writers

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The heart, that craves the taste of being intoxicated but by love, The poison, is it the cure or the end? The taste of insanity it remembers so vividly, my flesh, my strings my bones, my veins
She asked when do you know a poem is finished    I replied I don’t   I write until I have nothing left to say   I write until the pain stops or starts to fade away  
Words always slipped in Clouding my head so easily But now It's you Weaving circles Telling tales Pestering my thoughts (Never leaving me alone) And words leave my tongue
There is a place- A cliff-  That artists tend to go  to explore; to create And often throw themselves off of People label it insanity But wouldn't you, too,  Allow yourself to trip and fall
To any aspiring "authors,"   I encourage you to be more. Push for more. Claw your way, tooth and nail, for more. Each and every one of you has the potential.
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
We all bleed red, No matter the tone of our skin We’ve all felt uncomfortable With who we were Allowing others to break us down One of our many sins
We create the worlds we want to live in because Reality isn't good enough for us, but what we never realize is:
Our heads may be in the clouds and our noses may be stuck in books. But that's the way we like it. 
Our heads may be in the clouds and our noses may be stuck in books. But that's the way we like it. 
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
Here’s to the blank page workers. The ones who stare at the canvas until their eyes no longer see white, but a blend of colors bleeding in from outside,
Looking into A writers mind You may phew On what you find Look in, Carefully Surprisingly Lurking Emerging A Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Sailor,
You were so keen on leavingso abruptly, tooI did not know how to recoverAnd so I wept, and wept, and weptwith the knowledge that I’ll never see