Upon first glance It seems interesting enough. I’ll consider it.   The first few pages intrigued me. I'll bring this one with me  And read it on the bus ride home.         I’m learning more and more,
write because you have something to say write because the flow of ink is like a stream of never-ending thought, write because it feels never feels wrong,
Initially, this wasn’t exactly the reality of the story I imagined I would be strolling through. Madness intertwined in my balance,
Today, Socrates rolled over in his grave.  
  Dust bunnies have no fear The plot bunnies travel where you do not dare   The shadows of my mind they wander Creating havoc into twisting plots and devious plans  
    The best you can find In front or behind
My doodles have moved from pictures to words, Evolution of expression - Is fragmented language easier to understand than scratchy images?
I'm blind to lines Except the red ones, by design, Like loose leaf, looking higher Seeing white, being inspired to try By a margin of heaven Above a sea of blue lies  
I read these poems and wonder what they mean When nothing really means what it really means The words are convoluted to a desperate degree In a teenage rebellion trying to get free
Mama says “You have no passion. What do you love? What do you like?” I don’t respond, I hate conflict, don’t want to fight. But there’d be no mind-changing anyways
Me  :noun   a. family member: 1. a loving sister who talks too much, 2. a devoted daughter who is full of questions;  
I’m from my mother's cooking
i'm growing tired of writing,but not for writings sakejust the printed words
Let me write till my fingers are numb, 
My pen is the dancer, The paper is the stage, My audience are the readers,
You're the only one I need  In times of despair and tragedy Hold me intact as I'm falling apart  Keep me forward as I turn away  Be my anchor and hold me down
You wrote your own story And didn't let anyone else alter it Living in your own book And that's why we couldn't be together   f.s. yousaf
If you could paint a picture, what would you draw? A dark night full of mystery?
The mind- the reincarnate queen,my pens- the worker bees,oozes waxen flakes of inspiration,both devilish and angelical.The ink creates a homein a soon-to-be-discovered honeycomb
This world is my own It's people are mine From itheir culture To their langauge I have made it mine.   Is the hero strong Or a bumbling nerd Who can prove that Power is not
She could see the words Through the page Threatening to come out Words from stories She thought she’d never tell She put ink to paper and Her mind churned Her pen flew
Write when you are empty. Spend your days burying your thoughts in print, allowing the words to take you deeper than your feet could ever wander. Write of the rains of November, of bruised sunsets,
My pen falls short, lacking in gage Needingly etching and sketching away at the page My heart fulfilled in paper and ink Never speaking, only writing what I think Power in words, thought and ideas
Words are my favorite They flutter on the pages Of crisp papers Handcrafted letters
This morning, the sun rose
The pencil’s metallic probing tip
Too many last nights were promised to be the last time, But didn't it feel good? Too many small lights freckles the frame of my face, And I would do it again. Too many times I have overslept,
Forty cents for some paper 
writer's block sucks because writers, we care we care so incredibly much frustrated to see our pages bare   writer's block sucks but writers do not writing frees all our souls
I like the poems of yesteryearThe poems of ‘twas, and yon, and ere,The poems whose ol’ archaic tongueWas in its prime, and lo, e’er young.Their tales were spun of days of yore
I lost another poemthis morningin the early airbetween my home and my carI failed to net itput it in my poem jarit flew awaywill it be aroundsomewhereover therewhen I get back?
Welcome to my Newsroom Welcome to my newsroom. Where my problems seem to melt away. Where there’s an inspirational quote on colored cardstock On every inch of the wall.
II.
If I could make the flow of my hands just a bit more....smooth.If I could make the pictures last long enough in my mind to take the time to draw them perfectly.
Writing hides deep in the mind locked in rooms waiting to be discovered, in someone else's life, tugging on your heart strings, it hides within one's heart, mind and soul poured onto the paper
Some people say that writing is like breathing, but I disagree because
words
i want to hear about you running through the sprinklers at 3 am   about the joy of utter  stillness   i want to hear about your grandmother's laugh
Words can fall drip drop pitter patter rain on a foggy windowpane
I remember the night I spilled between your binding.
Death of the Body
Hindrance troubles from behind
You walk for weeks upon weeks Same clothes, dirty skin, untamed hair
Don't fight me cause I'm noone.I'm the face u see when u look n the mirror.I'm the light that shines to the darkness but yet im noone.I'm something to someone but noone to myself.I'm
I look up, my hea
I fear I've caught a cold Words just won't stop running
I write in you My mother says it’s childish My innermost thoughts My secrets Locked safely in the tear wrinkled pages of your tattered spirit Burdened with my shameful exploits of debauchery and lust
Oh Hello. Hi. Uhm.. How do you do? I'd like to introduce myself to you. What you see is average.
She brews her ownbecause she likes to seeSepia seeping upShe cannot sleep so sheNeeds coffee to keep her eyes –brown ringed around soft green– awake 
Don't be fooled by my pen, paper, and smile.
I feel I should claim a disclaimer   because I really don't know what I'm doing  I think I should make it clear  that I am not   really  very much  at all  a poet.  These are just words 
Crack the code of my spine And read between the lines From pages of the diary that’s written in my eyes   Invisible ink in my skin Marks the flesh that seals me in It ties and binds, ties and binds
Me and Instagram we go back and forth like a pendulum
Poetic thoughts form onto my blank page
This sadness. I feel my chest being crushed ever so slowly. Pushing harder and slower. Farther and lower. My heart throbs like a beating drum before battle.
Me, Myself, Personally…   I am, the smile that stretches for                         miles
Bully Beatdown       I was doomed from the start   …Born   Torn apart   A dart through my heart   Self-hating Bogart   Some called me sweetheart
Like a drug store cassette I was blank, mummified
Shouldn’t it be funny
Every picture of me that I personally take does have some editing of my face.
Every moment i perch myself upon that plastic seat, i wait. Every time the sting of feelings prick my eyes, i wait. Every sound that occurs to my ears, i wait.
Quick take a picture What can we see? An everlasting flawess flitered picture of me Hair done Skin soft Eyebrows on fleek Eyes tipped Black dip, winged tip on me
To Say im different than you would be a misconception Im the same as you niggas.... Plus a few exceptions I dont give a fuck about your life or ideologies Dont write for you! nor anybody
She wrote stories to keep her warm at night Some nights they were blankets curling around her toes and cradling her neck Other nights they were kindling in the meager fire at her feet
I know America I can speak it But not sing it For I sing unusually In a separate language “Mi vida Americana”
Rejection letter came today And I should be upset Rejection letter came today And still I’m happy yet   For now it feels oh so real That I am now a writer And since I submitted another poem
It's who I am. I've always been tall. And no, I don't play basketball or volleyball. I am constantly stranded in a sea of small and world of petite. Yes, my feet are large, but imagine if I had small feet.
Cry your final tears now,don't hold it in For tomorrow holds another chance to live again Keep your head held high in confidence and pride Just let go, relax, enjoy the ride Things will pan out in the end
Green, brown, and blue. These are the colors of my energy. For we are one in this small world. Our lives intertwine, where together we can thrive. Or fall.
Perfect sunkissed moonlight hides the lines of my imper
In my senior year, I took my final high school English class. Advanced compostion.  We were told in this packet in the mail a week before school started that we'd read a lot And write a lot.
Why even try? Constantly feeling the need to get their approval and for what? Praise? Recognition? Why is it that you go out of your way for them, after everything? An apology?
I sit and I stare into the mirror at my chest.
My hair, long and brown My face, straight and concentrated My body, short and ordinary None of it matters I can get through Whatever life throws at me My strength My desire My dedication
The problem with writing is that it consumes me, no longer do I remember the responsibilities I once had. When I write I am intoxicated by the words flowing from my finger tips,
Letters, words, and sentences Are fashioned from the Black scratches that stain The pure beauty of innocence. Writing their own story, The murky thoughts turned Into something lovely.
To write is to accept the secrets buried deep within the soul To write is not to think, but to realize It is but the mind's allowance of the heart to breathe.
The words came to me again today rushing like rain down my cheeks and into my head leaping from synapses to fingertips Little ballet dancers clothed in the glitter of newest words And to think
I'm gonna have to pinch myself.
What do I do with my life? Should I sing, act or write? All the choices drive me mad Or is it that I'm bad?
Someone once said that we all wear a mask to hide our true self and to fit in with the rest. But whose mask is the best. I think we have reached a point where everyone has a mask. I don’t know who I’m talking to and that makes me feel bad.
I'm Flawless Not because my skin is clear or my body is perfect  Cause I'm Far from both ..  But  because I love.. I love hard ..  I'm flawless cause my loyalty runs deep 
Melt the liquid make-up from my solidified face. I have let my friends, my family, and myself weld it straight to my face. It masks my freckles, my fear, and my blemishes.
It's been my dream in life to be taken seriously To be intelligent To be adept To have a voice   But at every turn it's If you just used a little rogue and shadow
A blurred version of myself stares back at me the trail of hot tear stains linger on my cheeks as I ask the reflection "am I beautiful?" the question presses into my mind,
My heart whispers. And I panic.   My heart will whisper and it will murmur. I was scared, And I couldn’t breathe, When my heart leapt forward, And forgot to beat, For the first time.
My teeth gripped the plush bottom of my lip, the nails,
I am flawless not because of my looks, But rather because of the way I study my books I am flawless not because of the clothes I wear Because clothes can go out of style just like my hair
The mirror is my perfection. It reflects, contradicts, opposes And reflects, reveals, interposes. I am; I am not. Two same divided. It allows me to realize what pride hid: Mistakes, mess-ups, mull-sided
Change will save the world.  Treating others diferently because of their skin color, sexual preferences, height, weight, likes, dislikes, financial status, religious views,  and disabilities 
I won't cry in front of you, but I'll cry over you. I won't let anyone see me break, but I break down. I want nothing more than to go to school and teach, but it seems like a long shot.
I am strong. I can stand tall and proud. I can tak care of myself. I can do anything. I can be anything. I can take on the world all on my own. I am an independent woman dammit.
I am a wallfower around, but never really noticed. To others it seems like I have my life together, but actually I have no fucking idea what I'm doing. To my friends I'm the quiet one who's along for the ride.
Here's a little story of the girl who thought she'd never make it. Growing up in a world that told her all she has to do is fake it. Seeing the world in black and white isn't right, and she knew it, 
What is beauty? Everyone has different opinions about beauty. But what is beauty? Beauty can be big, Beauty can be little. Beauty can be light, Beauty can be dark.
I’m not supposed to call it mine My anxiety and depression isn’t supposed to be mine, I’m supposed to distance myself because somehow that helps.  Somehow saying it isn’t mine makes it okay
Once I forgot the tune to a song  once I got my spelling words wrong once in PE I fell on my face 
~a heart once so pure Heavy with burdens ~Smiles turn to gold Shy to break, soft to hold ~molded in flawless to be just flaws ~A heavy broken smile is all I am
#Hi. I'm trying to act like I'm invisible because I know that you can see that I'm not #perfect. But I know that if you could see the real me that is not my blotchy skin or curvy frame, you would be #shocked.
Masks all around I am lost in the sound
I'm not the best of sons, and it's hard to miss my family when everyday they're part of war. I live with scars that just won't seem to end,  but you know what?  They're my medals and best friend. 
Discovery meet, most sweet substantial,  A grim victoire in sober fierce,  Which knowing in its talent fines  To piercing use; the cup hath brimmed And overflowed in talent honed,
Seizures              in ability to move                                    powerlessness               Weakness?              Worthlessness? NEVER! Power! Strength! Heart! Hope!
i write and i write but how can i describe the feelings that i have yet to experience with words i can't even begin to know the meaning of?
look into my eyes  you will see blue  look into my heart 
I can rhyme words without a rhythmbut as soon as I try, I lose the feeling.So I’ve learned to let them flow,let ‘em rolloff my tongue - or in this case my pen -
How can I express to theeThe ways of which I love?This love I feel means more to meThan any god above.Oh! I love thee to the depths Of the sea.Surely I do.For in my dreamsIt it you I see,
Ink
She believes in self expression, Righteous Writing, Speaking out. She knows that your transgression Awaits in hiding In the words behind your mouth She understands that it has meaning.
I've been sitting here, day after day, With a smile that touches my eyes. Fingers to the keys, I type words I never say, Never even breathing the slightest of sighs. With each thought words go farther,
Her
Her hair sways with the wind,
When the world is consumed by the
Blue inked fingers kiss innocent paper, staining the edges with my fingerprints.
There is no rhyme scheme here. There is no melody to the song. No place where I belong. I bleed here. I love here I die here
I said i'm going to rise to the top of the mountain....wait wait wait... I said I'm going to rise to the top of the mountain. Stand on this stage declaring my Name,say. Because I am a king, ayee.
Pen to paper, ideas spewing out, As one of my teachers said
Up, upward, I'm looking up, birds are chirping too, reminds me of things I want to do. Fly, flying high above away from cares I soar, my dreams my aspirations come tumbleing down like sheets of paper.
People write to inspire, to change an opinion, to sell a book, to sell a point - but those don’t define my reasons. Asking me why I write is like asking a kid why she sculpted her sand castle the way she did. Because I could.
So long as men can live and live to see Restrainèd not in action's course or bent; So long as those still fall be-weeping misery In silent haze of prideful government; 
In a sea of people, In a crowd of friends, Too busy to notice Where am I? I am alone. Alone, In a sea of people, In a crowd of friends.
Words tumble faster than I can write.
    
My future, oh how my choices and decisions affect thee!
Quiet is the observer Motionless in kaleidoscopic torment. I thought until thought was meaningless. “Grab the pen! Grab it, you coward!” A ceaseless voice streams Through an intravenous drip.
Everyone has a suicide.
I look out the window to my right and see the sun rising. I look to my left and see the clouds reflecting red and pink light. I look in my rearview mirror at the stressful world I am leaving behind.
Monotony can kill the spirit, sap the soul. But I have something I hold to me, To tell the truth, it keeps me, mostly whole. These Dreams are the essence of life; a dream, a quest to fly...
I..
I, who write nothing but a deep true feeling. And you will always be the whole poem.
headphones on,fingers on thekeyboard   electronicmusic in myhead
The Beatles like 5 white Don Cheadles Like 5 War Machines ready to make me the happiest man in the world Movies Groovy Movies Boogie Nights, Rated R,  Don't watch it you still ride backseat in a car
Behind The Curtains  
The beginning of a semester is great It's filled with the wonders of new friendship And the oppurtunity to satiate All the numerous urges within me  to sit with my kickass roomie
I am here to tell you how it can be done. I was a woman who was unhappy with the size of her waist. I was ashamed.  Flabbergasted of how much time was wasted not caring.
Who I am to you? A woman. A woman who has fun. Who like to venture out and dance. A woman with motivation and focus. Someone who likes to run and lift. A fashionista.
Sometimes I sit alone, and say that I am content. Most people believe me and carry on their own. Others will sit down with me to say something, or nothing at all. Their presence actually makes me happier,
Because Phoenixes are overrated, and revenge causes you to become what you've once hated.
I am proud of myself. Can be honest? Looking through my past poems, my past words, my past thoughts, all I can think is how far I have come.
School is back in session, The free days are over, Yet still a constant rhythym pounds through me,
         Melodies and long forgotten tunes
We all wear  the mask but how long can it last? How long will it be before someone finds me out? Will it be after I graduate from college? Will I be discovered after I have my first born child?
Today I'm feelin' good, I dare you to change that The sun greets me with a smile while birds sing at my window I'm grateful to be alive, I was blessed with another chance
I have too many             words trapped in my brain   like a jigsaw puzzle compact and interlocking   I wish they would               float out of my mind  
Her cold hands that remain calm and limp, Her eyes robbed of their graceful, blinking light, The porcelain room standing dim, The dance of a line on the dark screen,
My grandma , mi abuela the only woman who loved me the one who hugged me when i cried   My grandma mi abuela she inspired me she opened my eyes  showed me the world
I knew a girl Weak, unhappy Angered at who she was Obsessed with who she was not I knew a girl Who had beautiful thighs But hated them for their size Then one day she put a weight in her hand
Baby I'm not religious but When I put the pen to paper I swear someone's watching and helping to guide my hand through all the terrible truths. If there's a God up above,
Freedom to feel, Freedom to know Freedom to speak, to live, to go, Wherever your free life takes you.   To Freedom we're born, cause others have died defending that Freedom, our nation, our pride,
I let myself smile a big unfamiliar feeling goofy smile because the words are pulsing out of me. Pushing out and then when they make it to the surface, slipping like raindrops down down
When you read my words maybe you’ll feel my happiness and you’ll remember the night when we talked for hours with no curfew to stop us. It was lovely, but you weren’t really there. -
Well, I sit in the front of every class And don’t think for one moment that I kiss the teacher’s ass The kids are so disrespectful I swear they never feel regretful They make me laugh though I can’t even lie
P E A C E It does not mean to be in a place where there is no noise or hardwork, It means to be in the midst of those things and be calm in your heart. When you find peace you find your passion too,
Nothing happens by chance or by luck.
He wrote a line. Any line,
I started scribbling down Words as soon as I could hold a pencilold Wordsothers Wordsmade me feel and move and cry and breathe Words
Chorus:   I'm stressed out A lot of stuff on my mind, I don't know what to do I'm stressed out I just want to be alone, so I'm sitting in my room I'm stressed out
Ex
You kissed me that cold winter night. You promised me that you  Would be there forever But then there was that summer night When you decided that you were better off  With some other girl
I write to connect I write to make sense I write to express I write to get distance I write to make space I write to put myself in another place Or to find another place
After saving a quarter for the runs,
Happiness is like a freshly  paved road, Absent from all corrode Each new addition already planned, Every turn colorful, nothing bland   Each new direction is made, Sure the consistency wont fade
Hey, how are you? 
Notice beauty in the way the girl voices her opinion with confidence and stature. Find passion in the way the artist continues to pour his soul into the artwork that no one stop to look at.
Tiny, as delicate but with the eyes to heal the soul.Lightly he steps, but stomp like he storms off in random distances.Full of fluff, mystery and deep unconditional love.
There is a beauty in everything There is a beauty in simplicity In the simplicity of a smile That shines as bright as the sun that warms every inch of my body In the simplicity of laughter
Soccer is my pasion. Soccer is my sadisfaction. When im in the field the pain goes away. When i score a goal a fly far far away. his preatty good people say.
Crossing from society into a watery solitary, the only and solely place for solitude
They come They go They stay They leave   But to catch them Now that's hard So close you come To forming coherency  
This is my happy place, where no one else can intrude, This is my happy place, where characters are all of my own making Man, woman, child, teen, mermaid, dragon, toaster It doesn't matter here, because they're all mine
 People will always  question and judge every choice you have ever made. Such as being in love with someone, when you just met them earlier that day. Or putting trust in someone who you know everyday lies to your face.
Bang Bang  Was what I heard every night, Police car sirens were my nighttime lullaby,
I will never be trusting, friendly, or loving. No matter what you say to me I know your lying.
When my soul aches, When my heart swells,
Dad
He hurt me daddy
He wants a smarter girl With just enough charm and wit But knows when to keep her mouth shut Someone he can be proud of Someone that hasn’t disappointed Someone he can control with a look
My pen writes the words of my soul for you to know who I am. My soul whispers its story to the paper for it to absorb and share with you.
I hope to live to see my riches not a loved one from the past what does it feel like to be appreciated right here and right now Workin for the money Showing home empty handed What am I supposed to do
Me
Tori    Content, friendly, and dramatic    Lover of modeling, fine arts, and vacations    Who feels nervous for the future, wholesomeness with life, and comfort from my caring family
You had all of me Then you burn the sheets On the bed we slept And the bed I sleep burning our love You broke my heart Ripping the skies but thru those cloudy days and pain I saw light
I never knew  how fast time could fly. And as the clock is clicking by, I’m wondering why, It has to be this way.   Whatever happened to the day
Child upon the horse Horse runs strong with a spirit He sees through the lies Spirit brings life to the girl
  My shoes squeak, my hair rustles, and my eyes wander. But I am neither heard, felt, nor seen. Students with satisfied smiles and amused eyes scramble before me, hustling to their next class.
The bags beneath my eyes are swollen now,
The bags beneath my eyes are swollen now,
    You should have known better
I took the one less traveled by.
Traveling slowly through the thickness of Time As others gallop, trot, amble and stand still with it, Time pulls me back, embracing me in every dull, dank, drastic memory that is withheld,
Once there was a man who left and his little girl was sad she cut her wrists and bleed for him as she wished to call him, dad there was an incident that spurred the path the family was split
Three little girls, not a care in the world...
Can you feel my heart beat Out under the moonlight Can you see the Horizon As the sun begins to rise Can you Feel this love Right here you and I Can you be my one and only Can you be my forever
Ooh, Ooh, For you I had a change of heart, Don't know where to start, What I'm about to say may surprise you, But now I see it clear Life ain’t always fair, What can you do, When you don't wanna hurt him, Cuz you don't deserve him, And there's no
Life is like a game of chest, so play it well. Love is like a game of cards, and some can't deal. My favorite cards used to be the ace and the joker but switched the game up, no longer playing poker. Threw out all the clubs.
John Dominique once said, “You cannot kill truth. You cannot kill justice.
He told me that I was his secret
Mama never told me not to give it away It was never expressed to me that your virginity was such a special thing I mean sure I saw on the tv screen about the birds and the bees
Seven continents in the world. Billions of men, women, boys, and girls. Humanity is what connects us with all. Race should not act as a wall. Separation and discrimination starts dividing
Run, Run, Faster, Faster, Even more faster, Into the wide open field, Towards the center, Feeling restless wild winds, The sight of living harmony, Attracts the other, For being one.
For the lost and the impure, Stray off to death, For the incapable is never capable, What is true, can it be destroyed? By the people, shattered by the bad. Suppose to be the leader,
For what I most want in this world, Is far away, To reach, I am uncertain, For its been bounded, Within the limits of myself, Extraordinary for I have become. .
The flow of time, Stand still, Listen to wait, The rhythm of soft strings, Moving along your fingers, Sit, wait for the sound, Sweeping the room.
The sound becomes small But is able to capture attention, Yet it is sweet, But is unable to show it, Becoming bold but isn't able to stop, Losing sleep, Yet still attracted, By such a small sound,
you used to run through my veins and fill them with love / I was so high that when I fell / I pulled the world down with me / I look for you in everyone but I havent found my fix / I realized that I do not run in
The swaying breeze, Of the soft air, Hair rustles through the wind, Skies filled with blue and white, Same streets, same lights, Nothings changed, But this is home.
Poetry, short shtories, novels I write as a release, as a love I write like it's my personal gospel Because it's my reality I'm aiming to be free of   My mind is it's own cinema, a library
Everyday I'm living, going through the motions without any devotions, trying to fly but cannot deny it's hard to live and it's hard to fight Back.
In times of sorrow We must remain strong Temper our ideals, bury our woes Refrain from what we know is wrong It's okay to weep or cry I understand, but everyone dies From experience, I cannot judge
A world of desire, Outlined by greed. Full of good and cold liars, Unable to break free! Is there purpose to life? Should I keep going on? In this world, full of strife For a companion, I long
As a baby I was silent. Then one slap and then a deafening scream. I didn't know, all I wanted was to be heard. To be noticed that I was alive and in existence, and to be heard.
I love how you say you’ll listen… help…
  As a baby I was silent. Then one slap and then a deafening scream.
Not gone
I want to talk about Black Entertainment Television. To discuss and describe the implements of incidents that my people look up to as stardom.   We turn on the television to find our favorite male rap artist,
To the mother, to the child, to the lover, to the fool,  
Growing up I only had to fear the men in white hoods, to stand against the power of the truly colored people.
Behind the wall, Behind the door, Through the window,
I will not follow in the path of the words that belong to your tongue. Your life, is your life my life is my own.   I will not let your memories be mine, I will not waste my time
  We drive back to your house All smiles and giggles Ice cream and pool time
I Wanted You To 
Steeper up the steeple the bells ring Chanting the enchanted hymns and songs no longer sacred What we do hear, here in the chapels, the mosques, the synagogues Is lust of temptations
What drives me to create poe
My constant desire is to put pen to paper.   ― But it’s not enough.   To be heard you have to get out there and do it yourself.   Make others listen.  
Dear God,She queried with a plea,How can people do these horrible things,And commit them to thee?A murder here,Hate crime there,Everyone living in fear,
Who are you? Who are you to call me names? Who are you to be so rude? Why am I the blame?
Maybe I write because I like the feel of it. The click of the keys All the power of a God on a blank page The uninhibited command held in my fingers and my mind Except I fumble over the language I speak
Satan is the root of all evils Such a common misconception Stranger than fiction, is what's real Such ignorance is a pain Where does it say in the Bible? That this is the real him
Even as one story ends, And we look up to the stars Through the greetings we send, Another tale is to start Just think about school We will never cease to learn In the end, it's still cool
I cannot mention... ...whisper
Agonizing reprisals coming from the minds throat, The inner chasm penetrated with bullets, Signs of retaliation , scars not fading.
I turned my head in a feeble attempt to ignore the bleeding pen.
My writing brings me joy Although it is a busted toy It is not the pretties of the newest and I care little for who vies it Though badge of honor it is not I am proud of what its got
Look yonder don’t you see? That crumpled paper lying there, Discarded without care   In its wrinkled lines and smeared ink My darkest secrets hidden underneath a tear Folded up and messy over there.
I grew out my wings and flew to a new place, They said that's what they're for, so I sought out my space. A space for me to find my own- To color my feathers, To say that I've grown.  
I look at those with simpler minds
I write with a pen name. Like a child at play, I hide. No one can say my words are lame, If they don’t know I’m Jekyll, and they’re reading Hyde.   Never knowing that we are one.
Once Upon A Time the Pen was Mine to Write the words No-One wanted Heard     Then one day I Started Caring Became less Dareing the Pen was Lost Rampent Thoughts Fought  
Who do I write for you ask?   Well, life doesn’t stop when you’re tired Or when you’re sick Or mired In all of the work, the relationships, the demands It snowballs and grows
Her mind was the River of Acheron
Here's what keeps this soul goingHere's what makes
Who knew blood was blue? stained on the pages giving stories and poems, and lives. Entire worlds created under the prick of a finger and a heart pouring through the point of a pen.
Standing before you, An endangered soul. Mold with gold and once embodying the whole given. And now My Frail and lanky stature, stands before you  piercing every eye.
It's hard to write a poem,
The rhythm that moves you, The words that persuade, The feelings and emotions That make you afraid.   Let them all go, They have nowhere to hide, They might as well flow,
I feel a poem like you feel rain hanging in the air, stirring the skies soon to strike skin but not quite yet the way birds declare spring miles before you smell puddles how the beetles cower in tree-nooks
Shall I dedicate myself to a beautiful insanity Or shall I suppress my curiosity, creativity? You can only go so far within syntax Poetry, I discovered, forgot it long ago
I've been floating for years, Cocking my ear to the sounds of late night drives And the quick tongues of midnight calls. The white lights at my sides give off flashes Only lasting every other minute or so,
Open-ended
Past     closed up pizza jointsPast laundromats, through the dying noisethe nights tick on like clockworkwatch the calendar as my steps unwind
I wish I listened. My only escape is here. This paper has wings.
I remember the shouting. Hearing the screams behind closed doors.
This is between the two of us: a rift. A raft, and a river. A ribbon of word, ear to ear, half to half, space to sky. 
I have always been the one left out. I would speak, but i was never heard. I would stand up, but get slammed down. With all the unheard words and the put downs.
Forced to come to school each day,
One book Two book Red book Blue book Spiral Comp Journal Flop. Blank and bare Awaiting me- I fill the page And I am free. Scribbles, Doodles,
Can anyone hear me? No you can'tI'm confined in a bubbleGet ready for the rant   I want to writeI want to createI want to make people laughI know that's my fate  
The Sun rises. Glory, Happiness, New Life.   The Sun moves. Progress, Change,  Lessons learned.   The Sun sets. Hardship, Upheaval, Violence.  
The Pen moves, The Paper takes the ink. Silence, But the scratching makes me think. The air is thick with the smell of nervous thoughts, Rushed paragraphs, Crossed out and redone.  
Why
For me For you But for no one By faith By life By all My eyes see what my mind won't My mind sees what my eyes can't For the love of the words And fear of the unknown
It's a lonesome life,but with a flame that entices the soul To attract others and fight the good fight, in our hearts, you know you're right. But what happens when someone takes the keys,
12 pt font, Times New Roman
I thought it took a lot to be a writer. Extensive literary courses to use exactly the right word
Glass shatters on the floorHer heart finally gave
Love can be a chore-My heart is made of steal
at a young age, 
I told myself when I writeeverything
Putting pen to paper Is more difficult than it sounds During the night It's easy I'll write of adventure Of fights Of romance Of tales incredible to behold
Nameless; a naked leathe
It’s hard to explain how life can change From one sentence to the next. I’ve never understood how the world can become so different in such a small interval. It’s like pancakes, the way things flip;
I would say that writing is bleeding from the soul a release of ideas from the back of the mind an escape for oneself where judgment cannot take its toll. And this is true in some ways but
this passion for you  melted into these meaningless words on a page no one will read and the hours and minutes i spend bleeding these feelings and dead smiles
A violent alcoholic once told me “knowledge is power.”
Whenever I'm lonely,  I don't count on my friends.  I don't count on my family. I don't count on any others.
Pen
I've got so many of you.  Many different colors. From red to green,  Black and blue. I've got lots of you.    You are so smooth.  And, you seem so nice.  You are like my best friend, 
When I write, I become part of the story Create something tragic, beautiful The characters an extension of me Not frozen in time, not simply existing They know what they want They go for it
Why
I write for the silenced, the needy I write for the weak and the weary   I write for the persecuted the judged the ignored.   I write for those who are bored bored of life,
So many words have come from my fingertips;
The sight of letters on a page, makes me cringe and want to escape. Even though we are often told,  that writing comes from the soul.  
They say home is where the heart is My heart has always been with me Until that day Until that moment
I write because I want to write
“English Major” Just a mouthful of syllables Only a small bite that their teeth grind to dust Which they pour down my throat with a disapproving smirk To them, it gushes with the bitter taste of a prison sentence
Dreaming snippets of stories under the stars' watchful gaze My Lady guiding us through the woods my Lord gaurding us from emotion's haze
Movies and films are much more than just fun. films that reveal victims that are more than done. i want to be a director that shares their dismay, I'll show how good wins but how evil still poisions the day.
The blank canvas presents endless possibilities Each letter and word written bring new stories to life Such simple tools create the gateway
Three months early Twins born too small Doctors wondered If they'd even live at all   Months went by From the hospital we were released The older sister first
People think these scholarships are the only reason to write Poems are in my heart not just for one night I think and think of what to do to succeed which is hard to do when the whole world is filled with greed
To reach the dream I can achieve The only support is I need to believe Time is my only foe Hoping one day write for a television show To begin my route, it will be an uphill battle 
Is there anything as beautiful as the written word? If there is I’ve yet to see it Words can create pictures in your head They can take you to places you’ve never been before
If you could only see all the dreams I’ve already given up on A love of learning, unfortunately can only take you so far That’s what I learned Without a place to call to call my own No house to call my home
As their day begins, mine is ending
I dream poetry There is nothing that excites me more More than transcribing thoughts I may never share More than reading out loud to find what sounds best
If you think you are lost Then you are not alone For fear of failure Is not very known   We all reside with it ticking away But rare are those 
“You can be anything you want to be—a doctor or a lawyer.”My father was a math man, a mad man; definitely not a family man.I was a dreamer, an idealist; a girl tormented with wanderlust and impatience.  
many dream i have dreamt dreaming makes us human imagination makes us live having a passion fills you with excitement and sets you free making videos would be my dream job writing has inspired me
Since I was a child I can remember always staring into space for a while, Always thinking of something creative to write in a way to express my deepest emotions,
To change the world That's what I'll do One letter at a time One word One stanza One very long novel One writing at a time   To change the world That's what I'll do
Abandoned, incomplete works of emotion  litter these several spiral-bound books.  Unfinished letters to people  I hate and love with all my heart.  The words lie on the paper, 
Close your eyes and imagine All the things that could happen Wake up to a cup full of coffee
This is how I live now: Wilted lettuce and second-hand shoes. Photos of luxury through flea market frames; Last year's fine china, ringed with watered-down booze.   Don't talk to me of "adulthood."
sometimes i lie on top of you
I used to think I could not write for a living Because my mind was blank as The pages of a journal just picked up from the store
Once Upon a Time… To be or not to be…   Famous lines through out time, throughout history. We all know them. Regardless if we have read the book. I want to be that line.
if you walk behind me just to talk if thats what you're like take a walk iv been dealing with people like you for quite some time i cant help that im quite but inside my ryhmes  im able to let loose
14 * 7 = the reason why math and I don’t mix Is doctor, engineer, lawyer in? I wish That the jobs I want would make bank And who knows? Maybe one day I will But in truth, that’s not the saving grace
Words The power to harm and to lift and console.  The wisdom in combining
My Words The space before me is blank Bound by nothing but the edge of the page. Skilled fingers move the pencil across the page Leaving a trail of grey marks, By magic they connect together
i am the firstborn cub to my mother and father born to complete what they lost in their own life cycles as a reincarnation sent to redeem the regrets nagging behind their sleeping eyelids.
Writing Just to make a world Writing Even if it doesn't work Writing I want to make it my life Writing No matter what the price But what will happen if this is my job?
All of a sudden you’re hit You think of an idea with wit Stare at the screen Don’t make a scene But silently say “Yes, that’s it!”   You write and act and edit You upload and then wait a bit
oh father what has happenedto you? what on earth stole from you your guitar? and told you to stop singing to your baby girl?  oh father theres a darkness that settles in your eyes thsese days.
            It is the sound of hushed breathing. It is the rhythmic silhouette of strides, the perfectly choreographed dance. It is the way that the summer sunlight creates small crystals in the hanging spider webs.
She is beauty, she is grace.
Your lips open to unfold foolish words, vulgar and distasteful.
The transcript: 
Sometimes, sometimes when I find…   That my voice is so tiny, so especially paltry. I can’t help but think how reality seems so bleak.   It seems like nothing, Not even a spark of
See I have this thing I do; I write. Most people say I can’t do it forever but I don’t see why not, See it lifts me up so high above the clouds it changes your life,
Indead the fault is in the stars, that love can last even when death is at hand. It shows that love can reach its fars,
Books Are made of up sweet-smelling ink and paper That are so saturated with potential They are weapons My hands ache to weave a tapestry with silk threads of words
I’m the girl who is always lost in her thoughts The girl who created entire civilizations in her head
I want to be a time traveler.
What would I change? I would change the world. I would give everyone a pair of socks Because nobody needs to get cold feet. I would make everyone a blanket fort To keep warm their hearts.
Inkwells By: Anyssa Q. E    Take the words and let them slide, and paint a image deep within, with umber shade by firelight side, and starlight view at lunar brim,
My heart ached as I put my pen to the paper, dreading what would come next.
I live in my dreams Blind when my eyes are open Closed is when I see.
As a writer, it's incredibly frustrating to be colorblind.  "Sapphire. Ultramarine. Phthalo. Robin's egg. Teal, turquoise,  indigo, cobalt, cerulean."
There I was, yet there I wasn'tFor they neither saw me or knew where I hidThe shadow's hostage; the dustmite's captiveI feared "I'm forgotten" despite what I didAlas, they still call me
I spend hours writing to clear my brainNothing makes me feel the sameI'll even do it on the trainOn my way to work, or in the rainUnder an umbrella, or even SpainI like to do it when I'm stressed,
most of my poetry really hurts to write because i give it my all i stick my whole heart in there every little beat and let the rhythm catch on the paper writing it down and scritching it out to leave my heart in gasping softly as it tries to keep
 Just because I'm a writer,  Doesn't mean I'm a  nerd.  Doesn't mean i got issues.  Doesn't mean I'm reserved.Just because I'm a writer,  Doesn't mean I'm afraid.
  When I was five years old, My aunt would read to me every night before going to sleep. I dreamed of dragons and princesses. I turned seven and my aunt had left the country in search for a better future,
  When I was five years old, My aunt would read to me every night before going to sleep. I dreamed of dragons and princesses. I turned seven and my aunt had left the country in search for a better future,
"Where do you want to go?" they ask, but the words are monotonous and worn-out, they are ragged against pearly-white teeth. I tell them anyway, because it's what I want, where I need to be.
All day Flowing, flying Through the shadows Of my Very Being. Thinking. Wanting To escape And find a Temporary home To stay in. Flying, flowing.
Facing the dedication plaque of The East Coast Memorial in Battery Park,sat a navy spiral bound with a worn post-it note upon the cover.Head slightly tilted, I scoff at the carelessness of some kids.
We should all be able to recite Dickens's famous line,“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.It was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness";and many of us can finish this J. Austen quote,
To write. To build people word by word, On a piece of paper, Scribbled sentences that form from the mind, To erase pain. To call upon instances in which you have lived life. To give others a chance.
You would think its 
As I gaze the empty space I see, buildings in form of words,
A ludicrous sticker placed on individuals who so call themselves,
Rooms filled to the brim A child per five sits grim Sitting patiently, waiting for the day The lights will finally dim   The books you read provide no gray No inspiration, only gym
My dream job is to write, to create anything my heart and mind desires. I will create worlds, both beautiful and ugly, new and old, peaceful and dangerous.
According to statistics I never had the chance to make it out of my city. There was no way to break the cycle of poverty. Everyday the days got darker and I started growing up.
If I had any job in the worldJust this one job I'd work as a social workerSeeing young kids trying to make just one friendSeeing the old trying to get aroundSeing one person get their life togehter. 
Life is like a rollercoaster It has its ups and downs The highs and the lows Yet I’m sure a certain career Will have me smiling from ear to ear I’m still unsure I’m still inexperienced
The blank page in front of me Is taunting me And teasing me It’s telling me to give up And get off this Dumb computer And it’s screaming at me, saying, “Do you really call this writing?
Skinny legs, a perfect hair is what they to see A pretty face and perfect body, The opposite of me. The pressure to be perfect is slowly closing in.  When, when will all of this come to an end?
She, she knows all of what love is not. It comes to her like a foreign language nobody has ever cared to teach her.
My imagination is sparked with the words of a band. I'm lacking in musical talent, but I wish to wield words! Writing fiction, now there's an idea! Am I good enough? Can I break this overwhelming monotony called life?
  You're told you can achieve whatever you yearn
Words are taken for granted.  Written in books that just sit on shelves. Children no longer want to read but play video games.    What about the children who suffer. depression anxiety
A day of this and nothing more, that is all that I've to live for. With my lover gone and dog long dead,
Let me write for you. Absorb my words and remember my name. Search for me through the pages of the black and white print. Adopt what you like of mine, Compliment my style.
Papery skeletons of age-old trees moldering in bindings wrinkled well,
Papery skeletons of age-old trees moldering in bindings wrinkled well,
One job that will change my life is becoming a writer. I'm in love with writing! I began when I was just 10 years old. I started out by writing short stories and comic books.
Time is short I took the pills And now it's time for you to know what I do when I'm down, or my tank is running low         I write. I write every snowy day And every summer night.
I'm a single celled human bodied organism. I'm a dead man living,
i adore the feeling of a pencil within my fist,
                               My Dream My Dream Is To Write .   But not just write.   I want to   W R I T E
I won’t say the English language is beautifulyet it’s enormity turns me numbit’s a curse it seems (blessing too)
" You have sad eyes. Beautiful, but sad.  Like you've seen too much."           "They are the only windows, no?"   Neji Freed Television raised me Lifted me high enough to see
The piece of paper lays crinkled in my stained hands. There is a blister between my thumb and forefinger.
i remember writingabout these girls,girls who heldtheir goodbyes closerto their lungs thanthe breaths that they used tospeak hello,the girls who had afive-finger discount on
One, two, and three
my stomach rumbles again, loudly, the girls to the front of me, to the side of me, all around me, giggle and i hear the crunch, crunch
You’re put into groups of those who are supposed To shut up and keep their heads down. You’re asked to “speak up” when spoken to And when you do without asking They tell you to “quiet down”
To thee, I pose a question, Where shall the time go when it has passed by? Does it creep through the window up into the endless realms of space,
"Breathe in as I light it, I know it seems counter-intuitive."
I will write. I will write even if my hands bleed, Even if there's no one to read. I will write even if my fingers break, Even if there's nothing to create.
We wear our scars with honor They do not understand the meaning And they never will. They are scars of pain, regret, and forgiveness. Scars of misunderstanding and loss Scars that ripped holes into the world
Beautiful, truthful words can’t be spoken without being thrown out by others. This is why I throw all my little, meaningful words into a pretty little box… They are for no one else to see but me.
Air
Love is invisible
An empty casket appears before me I cast my eyes upon the hapless victim This man is my own self There are no mourners attending this funeraul Because the man is technically not even dead
  If I could write away sorrow Let ink leach from the pen I hold Onto paper and create a landscape Where there was a barren wasteland And that landscape was an oasis And no one could fight in there
The words of my hand curl Like burning sheets of paper
Along with the Thespians and the Thieving Traveled the Thinker, boisterously singing Songs with the lot of them, stopping only To laugh at herself and at their lonely,
I am a woman.  
I am fat. I have rolls. I have stretch marks. I have scars and pimples. I have freckles, moles, and birthmarks. I have hair in places I don't want it.  
  Sitting here with a pencil in hand
I have these words swirlingaround, all my thoughts twirling. I rarely have a chanceto let these pieces sit, to dance. Because the very moment Ilet my thoughts be, for a fraction of a 
         As i sit in the library looking out the window  into the beautiful summer day.
I hear the slightest sound in the middle of the night. Both my heart and my breath have ceased for the moment.I am completely motionless.There goes another noise.This time, it is more distinct.
Ms. C, my favorite thing about writingIs taking time to really decode it,But in your class I’m frequently fightingWhen you imply that all our thoughts are shit.You lecture us, but last year Ms. K taught.
Free time???? 
"What in the world am I suppose to do" I cant see the future, All I see is bleakness and Im feeling blue
She sat down poised
fall in line.  Shh. Don't speak out child  mubled truths, breathing underwater  I'm drowning on soild ground  I'm...  slowly fading Figuring it will work out for the better 
They have almost finished their journey,
Passive verbs will do just fine Unless of course, you wish to be kind Original characters are just great Unless of course, they arrive too late Use my names, or two, or three Unless of course, they belong to me
They call me the actress Because I like to speak I’m wild and daring Not calming or meek But beneath this blonde hair dye Stage make-up of rose Are thoughts much more deep Than what people suppose I see my own faults Though you would never guess I
Firm arms wrapped around my waist Chocolatey skin I can almost taste Your words caress my senses But strangely provoke my defenses These words you speak, are they even yours?
  I am not my reflection I am not my reflection I am not my reflection And if I am not how I look to myself, I’m sure as hell not how I look to you.  
I’m woken when I wish to sleep.At first I saw nothing but stars andfearsome colors swirling inside my head. Time crawled past,breath rasping and wheezing.
  WORDS From nothing they appear Thoughts imagination creation, Haunt me Taunt me
The seas are calm. My soul is free The birds are singing let them sing. In sweet harmony and song my soul is free. The sun is shining. Let it shine upon me.
Why don't you understand?If you like me, & I like youThen why do our problems expand? We fight, we loveAnd end the night with a hugBut everyday that I'm with youWe fight so much that we're immune. I miss you moreYou miss me lessWe run in circl
Playing Paul VI. Camden Catholic's biggest rival. Down 52-50 with 20 seconds remaining. Cole steps onto the court playing in his first playoff game. He rubs his hands along the back of his shoes to remove the dust and quickly squeaks his shoes.
THESE WORDS Words scream out joyously like the children in the street on a hot summer day. Words coat me in a sticky sweat like the humidity of the swamps of Florida in August.
It's alarming The statistics we find about: test scores, teen pregnancy, underage alcohol consumption. Because ladies and gentlemen, two of these are shooting up more regularly than
I have a lot of plans for my future. I really want to make something of myself. I am currently trying to make it out of high school alive. I work hard every day at my school, because I want to get out of here.
i write poetrylike an addictshoots white miraclesbut mine are blackand the syringe is inserted into paperrather than my armand made into poisonous phrasesthat can infect, affect others
Hey Girl! Why are you walking alone on the beach? Hey Girl! Don't you see a storm is brewing? Girl turns to me, with her long hair and dress billowing in the wind, and she says,
So ladies and gentlemen!!Get ready for a no-chance SUMO WRESTLING fightIntroducing the contestants....on the blue side,is the all time professional BIG SUMO BROTHER.And on the red side,
I hate this, loathe it with a passion. Why must I write an essay on something that means nothing to me. When I write I offer you a part of me, please let me give you a part that matters.
I’m spinning, I can’t get off my high of dizziness. The clouds aren’t so far away. Can I reach for it? The words drawn out, said, flow with the wind in a soft indulging sound.
Haunted tales drift through the air, lingering like the fog that rises from the ground on crisp mornings.
A tattooed anchor entwined in the symbol for infinity sits on her hip bone, which juts out like a cliff over her great barrier reef.
There are Children who cannot speak- Or eat- or breathe- or sleep- or think- And how to long to stand and take That which they believe is theirs-   Cowed, alone, quiet, scared-
I'm sinking in an ocean created by my own tears. My eyes as red fire.  I'm drowning now. My breath slowly fading away. There's nobody here to save me. All I can hear are the voices in my head. They're screaming things at me.
 MY THOUGHTS ARE MINE THEY ARE SO MUCH MORE THAN JUST A COUPLE LINES I DOT UNDERSTAND WHY LIFE INT ALWAYS EASY THE THPUGHT OF IT BEING SO COMPLICATED GETS ME QUEEZY IF WE COULD ALL JUST BE HAPPY
If ever your heart is troubled,  If  ever you're filled with fear, Know that my love is with you, Know that I'll always be near. Maybe there'll be miles, Or seas between you and I.
Life is about expression, Showing the world who you are. Free from oppression, Not afraid to reach for the stars. Her expression is hollow, But full at the same time full.
love can be for anything it is something expressed between two people  love is caring, kind, and unconditional  while still be cruel and ugly yet people are still able to live through it no matter what occurs
I worry every day worry of school Worry of future worry of relationships But what do I worry most? Who I am.   I stand tall and proud I stand with purpose
I’m trying to find something to base my life upon,Something in this strange world that goes on and on. As the years go by and time fades away, What used to be "good days" are now filled with dismay.
i'm a leaf being blown across the highway. A rag doll being thrown to the side. i'm controlled by my surroundings.   i',m dependent of what others have in mind,
Lines before whiteSweat on a pencilFingers in hair Graphite sweat The first bold wordsThe first eraser marksInsipiration not there Graphite sweat
    “i suffer from intelligence” -unknown well hey, unknown or not, it’s a great quote by a great mind, whose sanity has flown
They don't realize how luckythey arethat their lipsand words agreewhile I'm stuck herewith this pentrying to mke sense of everything
Observe the young children. Laughing Playing Shouting Happy. Soon some will crave a drink or two a smoke or two a lovely high a dull needle a brusie from a lover
It's an insatiable need. Hoplessly inescapable and all consuming, with a pressure that builds until you take heed. A final release of emotion, expression, a work of love and complete devotion,
It all started one spring Seen a light And my mom on a bed For the first time With tears in her eyes Holding me tight   But two moths ago Something terrible had happened
A warming smile, an enchanting laugh. A crumbling sensation within the realms of my soul. He was the stars that lit up my body, yet the un-denying darkness that consumed my heart.
I don’t like poetry. I know, it sounds like blasphemy to an English teacher’s ears but I just don’t like it. I know, I sound like a six year old
  innocence in watching grass grow; the cliche is there but so is the truth
File for this. Apply for that. Where is the fun at? Deadlines buzzing whirring around Overwhelming the toughest of nerves. Quivering Wondering Focusing Shivering
She says sit like a lady but has rules against chairs. Here's six hours of reading, I'm sure you have time to spare.   Here's a screwdriver and wood now give me boat. There is a list of to-do's,
English 101 and Me   By Sarah DeWeese   A poem you ask, about me? For English 101 you see. Well --- I am quiet, I am shy, kind, but sure.
It starts off as a joke Then turns into madness. Wishing you could revoke. But its too late. All the teasing, pushing and laughing Has took its toll. Now all the things you say have lost control. You couldn’t help it, You mom and dad had split  An
  Blood runs fast You need to move fast before you’re nothing more than the past The future runs through your veins Dictations, like a school teacher, the crimson run determines the existence of future gains
All high school Ever gave me  Were chewed down finger nails, Lifeless eyes,  And anxiety.  And yet, We were once children, Who walked through those big doors, Down these big halls,
So black and white You'll never understand The smudges and strokes Of my untrained hand   The lines and confines of my several binds That bind and tie lies to those who must die
I want to be a parachute I want to know where the wind will take me.   I don't want anything holding me down. I want to know what it's like to be free to be beautiful to be uplifted by nothing
 Lets run far away Where no one can find usFind a little place to stay  Build a life on love and trust.
Feather Light Flakes Feather light flakes drift down from the sky, Dusting the flowers that only just died, Soaking through leaves that only just dried.   You wake up to silence
I bleed ink onto my papery skin, the black liquid scarring my surface. My heartbeat is the steady scribble of the pen that leaks my lifeblood. But my scars are not ugly, they are beautiful words and dreams.
A writer dines not on food, but on paper. A writer drinks not wine, but ink. Everyone can become a writer should they have a taste. Words will tumble from their lips and form
The worst thing to know is when the words won’t come. What is poetry? Once it was the music of your soul, and now there is naught but silence. You struggle with your collection of words,
Teacher, I am a writer, I am a singer, and that's all I care about.   I care not  about history, or science,  or French.   I care only for English, and chorus,  
Long fingernails Salive in my hair Hand on my waist Roaming my chest In my pants "You have a sexy body." He whispers. I slip into disgust, feel an urgency to stop. But I didn't.
My dad was full of spirit, My dad was full of dreams, My dad was full of love, My dad was full of smoke. My dad was full of alcohol. My dad was full of strength. My dad was full of so many things
And the memories are like frozen icicles dropping on my limbs Making me bleed despair And I can't seem to put myself back together The mask is shattered I want to leave peacefully I left my brain and heart,
And you start to see it in everyone: The town whore The girl who peed her pants in 3rd grade The hot 20 year old life guard, his little brother with greasy hair and a pizza face. A raped female cat
I think about that day The day everything changed The day we left our feelings at bay Detained by our fate   We were bind, You and I
A beautiful face A tormented past  An undeniable mystery to the audience of my life.    I show, You see
All else seems bright and sharp Clear in my sight Lost in my thought How could it be? No matter how close I get, The less I can see My focus is off No longer on point Good for nothing
I am a fusion reactor Nearly boundless and consumed with heat   Futuristic   And the materials I collect combine inside me And become more   More energetic More useful  
I am not a writer. I cannot spin you tales of woe and sorrow, of bliss and affection. My words do not dance across the page in the delicious frenzy of life, but instead sit rusted and beaten
Anxiously I turn the pages   the fuzzy edged pages of my old notebook impatient to see to taste my own words again to make sure each composition was as good as I had left it
What do I do in a world where your scent was the best high around? Intoxicating and uplifting.  Now I'm gone. No pupose. No sunrises. 
My man. My Jack Sparrow searching for his Treasure. My Wolverine. My X-man. My ex...man.
She is a girl. Broken. Scarred. She comes to you with a heartbeat as erratic as a suicide bomber. She is that beautiful tornado racing to engulf you.   She is a girl. Beaten. Weathered.
Forever thee flame could not be kindled Our love was unlike other loves, easy Wild tongues spread, unable to be swindled. And happily, it was a fantasy   Today, sadly, like every fantasy
Behind the grasses, I hear the running footsteps of my prey As I watch, I analyze its movements, gestures, and expression I stare with hunger, and drool with anticipation of its death
I’m sorry I apologize for all that I make you go through The torture The heartbreak The madness, the sadness I did it all for a cause In hopes that your antics and misadventure would bring
Expectations of Two My mother lived In a house of four Beaten to perfection And no flaws Rising from the slums Staying hungry to save money She moved to the U.S. To get a decent job
You experienced what it was like once, The bullying, The pep-rallys, The body heat from passing students in a tiny hall.   You experienced what it was like once,
Red and green bows Puffy, flared skirts Ballerinas, An instructor standing in the middle of the hall All attention focused on him With his long staff in hand And then I see them The girls,
Sometimes  I think it'd be easier if you had died Not because I want you dead, Not because I hate you, But because then maybe I'd have a reason. I'd have a reason to avoid everyone you ever spoke to
As a little child I played in an open field of dreams Not having a care in the worldBut as time went by a fence started to build a barrier around me
Live, laugh, love, have freedom Walk, run, enjoy the sun Be happy, be sad, be angry, go crazy Cry, smile, hug each other Sing together Dream together Feel each other’s pain together
Art
Creation unlike reality, expressing for lunar eyes.
today the secrets outyou are beautifulthat you would ever think otherwise is a crimeyou are beautifula flower no matter the colorno matter the shapeno matter the sizeit is beautiful
You know, I’ve been writing poetry for quite some time. I mean, it’s a fun medium and all, ok? I don’t have to pay for shit, and I can do it anywhere. At home, in the car, at the zoo. Whatever the hell I want.
So you mad Ms.Teacher I've made it to the twelvth grade. Exspected to fail. But look how much you get paid. So you mad Ms.Teacher? Your life isnt filled with my struggle.
Golden air of mountain,The Trees glow with the sunset light,They sing their own goodnights. Though not a last goodbye,From stream to mountain they sign on high,In air, their children fly. And the moon’s sweet whiteness,Will struggle with the sunse
I write to express myself, to take things off my mind. To pour my heart out in a story, to lay back and unwind. To get away from reality, take part in something more. Write about something unique, so no one will get bored.
My life: it’s like one of those practices where you keep running suicides The whistle blows, you start running You don’t know when it’s going to stop; but what you do know is you have no other option but to give it your all
Blood drippingLegs closedArms coveredFeelings exposed Hearts racingWounds unhealedMorbid thoughtsLips are sealed Alone AloneYou left againA knife in my backIgnorant men
The words surface in my mind; streaming, roaring, Clicking together like pieces of a puzzle, From word to poem.
I do not like that. The weird place. The odd shape. The abnormality.  I do not like much. Not what I see. Not how I see it. Not much at all. "But this is okay." They point out.
Scratching pencils border along the lines Driving me to prepare for the world We prepare for futures times That have yet to meet our eyes Can the screaming chalk against the board
Because sometimes spoken thoughts don’t reach the same height. The impact of carefully considered words is immense, Sometimes a heated argument can be intense. Sometimes a poem can cause depression,
Set down your pen, Look to the sky, At the birds around you And how they fly. Their wings of paper Their calls make words.   Words that float in the air And settle on the ground,
Silence. White. Blank.  Conception of the bodies from within Their ever so lovely veins coursed in ebony  And the fibers of sustainment A swelling frenzy  A welcomed rage
  i am indoor wandering under a mirrored ceiling in my own head— my thinking sky i am a lead balloon a petrified caterpillar who has not yet finished her cocoon. the frozen stars
I am… The rainbow is contained within dark brown wood and a million colors. Yet I am just one color.   Quiet, alone, yet surrounded by others.   I sit on that
  I lost the battle between love and denial. Love won and screwd me over. Denial would have made me sober.   It’s over...   Death came and cut your life line.
Scarcely tall but never short, Brown and green or white topped black. These giants look as if alert, To the changes and echoes of the world.   Go hiking, camping or on a ride, The hills and birds will always be there. The animals sleep and rise ev
There’s nothing more humbling than An elderly man Sitting alone in the park.   His days although limited, They are consistently filled with That wooden bench in the park.  
The once pure white snow soaked with the blood of my brothers. Hearts bleeding sorrow and hopelessness. Facing the fact that there won’t be a chance to say goodbye. Why am I here? Someone…anyone please remind me.
Will this gun violence ever stop? Will we have to wait till we've heard the trigger click of the last glock?
Only I know what the inside beholds the outside seems so bitter and old Each remarks cuts so deep no one knows how hurtful they can really be I deal with the pain as the days go by
There's a girl I knew Who wore a curtain over her face That blurred the person underneath And stole her precious personality   She lived on cloud 9 In a house made of broken hearts
The idea lies inside the self, For we believe the universe is inside of us. We want to explore all we experience, Because we without ends want to understand why everything outside us exists.  
I have always wantedTo write a book,But could I never find the inspiration.I finally found itIn her eyesAnd the way her tears flowed outLike rain(She was the only person I know
People are unpredictable. If you think they are who they say they are, then you're wrong from the start. You can only know somebody, if you truly know their heart. But how will you know that if they cover up their scars,
She
She, that girl, sits there, in that corner of the lunch room every day.   She, her eyes stay glued to her plate. Amongst that, that there chaos.  
It walks in the night when life takes its first breath. It flies over blue and pink cribs smiling down into their faces. when fumbling words finally make sense It is cloaked in black, invisible smoke.
Oh, Laury, How I wish I was as brave as you, that I could do the things that you do. How I wish I could march outside, with wear curly, wild, fiery red hair,
Oh, mama End me because when you sent me to ground, my lungs caved in I dug my own hole, shovel in hand, but when I looked back at you, mama, you threw me in, and the door slammed shut
Old friend, look at me now.   As of late I took over the minds of the privileged drawing them in, playing with their communication. And finally, someone bought you out,
father’s spirit vanished when i was but a child but long before my knees ached and ran Red with swollen gashes before i washed for hours and before clean was never clean enough but i grew tired and weak
  Sleeping within waves Her thoughts drift by-   The sea encompasses her A soothing blue blanket Calm, content, secure.   With each ebb and flow she sways
paper blank pencil sank hand alive to help me thrive paper full pencil pull hand tired to get what’s required
As children, they ask us "What will you be when you grow up?" We say astronaut, president, musician, actor, celebrity. They smile and tell us that we can do whatever we desire
 
  Sitting at a desk in front of a screen with a blinking line My fingers don’t touch any keys, But rather they trace the edges of a box,
.
Writing makes my days Poems, prose, nonsense, It takes it all away
Wake up today, Think of a day When u were not judged or made fun of There is always something wrong But you have to rise above
My eyes scan over Foreign pages A Sage’s work My heart beats My fingers tremble I want Mine also complete So stare at a blank screen And will my imagination to turn      
The world spins,  my pen twirls. The curved hill becomes a rugged mountain,  and my fingers arch over keys. I get slammed, I get broken, I'm stretched out and hung to dry. 
From the depths of dark nothingness came a person: the Writer- walking.   She carried a light a pointed, glinting weapon sharply yellow- illuminating.  
Let me flow in the river. The cool water washing my body. My eyes aimed at the sky in hope of rain. The rain is to wash away my blackness.
I am Harshly Honest, I am Vicious and Violent, I am Smart and Sneaky, I am a Punisher, I am Spicy and Sweet, I am Agression and Pain, I am simply me Lexii.
Like so many others I stand in my corner not alone but definitively lonely watching the world roll by Nobody stands in the shadows the sun casts behind me It's hard to trust my back to people I know
Write. From a babe to a child, to a girl, to a...                                                                "Woman". My hand wrote more than any other kind But then, cocky girl pointed out in disgust,
Given a mask, to hide and cover the truth but there is no need not in the presence of liquid ink.  Wherever lyrics flow from heart to hand from soul to soul
Never have I felt this way As if my thoughts have found their way. As soon as rhymes begin to flow, My heart, it feels as light as snow.   When words and thoughts accumulate
I always wanted to be an artist -  to capture life in two dimensions, to see beyond the commonplace -  who knows that makes us tick   I always wanted to have a medium - 
The words flow from my heart And into my revolving conscious Where at the jot of a pen they part, And with revision, I am cautious.   Poetry is me, And I am poetry.  
Words wriggle through my pen's tip toppling into the page in lines. Truth stands at the end waiting to appear. His stenographer, your's somehow, succeeds in  stopping two wrong words from splashing in
Sad life with no meaning Not a word fell from her lips All that was heard were the scribbles “Who was she again?” Murmurs crowed and wondered Not one had heard a thought Fall from her thin lips
Really? You’re asking me why I write? I write because I can I write because I have the ability I have been blessed with To be able to hold a pen and write what comes out of me
I hear his voice slithering through my unconscious night thoughts. I see her bleeding smile darkening my unstable day. I taste their lust stricken sweat leaking into my mouth and seeping beneath my tongue.
When I write, It's what I feel.  Life's a lie? No, not when I write,  All the things they just feel so real.  For once in my life, everything is just so right. The power's on, and I'm alive. 
Why I write there's so many reasons! I write to feel joy. To feel pain. To feel despair. To feel angry. To feel appreciated and free. To feel wanted. To hope and believe.
I need a voice, Not for other’s ears But for myself to hear.   No escape value, Pressure’s building, Systems failing, Explosion is imminent, Must react, must turn the power off, Wait.
A passion if there ever was one, They see it in my walk.   The rhythm of the words flowing through me like music, They hear it when I talk.  
I must confessthat it is difficult to find the proper wordsto express how, exactly, I feel.I must confess that I dread explaining myselffor fear that my eradic thoughtswould convince you of my unintelligence.
You can lie next to HER You don't care because it's free But she speaks with wisdom Are you still out to get me? You can't cope with being alone You call HER. You write to me. "Are you coming?"
When you have a passion that is so strong It ignites a roaring fire beneath your heart; When it's embedded so deeply within you, You can't remember life before;
I write because its in my blood. As a matter of fact it's in my soul. I write to relieve stress. I am powerless, until my fingers and palm unite with a page and create harmonious justice to my mind.
My writing is Heard by those Who want to know it   My writing is Touched by inspiration At its best   My writing is Seen by those Who have imagination  
Not until I was 7 years old Did one of my teachers Finally realize I couldn’t read, Or at least not more Than a few simple words, Or figure out basic Addition or subtraction  
Words across the screen Words on the pages Words whispered into my ears Words written in silence Words read out loud I would like to capture all of the words      and use them from time to time. 
#1
I write for Love I write for No one I write For everyone I write for winter and for Summer I write for all of You who can't open your eyes. I write when my heart weighs down my Shoulders
I’m only a little bird Trapped in a Cage Barred down by the rest of Society   They strap me in chains  Forbid me to fly away There's nothing left for this little bird 
My life is like a time bomb. Everything seems okay, but then slowly the seconds are ticking away… and I can’t do anything to stop it. So I write. I write because I love to. I write because I hate to.
When words flow.. Something happens that no other experience can compare too My heart quickens,  each and every beat trying to catch the cadence of the sounds leaving my mouth My eyes close in anticipation,
A girl once asked me “What are you good at?” And I replied with “Words.” To express myself without being misunderstood Judged Ridiculed That is why I write Poetry gives me the gateway to
A flowing of my finger tips across a blank page my words, my thoughts, inspiration hiding behind a story know one knows the meaning for I am the one who has created it seeking my own memories
I write poetry because I MUST…        Open my mind,        Explore the world,        Understand myself.
Because poetry is there when “I love you” cannot possibly be Enough to describe how I feel. Or when the page is a blank Canvas, a world waiting to be created. If they say
  It’s hard enough to get my thoughts together, Especially when I have to speak and have others try to understand me. While words fly around my mind at a thousand miles per hour
I write because not writing is harder than writing. If I was invited to speak about writing, I would say what I'm saying now, but it would not be the same. Here, on this page, I
A Poet Mikaila Mack 3.3.12 I write because   I want to be a Poet.   I want to be the spot of fertile soil That you seek out
Emotions overwhelm my soul as I experience life. Over time I store my emotions in a jar, And ever so slowly, I feel the glass starting to crack, Suddenly, the bottle shatters, forcefully pushing my emotions into the open.
It hurts, doesn't it? The world takes it's tole on you. Doesn't judge, doesn't care hurts everyone just as equally
why i writesuch a complex questionbut to save time, ill take the simplistic approachwriting is just a part of me,it comes deep from within my soulit give these people a look into my journeyinto my life
If the word of God is the breath of God, Then the word of man is the breath of man. When you inhale the world around you, must you always exhale it? If not for exhaling we would be starved of oxygen
Why do I write? Why do you breathe? Why do you blink? Why do you sleep? Why do you eat? Because we have to.   Why do I write? Why do you go to school? Why do you have a job?
Keeping myself sane, Nothing but a pen, some paper, and my pain. Grabbing my thoughts from thin air. running sweaty palms through my knotted hair. Laughing, yelling and crying. broken hearts and people dying.
Sometimes I can go weeks without remembering   Why I write Why I jumble some poetic words and propel them into flight Off my fingertips and onto the screen Where sometimes while reading them I growl or beam
Dear World Where you have to pay extra not to have chemicals in your food Where not being the most obese country is an accomplishment Where Nicki Minaj's butt has more hits than Mahatma Ghandi
Words are meant to be said, not written, but for true expressions you must hide Behind a mask, my precense is cloaked , sealed from society as the words speak for me.
I close my eyes as I fall asleep, I dream I can change the truth into reality, My understandings shallow,  But still gradually expanding, Searching for the profundity, and only found a shadow,
I write for the broken and the battered, The ones left in the dark with their voices shattered. For the ones too weak to rise to glory, Too scared to tell their story. For the ones drowning in pain,
Poems are my purpose, my resolve A analyzable way to express myself  Follow along as you feel involve To a meaning that could include yourself.   
When you see a word, scrawled on a line. Does it ground your thoughts, Like on anchor Deep in the sea? Does your mind roil, Like a storm that grew up, All alone, Abandoned by its parents?
Writing gives me the power to feel free Takes away the anxiety Enforces me, encourages me, strenghtens me When i'm too shy, too scared, too timid, not having the gut to say something out loud
I'm writing from the heart To tell you I'm not special. I don't deserve special treament. I don't deserve your pity. I don't need your pity.   I'm writing from the heart
I've been sitting here for three hours My brain, wracked My nails, bitten Why do I write? Why do I write? I write because I can and because I don't have to
You don’t know that I have a crush on you. You don’t know that our friend approves. You don’t know that we have five years age difference. You don’t know that my father is suspicious of you.
Seeing the lines right in front of me, like everyday life -- I notice the sparks and lights mirror what's inside. The beauty is not new to me, but some of us forget. The true face of everything -- the beauty that lives.
Some people write to understand Others do it for empowerment just to take a stand . But why do I? See I write to also understand To understand who I am Revealing parts of me I never knew existed.
Mr. Baldwin once told me a story. We followed a young man. He was dying. I wept. But Mr. Baldwin smiled at me –  The man was loving, living, and playing.   I grew anxious. To be a musician…
Okay..... Deep Breath  Count to TEN   1,2 They are screaming and yelling 3,4 They are pushing against the doors  5,6 Louder, Louder, the threats get worse 7,8
Blood drips down storm drains- Pooled thoughts, whirltide emotions Spatter across time.
"Why does she write?" the kids at my school always ask "Words are unimportant!" they say, "Words do not last!" I pretend I can't hear them, I quell their horrid words But deep down, I wish I could soar away like a bird.
I had decided long before I identified with being the amateur poet that I am That I would restrain myself from ever constructing a poem About poetry I mean, sure some of the greats like Bukowski did it
I write because I have too many scars on my wrists I write because I don't need to add to my collection of hospital bracelets I bleed ink into the paper I spill my thoughts to people I won't ever meet
  There is always a reason why There is a child and there he cries Comfort, warmth, he's okay now But was there a reason why? In every question, there is an answer But why state the obvious
What are the clothes we wear in our minds? Silk and fine fabrics? No, there’s no money for such fabulous finds. Do we wear clothes made out of love? Knitted and warm that will never unbind? Sadly, no.
When I was young My Daddy read me stories as I drifted to sleep And I watched in awe as the peaceful melody of words evolved into symphonic wonder; a castle, a wish, a hope shone in my Daddy’s eyes.  
There was a youthful lass Who had no time to pass But as she clutched the fountain pen Words excited her head to spin Now where's the youthful lass?
I write to feel free, life is bodange in it's essence Trivial chores, stangnat relations, outside opionions I want to be lost in my own thought, comtemplation leads me to a place where there are know laws to abide
Music was a part of me and with that they called me poetry,no one understood what it meant to me,simply cause they were never next to me.To see my ups to see my downs,to see the light to see the dark.Everyday seemed to be a new test but still,I sa
When the pain gets too bad when the world makes me way too mad when I refuse to cry When I just want to die My anger and frustration goes to words   I may not always be able to speak
Words on a pageCreating lines of rhythmLines of RhymeFlowing EloquentlyEndlesslyMillions of emotionsSpiraling outAt times, Writing is difficultA blockage between me, and the world
I put life into my words Some people understand But most people are unsure Unsure of the messages I speak Unsure of the power it brings See I write because it colors life It CONSUMES life
I sing a twisted song A song of lies and lives once lived - I sing it when I sleep And when I wake, it cradles me - I am a slave to the song.   I sing a twisted song
Poetry is my diary A place to escapeWhere the pen in my hand Writes freely Thoughts and feelings so obscureBecome clear through words on paperWritten in a melodyThat follows your hearts every beat
    To write, is to express one’s self through words rather than actions.To write, is to speak out loud without really speaking.To write, is to release… everything.  
Quiet girl, quiet girl Speak up? She’d rather die Tenses up in conversation No one wonders why   Never talks to anybody Isolation is her self-defense Hides behind bangs too long
Writing cannot be contained to one reason it doesn't change with the season Writing is a method of habituation in response to a stressful situation  In a stressful statewriting is a sweet escape I write through sickness and painboth physical and i
The saying goes: “The pen is mightier than the sword”.   She sat there with pen in hand, and blade in the other. The latter the perpetrator of the scars on her arms,
The boy was sitting on the grass, eyes looking past the trees. His words played with mass, falling. or flying with ease.   He followed the sunlight where it led down a path for the brave and afraid.
"The worst lies are the lies we tell ourselves. We live in denial of what we do, even what we think. We do this because we're afraid. We fear we will not find love, and when we find it we fear we'll lose it." -Tsukiko  
I write to empty my head Of thoughts that are buzzing around My bold and crazy ideas That never ceases to surround Like a swarm of flies They follow me persistently My head seems like a humming hive
I write because sometimes I truly believe that I am the only person who has ever thought a thought. So why not put down these words?   These words are hardly more
It’s static in my head,a mess of conjoined thoughts and diluted dreams,flowing in my veins, clawing through the cells of blood,buried in my bones and disintegrating my flesh,
It's hard to understand why writing is such a beautiful thing,'Til you've had words dance for you and listened to them sing,The day you pull the strings and nudge letters into place,That's when the seed will sprout with it's natural grace. It's ha
     Don't mind me here, i'll wait for your pass. I'll wait for your sand to empty the glass.      What's with that face? You look at me strange. I've just been waitin' for diligent mange.
Suppressed feelings Hidden thoughts Words unspoken Poured onto paper Art of letters
Her eyes are brown, dimmed with misuse -bloodshot, another sign of the abuse.A small light ignites as she hands me an old journal;pride of the past dubs her almost maternal.
This tale is true and mine. It tells ofanticipation opening the mailbox each timeI arrive back at the house by night; only oncea week, about, I find my name,handwritten by someone else,on an envelope, not typed,
  World! It is I, the by-standing life form you still haven’t noticed; a modestly self-absorbed mixture of carbon, air and water.   If I scream, will you notice me?
Why do I write? I write to express my differences, because my paper and pen doesn't judge me. I write to speak my mind, because the lines i write on are always there to listen.
I've always been a litte small, I've never been super tall, my voice is light and gets carried away by the wind. Sometimes I forget who I am, Sometimes I forget what I want.
Literature mends the gap between those with knowledge and those without  It is a fairytale for the scholar, and a reality to ones who doubt  A people lacking the written word leave only black and white
  I approach poetry as a teenager approaching the first date, as a 12th grader approaching the SATs, as a spelling bee-er approaching a word she's never known
The brush of a feather A tear in the rain One splinter in wood The pain’s all the same.   The forest in eye Water on summit ice
Why do I write? When things are not alright I'm full of fright Yet trying to be polite Thus, I keep it all inside Wallowing in my own pride But it all shows in my stride
I write because I am a writer You want to know more about me? Read every page My life is right here on right white paper Doesn't matter what color really You can only see the colors in my words
Throughout elementary school, poetry was just another thing to read. I didn't like it at first, it was a tedious deed. Back then, I was and even still am a shy child. A quiet one, who's imagination was and still is wild.
Alone in a room a broken girl lays. Eyes once so brown now have gone grey. In the flesh of her arm is a quote scarred in ink. It reads, "Don't follow others  if they contrast your beliefs."
I find it quite clear, That by reading, my dear, I find myself trekking in a world rather queer, Things far away seem oddly so near, I listen to sounds that are quite impossible to hear,
The maiden walking down the crowded road, Unknown, unlucky vessel for defeat, Not seeing Cupid’s humble, red abode, Is struck within, filling void hearts in heat.
to write beautiful free verse a pretentious dream to peel away clunky prose find rhythmic words clean   mechanical pencil, weapon of choice to write and write, uncover a voice
As children we scribbled on paper so white, Counting the colors, Enjoying the sight, Of the marvelous splendor, Of something we made, Showed it to mom, Then went out and played.  
 A poet knows There are one thousand ways to tell a lieAnd only one way to tell the truthA poet knows That sometimes a lie makes a better storyThan any truth ever wouldA poet knows that people speak Sometimes without thought or purposeBut simply b
I write just as a breathe, I need it more than food, it comes that natural.   It keeps me alive as oxygen would, inspiration strikes my heart like lightning, the thoughts cascade from my mind into ink.
  It’s like the moments when you stutter and what you want to say simply won’t come out. It has the power to make you shutter or jump for joy or scream and shout.  
Words swirl around in the mind, bringing meaning to an otherwise dreaded and foreboding existence. Words on paper or on screen keep the dark at bay for me. All that's needed is a pen
Contain the emotions, We use, For expression, Unravel the meaning,  In every letter, Word, Sentence, Breath as you decode the rhythmic pattern, See the fine printed words among the page,
You drive me to the edge again and again  But I hang on to the ledge With my pen The rocks at the bottom are razors I'm slipping Words are my savior   Feelings and memories triggered
I can smile and look at everythingTwisting a strand of hair with my finger,A childish expression i wear to pass the time. Until then I am wasting my time skipping and stepping on broken leaves,My toes growing numb from the water soaking into my sh
My Aunt GiGi introduced me to the pencil. "Here baby, write how you feelin'" she told me. So I did. word to sentences to paragraphs and back again. Before #2 and i met
Writing  What is it? It is a form of language we all know yet many do not use. What is its purpose? It lets us "speak" our thoughts not aloud, but on paper Why do we write?
When I think,I think in poems–The rambling words in my brainslowly converge into reasonable structuresas thoughts and connections become real.
He spoke with silence, the smokers lived there Back in black alleys with blacker, burnt air   But he was trapped his chords rotten red with his huffs and his puffs, he left his voice dead
I was a boy who was so confused. I felt like a hopeless toy. The joy starts to flow like the skies of my light. It's hard to reminisce the battle wounds.     It guided me through my shame.
  Sometimes, I believe I might be dreaming. But I can’t really think. I feel an image in my mind; but I can’t really see.   There’s white noise in living; but I can’t really hear.
Little and unknowing, as a girl I would pick up what I didn't yet understand The meaning so lost to new eyes I want it Time flies, the pen is now in my control, the paper my clay to mold
We are infiniteOur souls galaxiesOur minds universesOur bodies space itself Supernovas implode on the backs of closed eyelidsPulsing neon colors morph in and out
I write because,       the pen is the only thing that understand me.       And the paper; the only thing that listens.   I write because of hard times,       because of bad times.
  Why close an eye on a stormy day? Is it the fear that keeps you, or within are you shy of the matter? Ever flowing medicine that cleanses within. Words. All are taken, all are removed.
In need of escape. Solace found from black on white. Addict with a pen.
Darkness leaks into my head, As if Demons were pouring it in, Mumbling silent incantations.    The world, as we know it, is on the move again, And I am often alon in heightened frustration. Why does everything seem to leak into my brain? Where can
I let the ink flow  Freely across the page Intending to paint but Feeling an uncotrollable urge To draw words To make sense of  A worlds that seems so much Like a big inkblot test.   
I stand as a shadow among millions of face, my voice is silenced by the echoing river of voices a like. "break free from the drowning"; I scream from the inside, then one day from a blank page, the worlds ears became my canvas.
We write to be heard, it's the simplest of cases. We're shouting with our voices, but being ignored by everyone's faces.   We struggle to succeed, and become who we're "supposed to be,"
Writing is my escape; To a different world it takes me. Any character I can personalize, Any event I can create.   Writing is my savior; Changing my bad mood into the happiest.
At seventeen,I am reading the same stories I did at ten:Tamora Pierce, Phillip Pullman, Rick Riordan, Kristen Cashore-and the list goes on.Rented from school libraries and Sulzer regional
I write because I am human.  I am the quiet one. I cannot get the words out when I speak. But when I sit down and place the pen on paper, they come out as if the dam has broken. 
Words are uniform, Everone has some, Yours could be the same as mine, But without my emotion behind them! I say the first, But then I burst! Unstoppable like a hero!
O Creative Writing, you have treated me well!Now I hope that I do not forget how to spell.We have learned that poetry has meaning and grace,And that it can benefit the whole human race.
Like a stream flowing to an ocean, An eagle flying over the mountains, The sun peeking through the trees, A vision comes to me. The smell a warm aroma,
When words of mouth couldn't explain, I chose a different road. Frustration builds and mountains rise, seems like a heavy load. I went upstairs and stared ahead, Unsure of what to do.
An average poet Writes as a form of Self-expression. I am Forced To write. The words and thoughts, Emotions and feelings, Build up within me. All of it
I record dreams.Not because I believe they are full of meaning,But because they were something I experienced,And I don't like to forget,That which I have experienced.
Words are surrounding me; Rhetorical devices fill the air. I sit solemnly and think Organizing my thoughts into linear patterns
Pen to paper, ink to letter, Word to phrase, line after line, Rhythm and rhyme, beating in time, Meaning so fine, inspiriation mine, Never will quit, the heart of the poet, Starts when he knows it,
Words on pagesSpeak in the silenceFill the blank spacesMake thoughts clearer Throughout the agesWords and their powerStole and stirred heartsGave strength and hope
dusk reigns nowyour back turnedagainst the setting lightand the sun,the exhausted sunfilters through every strandof your fading hair
For the words that don’t come easy The emotions that cease thee. I am alone but am I? Because when this pen hits this paper I fly. No one can understand me better, Than the words that flood this paper.
hands create the apperance, words pour from my veins imaginative for my imagination,  i can't even explain. The plane that marks the x on the spot is my treasure. The pen and my words.
Because of your maze without light Don’t forget why i hate used books and broken pencils Another day for nickels and dimes Another day of why the corner is dry Red as my worst nightmares
This pen I hold tight in my hand, Will play out till the very end. This paper that is displayed quite so bright. Will hold a life. Just scribbles and lines that I have created,
If you were a mute, I’d still fall in love with all of the words You never were able to say. If you were blind, I’d describe every detail life could provide for me Better than if you could see at all.
Smile or pain Which will it be to speak with a voice or let action take the lead   Should I go south, through a maze I know around or should go north to maze that looks unbound  
My Catharsis   I write, To release my pain.   My catharsis, Carries secrets: Loves lost. Loves gained.   Strained by defeat, My soul softens.  
Smile Ashley! Sit there and look pretty. Only speak when you're spoken to. Show each of them respect, And God knows I did. My heads pounding the more I smile.
People feel. They laugh, They cry,The scream. Whose job is it to solidify these feelings?  Who is it that proves their existence at all? It is the Writer. It is the Poet.
Writing is like carving.Carving out pieces. Pieces ofThe heart of Jesus. Love in the face ofpain-filled hatred,hurt breeding hurt in the heart.
I'm just a girl who is trying to find the answers. Lost in the dark wanting to find the light, but I'm not alone here. Something is in the dark with me, something painful, sad, and depressing. He goes by the name of Misery.
In words, there is feeling Love, Lust, and Hate Despise, Passion, Adoration We feel all these things, in association         With Words. When words are released, feelings
I hate the way you look at me I hate it when you could see through me I wonder why you're the only one I see And everyone else around me is busy I hate the fact that you were the only one who could understand me
Her
So I'm finally reunited with my friend at long last, She is a close and dear friend from my past.  Back then, everytime we talked was a moment of bliss, I was always thinking, "Man, it couldn't get any better than this."  You see, back then I was
I lost my Journal and didn't know what to think. I looked for it everywhere but thought maybe someday it will randomly appear. I cleaned my room. I cleaned my car. I even cleaned spaces in the house where I thought it could be.
Simple, little words They are the only sure way To express myself.   My terrific words They hold infinite meaning Portraying my life.   My humble, small words
Trying to get by in this day and time Everyone wants to be accepted But no one can hear you at night when you cry Your emotions have now begun to be tested  
On her birthday a small girl gets A tiny blank book with flowered cover And starts to write lyrics to her regrets.    A medium girl rediscovers A composition book with slight blue lines
a world where time is adjustable, a place where the unthinkable is comprehendable, where the soul resides with piercing emotions, hanging heavy along the heart but poetry is much more
 
So tired and alone he cries but no one knows The world turned dark, his hands start shaking and he says goodbye Storm clouds fill his eyes and he lashes out All he wanted was a little love
I feel so much And reach to touch But no one is there to feel the love . My thoughts they race  And I must face That no one is around me. I wish to share But no one is there
I write because my pen doesn't stutter like my lips do. I write because it is easier for my to convey feelings. I write because I can touch a person's heart through written words. I write because
The darkness encloses slowly, Circling my mind and keeping Me from feeling anything. Why am I always so alone? Secretly weeping a river Of memories to slip,
The world around us is full of turmoil and dangers Little girls are being abducted and raped by strangers People don’t really know how to express these feelings deep down inside them
When I shut my eyes tight letters flow; ink spilled from a bottle. I am patient for I know words do not like to be coddled.   I let the letters connect, making words, words into sentences.
I was close So close To letting you go Then you came back Back into my life Told me how you love me How you've missed me So I return those truths Hope boiling over Now I sit here
I hate you. I want you out of my life. I lied. I love you. I wanted to make things work. I tried. Your actions as well as your words cut me deep.
  As a kid. I started writing to try to prove to my friend that I could write better than her because I felt like I didn't feel like I had any talent plus for same strange reason I felt I can do better.
 She missed the day he smiled All that it reviled was an innocent child The regrets of the child started to fade Her heart was cut witha blade The blood of a sweet, but soft serenade
I hate what you have done to me all the pain you have caused me do you regret me being here. Cause that would explain why you are never here. How can you treat someone  who loves you, this way,
At thirteen, I was expressive in my depressive thoughts. Pen and paper allow my words to take permance where in my mind they remainded tangled knots   At thirteen, I discoverved
  Poems are used to express one’s feelings and emotions. They can be seen as a recess or even as a potion   I write to bring out  all the words that were just lost
A girl sits in this world helplessly waiting for a reaching hand having no one to look up to no one to understand she follows the wrong things growing up way to fast her life is like danger
I write because I can express myself freely. I write because it's a doorway to another world. I write because it's my form of art. Writing is my anti-drug. Expressing myself with no ridicule,
Courage is the roar of a lion cub, Meek but never failing to persevere, Nestled deep within the hearts of man, And always posed for triumph.
What is it that gives a word power Is it the tone of your voice, the way you emphasize, and prophesize Or does it come from your soul, pouring out every second, every hour
I write because my silence is the loudest voice I have ever heard.   I write when it's 3am and my head is spinning with truths that were afraid to surface in the daytime When my words are so raw it almost scares me
Ask me why I write. And I’ll ask you why you breathe. Writing is my air.
    Alright. Don’t be a bitch.   This woman is a human being. Act accordingly.   Smile. not too much.
It’s the end of summer, 2005A little girl stands amidst a seaof strangers, flowing around her,unobstructed. A thousand voicesmutter around her tiny, ten year-oldform but her voice, no matter how small,
Actions speak louder than words, Unless the words are beautiful Like black ink on a white page. Writing is my action. I want others to read my words, And listen to my thoughts. But if they do not,
Treassures, our creations.
When you write, your expressing yourself. Whatever your feeling at the moment. Your words speak out in a tone of hurt, sad,happiness,grateful,thoughtful. 
Writing is about creation And chasing after temptation; It is jumping into the abyss To chance having your soul kissed; Writing is creating friends And harboring foes;
Everyone dreams of growing up With memories of when you drank from a sippy cup Places you've dreamed of going Expressing yourself because you're already glowing I want to be free   People may say
The written word, So beautiful, and so unkind. Brought to me by simple books at a tender age. Writing was inevitable. I learned to read to get away, I learned to write to explain away.
I write because I am a citizen who has her rights to speak her mind, To be able to say what spoken words cannot comprehend.  I write to give advice to the teens who don't have someone to confied into,
A little girl built a mighty fortress,Words. Of complexity and undeniable eloquence,What she hoped to be inside.
it all began a few years ago,  My eyes were opened, now i cant let it go. It's my mom she is the REAL bread winner in the fam its a shame what she has for as a man she works and works and nothing pays off 
Art is the millisecond one awakes from a coma,
They loved on a deathbed. Rather,their love was that of a deathbed love.
In the midst of it all I will stand tallWhen I grab my penAnd the words pour on paperWhere I finally seeI see not from my eyes But from my heartThe poetry completes meIt lets me beBe one wholeBecause I finally reached deep within my soul 
  I write because the ink bleeds   Even when I don’t   They tell me to speak my mind   But childhood taught me that I am to be seen   And not heard  
  Sheila was the biggest girl in fourth grade With skyscrapers as legs and eagle wings as arms, She looked down at the rest of us, and liked it that way too. No one ever told her what to do. Not even Ms. Johnson.
  The translucent words I write dance across the page. As my heart pours out jumbled words my head seems to get it straight. Logically clustering emotions into lines that reflect my wounds
I think it's pretty simple. I write because I love it. I don't need a metaphor explaining how my heart pumps as I bleed passion in the form of ink onto the paper in front of me.
Sometimes I wonder why the government wants to take away our rights I wonder why I have to fight every single day of my life  Sometimes i wonder what is this hunger we have for more knowledge 
  As your hands dance across it Noise comes out Timing is all it takes For a wonderful sound   Your hands guide you To where you need to move next
Poetry expresses hidden feelings. They make words sound appealing. They tell stories, Out of the words in your inventories. Sometimes it's hard to describe how you're feeling,
I'll describe the light: It is good, For under my Sun, I've built the earth In my mind's vision, And its inhabitants act To my discretion. Come, I'll be the guide; See it in my eyes;
I may as well scratch a line maybe two, Of these words filled with the power to soothe The most ubiquitous storm in any place Or to provoke a quarrelsome tempest.   No deception of phrases meant to relieve.
 “A Lifetime of Pain”   I remember it was raining.  
Graced by pen in hand and mobility of body, Soul seekers stretch limits into endless skies. Solid lines mark a writers' striking presense, But never his mind's bounds to any extent.  
The release of words Oh such a powerful thing To express such joy or to ease the sting Of the lives we have lived Or the of the lives that have gone on to pass
The first day I saw you I thought it was meant to be  But it had to be you Who would turn me into what I didn't want to be I had dreamt about you Man it took me a while to realize
I feel my soul running free with the windChill down my spineGoosebumps on my skinI am free, feeling alive as if everything I lived for was never a lieSo I cry feeling no doubt about to flyFly sky high
Shh... who goes there? A little girl with the press and curl What's her name? She doesn't talk much, go ask such and such   I think I'm normal, but they think I'm different
Writing to me, is far more than you can see, Writing is more than words and letters, Writing is feeling and emotion put together.   You use more than a paper and pen,
Seafarers speak of a mother, yet do they mean the woman who bore them or the blessed virgin whose child granted them salvation? No, not they.  The one of whom they speak, they sing, is angry, is cruel,
my passions and dreams are what leads me today, it's my dear mother that makes me stay. her nagging and doubts pains me to keep, but my heart burns a fire that comes in deep. my passion to dance and sing and act,
On this night we survive Just to wake up tomorrow We have rules to which we abide Yet it seems that they bring sorrow We wake up lonely and cold Then we venture out our door We decide to be truly bold
WARNING, I am about to share with you  the views of an escapist, Escaping a brutal reality. Freeze. This is no tale of a civilian in a zone known for gang war. Ya see, this
Before words, Poetry was what I saw,                 Outside my window.   Swallows swooping from,                 Spittle-caked nests. Bobcats bounding among,
The ultimate escape to a new life if only for a short while an escape to dreams and hopes of love, wealth, or happiness The magic key in your hand that opens a portal with ink
Poems are different worlds of rhyme, Of freestyle, meter and syncopated time. They provide a method of escape - of retreat, For poems allow simple words to make an entire universe complete.  
  A dream seems like such a harmless thing  but one day its bound to grow  with a fresh pair of wings  it flies and it flies high  far from reach and far from thought
I write to prove wrong those who doubt my intellectual abilities without having to use my physical     voice. In the end there are some words that should be left unsaid.
She forgot me. She forgot all about me. And yet, I am made entirely of her- (that is, my content is her. My pages are thin slices of trees, which
Dreams may seem impossible to others but threw the eyes of the dreamer they're no more but a series of challenges leading to our own hearts desires We were raised to believe that we can be anything
Music Clashing sounds Rhythmic beats All ensuing me Revolving around my aurora Till it finally enters my body, euphoria Causing my internal energies to move, enigma;
The first slam  took my breath away showed me how the flow of your words makes you heard takes the weight and makes it irrelevant loosens the constriction from
  Ashes to ashes. Stardust to stardust.   Not something you can take with you Exactly But not something you can easily Relinquish. Grow claws just to clutch at it for a
I write in this old composition notebook... pouring heart and mind into the pages Letting the pen do the talking that I can't bring myself to say Freeing the spirits trapped inside me, weighing me down
I write to convey feelings, of many different kinds.To expose the world and all it's wonder, to all of the curious minds.                                                                                                                              
(poems go here)Ser Inmigrante Mexicano no es cosa del otro mundo Significa trabajar tres veces más fuerte, dormir con preocupaciones, vivir con sueños,
Oh, the day, the day today  Let my worries wash away Let us write about another day Without the stress of yesterday
the sun beats down upon my face i ignore the bead of sweat, or was that a tear? staining my cheeks like running watercolor
"Talk to people" "Express yourself" So easy for them to say that And believe that I'll actually listen But what was I to do? I couldn't make casual conversation I had no words to say
I remember how I used to want to be like Left Eye, Queen Latifah, or MC Lyte Record labels are hard to get so, I thought it was worth a fight However Nipsey Hussle was my biggest inspiration
I never thought much of my poems The silly little things I would scribble in my notebook during class While my Calc teacher would give me numbers to ponder My mind would always stray to words
  No one understands us, Why we write stanzas Instead of notes; Why we write verses About love that's never been. Only to each other Do our secrets take shape. To a poet's eye,
The beauty held captive in words entangles my soul and regards the hurt found lost in the emptiness of my heart.  
  Drifting through the endless winds Life seems nothing but empty words I had hope to find something to keep me grounded to this reality But it seems all that I found were more reasons to leave 
  I remember elementary school When they told me the rules "A poem has to rhyme And it's all about the syllables."   I remember in seventh grade When my thoughts would fade.
I remember the laughing times I remember the heroic things I know the love you use to gave And I know the love you received
  How can one not create When devastation lies In the heart The mind When one’s thoughts are ravaged By oneself Inconsolable If it is to be an endless stream Is it not best to
I write to breathe better And to see more clearly. I write in the hope that Someone is gonna hear me.   My hand just yearns to move Across an untouched page, Like a bird wishes to
I’ve been listening to a lot ofSpoken word, lately.Been losing myself in the heartbeatsOf fellow writers, much stronger than me.Who hoist themselves up, in frontOf a crowd full of people and spill
  Private thoughts turn to expression Releasing opinion of a bystander Making a connection between this world and yourself Standing anonymously. You think of what you see and Rush to put it on paper
You Walk Around With A Gun In Your Hand So You Assume That Makes You Tha MAN? You Disrespecting Your Mother So I Know You Respect No Other But It's Respect That You Demand Because You're "THE MAN"
There will always be painThere will always be sorrowWe will always burn bridgesBut when can we be free?  
Writing, Isn't just simply putting something on a piece of paper, it's a power that everyone is given. The power to be able to express yourself, in your own way.
Every time I look around I see you and me Standing tall and proud This Country the land of the free and home of the brave Soldiers fight day and night, so we can be free Where else where you rather be
I wallow in my room What looks to be quite mere Like a rose my mind blooms And an audience appears People I would like to meet And all who I adore All applauding for me Behind my closed door
I am a poet this is true this is why i write this little poem for you. I write for the freedom for my mind can escape and create a new world in very few words. I write to realese so that when im in pain my heart can be at ease.
-I live a new life now, its with Christ now, no matter how my background went down, my intent now is to live alright now, the wrongs that i write down, insight to fight the wrong so they live right now, im talking right now, im talking bout the ki
I’m always confined By others who live merrily outside my cage I’m alone and in this constant bind Nothing, but me, myself, I and a page It’s as blank as my future with nothing to find
Poetry, indeedA simple form of flatt'ryRhyming all the time Blogging with such easeSharing really cool storiesHonestly with hope Random as can beHaikus are all the rage hereNever dull moments
I write because I was born in a place like hell Where, I dare tell Abuse is what my mother chose After the finishing the bottle the anger arose. There were usually some scars and bruises
Poetry is the plug  to my outlet. It completes my circuit. Energy whirrs within me,  Waiting to have release.   Between us, there is tension, this spark.
Sometimes, things are bad for me, age has nothing to do emotions are real, very real. strong enough to guide me to the bathroom where I sit contemplating the very nerve of my exsistance. I don't need to live.
I pick it up, my mind goes wild I move it around, my heart smiles. The way it moves on this sheet of white Makes the words in black a beautiful sight. My thoughts cannot be hidden here,
I write,  To hear the crashing of the stormy sea Against a rocky shore To capture the sound and the power Of nature's majestic, defeaning roar  I write, To feel the ecstasy Of moments with loved ones shared To joyful times I give these lines Of ha
Cigar smoke, possibly from Belgium, wafting through the air.   Children’s laughter; the chime-like sound of babbling brother and sister, perhaps.   A thin silhouette
I'm sad. But I shouldn't be- My life is  great. But I worry a lot- about health, money, school, and life. Do I have goals? Maybe. Or I may just exist
Facing Life's problems through my paper and pen. Overcoming the obstacles that I produce from within. Once being a lonely soul, making friends with my words. Life's a journey; I'm on a quest to find my pot of gold.
The hood will be the death of you. teens trying to be top man on the block but not trying to be to man of the class. See I'm really trying to do good and get an education, but all these gun shots and drugs are disrupting my concentration .
Dissipate my yellowed face, Flood the scathing valleys underneath, Take away this scab. Can you scrub promise into this skin? With my eyes sealed, I’ve decided to inhale spring water.
Where have our words gone? We lack the pen to write Stop standing for what’s right No language left to fight Afraid that we just might Lose our poet’s sight We’ve yet to feel contrite
Poetry is a form of expression. Creativity using only words.   Poetry is the way words are arranged, And the passion behind those words.   Poetry is art.
Who can understand the way you feel? Nobody can. as you write it all, everything seems more clear. the phrases, the words, the sounds, the tone. Can you hear me talk? you don't even know me.
How would you feel if you were a God? A being that controls every aspect of a universe. That is what writing is to me. You create something new, something that exists only in the dimension that is your mind.
I guess you could say, "I write, therefore I am." I eat to feel nourished I speak to be heard I listen to know the truth   But in writing I am changed I feel free I feel like me
Don't do it because I need to Don't do it because I suppose to I do it because I want to Writing is a passion; No type of skill; No type of fashion Its a style; A style to speak truth A reality check for some of our youth It drives us kind of craz
sometimes I lie alone on the grass under a grey sky in the dead heat of summer and I see before me the future stretching out as far and as gloomily as the sky and I wonder:
Put your pen down on the paper Let the thoughts flow like a river Let the words go on forever Make your feelings known to the world.   Let the rain come down upon you
Unknown to many words are words with power with ink with pixels.   A single atom makes our words an interest a connection a meaning.   I write for the art
mom read these stories       (but they were more than just stories) and I finally listened to the songs      (but they weren't just saying words) and my elementary teacher told us to write,
Be still young boy what have you there; abundant joy and notes so fair Endowed with talents forevermore--a Hitchhiker's Guide to the musical shore Alas he sat and looked at the stand, placed out his arms, and moved his hands Strumming and plucking
Around meI hear the beats and the soundsThe clock turns to 3 in the afternoonI grab my top hatTwirl it aroundput it onShow you what I'm all aboutlike a hurricaneI get through it all
To live forever is a hopeless dream, Humans are meant to come and go from here, Life is not something that you can redeem,
Don't write to impress, write to understand. Write by what you feel, not by what you want others to think when it's placed in their hand. Your heart, your soul, you being should be your words in writing,
Today,I am a poet.I can feel the wordsWelling up within me,LIke a smile I have not yet freed.
They say it's the gun that we should fear. But listen to this. This gun that I hold, listen to it, it cannot walk, talk, or feel. This gun cannot be held responsible for actions of a hurt heart.
Inside my soul it cries and wails, I keep it trapped, for the key is mine. Until the cage, from my own hands, at long last falls and fails. Nobody can comprehend that museful flower,
She lies awake at night The ceiling her best friend Her thoughts race in fright At no point do they end She's never sure about what she sees Always wondering if her head is playing tricks
We all do it for a reason, This little thing people call writing, Some for buisness, Others for social, Some just want to be recognized, Others just want money, But we all have our reasons,
I was introduced to poetry at a young age it seemed to soothe me when I was in a rage it helped me get through those tough days it helps me explain rather than sorrow in pain
Dreaming, He came. He had everything to give but his love. He left. Dreaming, He came. He had nothing to give but his love. He stayed.
A Teenagers scrimmage and a young adults threshold.
  I bypass clichés and utilize trite statements sing out verbs and describe adjectives  this is my method amidst the madness with a world of everything I refuse to feel like nothing
Writing means the world to me It’s what I feel in a new scene. A poem filled with all my mind Imagination’s not confined.   I paint a picture with my story Of dragons bright in all their glory
What am Iwithout poetry?~~~~A leafbeen loosedfrom it's branch?Flowing freelyand never ableto return home.~~~~A riverclogged upby a dam?Struggling hard
A letter is all it takes, to make or break your day. To make or break you.  A letter written with love, hope, anger, tears. To whom it may concern to my love, to you from me. 
Spoken words At times they are futile Feeble Unable to express our thoughts Our hurts Our confusion Our deepest secrets.   And so there they lie, trapped inside No way of escape
When I was in the first grade,   I learned how to spell   I got 2nd place in the class spelling bee   Everyone thought I did really well     When I was in the 2nd grade,  
I see the world through black and white, Like newspapers that now seem to age. Technology slowly dims the average book light, And most forget the first stage, from where it all came.
Poetry, defines me, Literary work in which special intensity, Is given to the expression of feelings and ideaology, Who knew the Poets Me, Poetry, defines me, A way to see clearly,
Why
Why do I write?Is it because the wordsstop at the tip of my tongue?Is it because when I try to speak,nothing but a croak emerges?
A voice that echoes infinitely  A few words to conquer the worlds emotional conundrum An image to paint without movement A story to tell with no words spoken Ad infinitum of possibilities 
I will not hold back, even if it's the last thin i do, i will stick to my plans and keep moving on, for I am sweet and caring in the outside world, but I am strong-willed at heart.
Taste of water Stroke of  sunshine blossoming occurs Petals painted with vibrant color growing gradually   Sun guides me through the day with a grin with a sweat
Poetry is the new way of life And culture is now the virtue It speaks for those who cannot speak Hypothetically But typically It targets the ones who perfom to a specific beat. Poetry is love
Time, Everyone craves it, everyone demands it, But there is so much time out there, An hour you say? That's more than enough time, Wait no give me five more minutes;
In a concertthere is a moment whenthe words on your lipsare exactly the sameas those of everyone in the room. When your heart is beating in cohesion to the deep bass the band plays-
I was lost But now I am found I was weak But now I am strong I never knew who "me" was Until I found "me" written all over my notebooks Written all over me.
Writing is fun Writing is free  Writing can be done by you or me.    I can do it You can do it Anyone can, just stop and sit.   Take a moment To express your thoughts
Words are windows From the past to the present, From the present to the future. They separate Those of yesterday from those of today, Those of today from those of tomorrow,
The reason I do things is just because. The reason the ink stains are on my cover are because... Some things just cant be explained. Yet my poems can. I write because it's what loves me.
Poetry is a gatewayThe cliché strikes againBut why is a break in a wall what poetry has becomeHumans are not wallsWe are living, breathing soulsWith the ability for loveFor heartbreakAnd for repair
Why is it that the one person you try so hard to care about Can't seem to get the message through their head? Are they blinded by emotion? Does you even matter to them? 
I shaped a universe today, just a little more than I had the day before. I added rain on another planet, far from the plot, and though the souls on earth will never see the rain, they will feel it.
I’m depressed which is probably normal for a teenager suppressed from any social life because I balance eight classes, seven school activities, eating, sleep, procrastination  and more sleep.
I write poetry.  Poetry is emotion. Poetry is honest. Poetry is simple. A place i can be myself.   I write poetry to be free. To express myself in ways talking can't.
I didn't even know I could write!  Isn't that funny? No one thinks they can write.  Well, no one thinks they can write well.  Actually, no one thinks they can write well *enough*
Why do i write? To let people know the pain that swirls in my heart Because my enemies  like to be mean, the reason for my pain, my start Why do i write? Because no one ever hears my voice in a crowded space
He told her they’ll be together in the future he told her he loves her he wants her and that this will never end
Ever had a night terror that festers your mind, captivates your thoughts and completely blows your mind?  I write to relinquish these dreams.  As a slave to suffering, pain and sorrow, I write to forget, until tomorrow. 
Poetry is a most wonderful way to express   the thoughts that build inside of me.  I need to get them off my chest!   The release of all my feelings will surely flow   in beautiful melodious words.
2 a.m in a summer night im standing out side my backyard its not cold its not hot ,the summer night skys cant be anymore clearer at this point the smell of this darkets hour can do nothing more but enlighten me
  As a young child I held in a lot of anger, Negativity, rage, unlocked power. Such an opinionated mind never exposed, Due to my shy need to keep my mouth closed.   “The words never come out right!”
Let me tell you about an unrequited love in me It is everything but quiet     it is demanding and begs for my time, day and night Sometimes we are sleepless, dancing in between sheets of
The eyes, the lips, the tip of the tongue. The eyes, the lips, the tip of the tongue. I am the muscle of truth, the reason, two realities colide, like thunder clouds to create worlds of sound.
To express a mind, a mind unspoken, in words and thoughts combined as poems. To realize, to understand as I write in emotions,  To show words have meaning to the soul it's devotion,
Why do I write poetry, you may ask? Is it to satisfy a homework task? To practice rhyming fancy words, As if I were an English nerd? But that is not it.  You couldn’t be more wrong.
I was introduced to poetry in the everyday mentions of the topic though it never intrigued me until quite recently.  One of my best friends has always written, though she never wrote poetry - just stories. 
No one ever told me about poetry. The way the words create, shifting and changing their meaning with every reading. Giving emotion, beauty, and symmetry with every line.
Gather the pen and paper.   Reminisce for a bit.   Jot down what’s on your mind-   Write down everything you’d like to admit.      
Poetry is the water that keeps us alive that nurtures and ecourages us To say what need to say And to see the beauty in world that we are blessed to live in But not all beauty is the same
The Words drip onto the page like Candle Wax. . . effortlessly flowing from an endlessly burning wick. The flame. . . of a soul too full to keep all inside and so it drips. drips. drips. . .
The Words drip. . . onto the page like Candle Wax effortlessly flowing from an endlessly burning wick. The flame of a soul too full to keep all inside and so it drips. drips. drips. . .
A quiet child with nothing to say As Mommy and Daddy were going in separate ways. Caught in between with her big sister. A child a little too young to have a stony heart.
Day was fading. Patterns of clay terracotta and stone merged with a mud-laced Arno. They say   Dante's grave should rest in this place engraved in the marble of a church among frozen faces  
When I was younger, I recieved a guitar for christmas. It sat in my room for a while collectig dust.  One day I felt inclined to pick it and strum those particles away. 
She was a pale skinned dark haired Shorty from the ghetto Latina princess who listened to death metal With black tee skinny jeans always on her headphones Walked all alone whenever she would head home
Walking through life, Dealing with people with up-turned noses, With their pants too low, With their attitudes hanging lower than their earrings, and their riches hanging from their finger tips.
Poetry is a river that calms the soul. Poetry is rhyme told and told. It moves me when I am down, to places upon higher grounds. "Poetry" the name, even has a soothing sound, like a river, it calms me down.
When stress bothers where I lay, a poem becomes the sweet lullaby that keeps it away. When I am feeling something that is hard to express, a poem helps me do my best. When ideas are hard to put on paper,
Poetry is no hobby.It is no leisure; no pastime.For these would implythat the choice was mineto thread with such absurd carethese words which are laidupon my metered heart.
Eat my words you beast of paper, clawing for truth and lies Soak up my tears and my smiles, my heartache and my giggles A half-formed poem a finespun respite for
I write, Because my hands are spider webs of words That need to be weaved on paper Like an artists’ paint Needs to be swirled around the canvas. I write because someone Out there Needs to know
The dream wasn’t to be accepted, but to be equal.I still dream not to see race, but to see people.We can’t imagine love with hearts full of hatredLove your enemies, even those who are racist.
To Flirt, Lust And To Bliss Can Start with One Exotic kiss A Jump Start To A Love Of Forever Charges Your Heart To Power Up Together Holding Hands And Never Letting Go
Why I write A question only few can answer I write to be free I write to express I write to unleash Not just words on a paper But a story to be told Why I write Simply because I'm me
..Put your thoughts into perception they becomes inception, confusion injected into the minds of young youth thinking they're enforced to do the very thing that ruins society yet it all begins with You..as a person, a parent, caretaker, or indivi
What would I do Without my pen Where would I turn? When life comes at me tumultuously And makes my stomach churn
Upon my junior year, then was my life first moved by words which taught there's more to hear within than I had ever known. So clear had they become that I could feel the strife
A poem for the lack of self assurance A poem for the girl who doesn’t always have it together A poem for the hard times, filled with words we all need to hear A form of expression for the girl with the quiet voice.
Why does the sun rise in the early morning while on the other side sets at the end of the day? Why does one man chose to take a road while the other goes the other way?
is not a deperesing one like every body thinks i think it is but a colorful one Life is amazing no bounderies; i live by none no body to stop you from living or dying
You ask me why I write. Well, I don’t have a complex answer. I never experienced any real trauma or disaster That inspires me to put it on paper. Or type it out in Microsoft Word, whichever I prefer
A pen to paper. That's all it takes for the words to flow. That pen, as it hits the paper, brings a sigh of relief.
I sit, And bit, The tip, Of my pen, I feel rushed, Its exciting, here it comes again, I think, And link, The sync, Of my words, I feel the rhythm, Its melodic, It has to be heard, I write, And cite, The fight, Of my mind, I feel empowered its clev
Alone, sheltered, shut in My days grew long and tired Until solace found in brand new worlds And freedom When I write the words take shape They sprout from me like wings I discover new ways to travel
(poems go here) Why do I write? My writing is who I am, who I was and who I am to be. All of my writing no matter what it reflects, Reveals a real, true and inner piece of me. People know my name, not my story,
I can describe a world with dictionary, which encompass an island of words that are very far away yet so real as they appear, On the paper I see in front.
A light of chance with words you write it shows Subtle hidden a closed gate yet now swing Waiting without a mere thought to impose Inked words never spoken somehow still sing
You can’t make people be the composition notebooks or fast food napkins for you to ink with your tribulations, triumphs, and tittering.
My voice is little but wants to be loud It screams from the stage but expects to be drowned. The sea is too massive for my voice to sail. My voice sighs when it’s yearning to wail.
Rhythm, beat, meter, rules. Why are poems dictated by schools? If it is my expression, why am I graded? It is, as if, my mind was raided.
We walked together once and she told me how they just watched from the windows as the nearby mountains burned. It started
The expression of feeling The expression of strife The reason for breathing The reason for life Freeing yourself from the everyday Freeing yourself, it's a small getaway
Why I write when, how, what, and to whom do I write To write what some may consider wrong or right I live to write day and night to lift my spirits and feel alright
My heart over whelmed with emotions, My mind flooded with thoughts. I didn't know how to voice them, So behind my lips words were constantly fought. Tried to voice these emotions in so many ways,
What whisper though the field lily and lilac hush twixt Spring and Summer am I to listen to? And will it hear me too?
Bursting at the seams with soul Limitless, feverish in its cage The carnal, vigorous life untold Impossible to assuage.
Where do my words begin? My world lives in a pen And when I write, it all comes out And on the paper, my world is sent But what is my writing all about? About my life, my love, my friends
Seconds, Minutes, Hours…Days, Pass by. Leaving memories and moments stranded, Starving for closure that’s never received. Beauty comes and goes, What’s left is everything and nothing.
My energy is real For it is all that I can feel And The desire to attract the perfect words Fills the gaps that may lack The ability to B r e a t h e …Deep within me…
Millions say writing is what saved them. Writing is all that they have. And I am one to stand up, and agree. Writing saved me from the dark hole my mind was creating when I had depression.
My energy is real For it is all that I can feel And The desire to attract the perfect words Fills the gaps that may lack The ability to B r e a t h e …Deep within me…
Why I Write: I write because words can’t be unwritten. I write because behind the words I write I see a picture, a world; the world from which they came.
pure freedom it's a sigh of relief it's serenity it is me a different sight a new perspective like a dream or reality it's all right the essence of the moment but through different eyes
A place to fall apart, Poetry allows for self-expression. A prayer for a mended heart, Poetry can save someone from depression. A person to rely on, Poetry is a best friend.
I write for recognition, Then throw anonymous behind it. I write for expression, Then edit the words that I really mean. I write to stop thinking, Then mumble about word choice. I write to feel better,
To write down a word gives me such a rush and when read aloud makes the audience hush I write for pleasure for the release of my pain what I write is treasure under my own name
Words are art Art is meaning Cold and gloomy outside doesn't matter when you have words at your finger tips The expression of a lifetime filled in just a few stanzas
Roses are red And violets are blue Dammit though, I ain’t got a clue why I sit here in class And I listen to Teach as my hand keeps itching And my mind keeps reach- Ing for words
I Write I write to feel. I write to know. I write because I have somewhere to go. I write because I have something to say. I write to make my demons go away. I write to know that I am alive.
I have always had a love for singing And no I do not sing because I can sing Because honestly I cannot.. Yet I sing anyways Because deep down inside of me There is a part of me that comes alive when I sing
I write to slay the monsters Or the monster of a blank page. I write to keep the fear away To kill the loneliness, time, boredom. I write to free my soul, to pour my heart out
Sometimes people ask why I write' Well, through ink i can give sight Sight to what lives inside my mind They can see intentions true and kind The pen becomes my voice Its as if i have no choice
That Life we Live We don't live the life of boredom We are free, we are birds We are always on the move seeing new things, & new things seeing us..
You may believe everything is perfect To me its just another smile to put on One struggle to the next is happening fast And it all started when I was eight.
Fingers shaking, Lips quivering, Pulse racing, Feet tapping, Thoughts pounding: begging to be set free. But I don’t know how. How do I let such thoughts, such ideas, that I have stuck in my head out?
Let's fall asleep, Have wonderful dreams, And never wake up. Let's take a walk, Have an adventure, And never come back. Let's cry a tear, Have one sad day, And never cry again.
I write because nothing listens to me like a blank, white page. I write because nothing says what I have always need to say Like each curvature and smooth line of a candid black pen.
Standing there alone with no one I can speak to. Standing there alone, with nowhere to receive any advices. They think I'm strong as God and smart as Frankenstein, but whoa they are wrong.
Life has become to stray Wanting to go away forever and a day On time for the first bus ride Just because you are trying to hide You left because your parents hate Honestly they didn’t want you to become bait
Life experiences shaped me but ain't mold me Till this day, I still remember what people told me Told me I'd never be anything I'd never rise But now as I look, I see there's a part of me missing
“Why do I write?” A question, many times, I’ve asked myself But I could never find the words to explain So the Question went back on the shelf
It's like the rain that falls, The summer that calls. The wind in my hair, Caring about this the most. To do so is an honor, a privilege, a right. I write to breath, to live, to fight.
When life seems to be passing by I new I couldn't let my memories fly The beautiful sparkling water, the green trees, the views The pains in this life, the trials, the hard times, the times of pure determination
Writing, my life Helps me concentrate, Helps me find my way. Writing stories, it’s what I do Fiction, non, horror, sci-fi It came easy. My escape. My own personal hell.
I once read all that glitters is not gold and by no means is this an exception
I write to express the things I will never say. My thoughts of grief and joy. I write those feelings that others are wont to deny. I write when I feel broken, broken to where I am not certain of who I am.
I don’t wanna write but I feel something burning within me More like a need to write but as my fingers prance around keyboard nothing comes to mind. I should let my fingers do what my mind cant figure to say but
The teacher says write, So I write. But I don't really want to. I want to play in the street In the night While the roar of the city Drowns out the cries of the lost and the weary.
Why I write, I'm sitting here trying to think why I write and less and less keeps coming to my mind as I type, But see one thing I know for sure is that poetry is somewhat of a cure
These hands of mine Carry the burden given by us all The labor of surviving in the wild concrete jungle Demonstrates itself in the form of sweat trickling Pores widening, opening itself up to the world
Uncommon career path. More passion than anything else. Doubts and questions disappear when the pen meets the paper. Endless thoughts never ending ideas. Limitless passion.
There is something akin to a lover's embrace When you touch pen to paper and mar the white page A brushed kiss; a closeness; a straight line from the heart A power the tongue cannot well endure
There will be a day when you ignore someone you loved dearly. There will be a day when you will never see who use to be your best friend. There will be a day when you smile along with your worst enemies.
There will be a day when you ignore someone you loved dearly. There will be a day when you will never see who use to be your best friend. There will be a day when you smile along with your worst enemies.
Once upon a time there lived a boy Raised in neutral conditions Had a favorite toy Didn’t have a lot of thing That he could enjoy Always been creative And would never destroy He grew up
What is this thing, that we call Love? An undying smile, Of enternal youth? An endless spring. Never to be knew, Never to be found. For when the world realizes, This simple truth.
Unrelenting tears of muscle That reshape itself and this is labeled as getting in shape To endure such tears you need hustle Hustle to finish what you have started
Pause Now go back to living Like my dad did on rice and grits Lost many and gained few to none new buddies I don't call them friends Trust and depend on them first To rip apart my back and front
PAIN IS A stab in the back Is Worse than being stabbed in the front Why? It is similar to being blindly robbed by friends Accepting it without leashing white fury
So, we can live deliberately can't we? Finding our missing piece Missing piece of love and hope Hidden within the deep well of a heart Desolated once our purpose is completed
Hear and animate the next line Breathing like each breath may be the last one Sensational beats within that body Til...Dead God blew breath into us Gave two legs Two ears, Two eyes, and Two arms
Zero worries about my fate for it is predestined It does not mean it is alright to sit and wait for presents Rather wasting time is wasting potential and life is thus compressed
Her
Plagued with infidelity She fornicates in rhythms and melody Driven by jealousy In search of intimacy so she lies next to him She says it isn’t love but she says it wasn’t lust
When I was young words would jump at me, and land on the pages I turned. With each "swish" of the page new words gave birth on the thin white sheets. Spectators marveled at my unraveled gift.
Poetry, or writing in general is my life. it is how i express every feeling in my body My sadness my happiness my fears my pain. all of it. every single emotion i go through
I Write to express freedom, freedom is what makes me american, Though i have no awards or grammys, nor am i a veteran. Writing is an escape to a place where i cannot be judged,
I Write to express freedom, freedom is what makes me american, Though i have no awards or grammys, nor am i a veteran. Writing is an escape to a place where i cannot be judged,
I Write to express freedom, freedom is what makes me american, Though i have no awards or grammys, nor am i a veteran. Writing is an escape to a place where i cannot be judged,
Plath said, “I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still." That's what happens when you're no longer in control, when the voices in your head see instances of love, famine, war, heartbreak, betrayal, death, and life, and
First glance of eyes opening, Learned life while running, Sorrow through the times hoping, Eyes closing soft and slowly
I was always fascinated by the universe of New York and all the stars that hailed from its solar system but Brooklyn was a bitter taste that was hard to swallow.
What once was three-fifths is now one whole. What was once whipped and chained lives in my soul. I write because I can.
(I MAY SMILE AND LAUGH IN THE INSIDE BUT IN REALITY IM BROKEN IN THE INSIDE LOOKING FOR A CHANCE OF DAYLIGHT IN LIFE AND TRYING TO HAVE A BETTER LIFE HOW I PROMISED TO FAMILY.
(every word that runs through my brain. but will never show for myself for my action for every word. but every moment i take is for you my love. ur the motivation and sigh and emotion i can take out in a piece of paper.
Fond I am of restful thought during the wee hours of dark nights. Closing lids of flesh to bring visions in to sights. To no avail remaining sightless of vivid delights in mind.
Writing is my getaway, Whenever I have a bad day. Pen to page all day long, To bleed it out and make me strong. Rising to the top. Just keep going; never stop. Excited, sad, Happy, mad;
Poetry defines what I am It allows me forms of expression Poetry is what I am It is my personal show of emotion
Written Memories Of The Soul This is just my point of view It might be a different definition for you But my eyes see what they see So I'll Tell You What Poetry Is To Me
I wrote a letter of uncertainty I scribed in sweet remembrance I scripted dialogue to make me laugh, when I hurt myself My words are drenched, in sorrows that I wrote about
(poems go here) My pen sculpts a future Potential to work and to enjoy with one job My pen sculpts a dream Hope of proving my father wrong that writing is dead
My Brain, I want to shoot it. My heart, I want to cut it. For my feelings I don't want to feel one bit. When these two things fight it out, it's hard to hear which one is screaming out loud.
GIVE ME A BREAK! I’m kinda new to this, But I see how great your love truly is. I also see a crazy mess, And it’s bringing me distress. Kindness obsolete; And sometimes kept descrete,
I write because life is hard It’s like a deck of cards There’s no control of the hand you get You just have to play and place your bet If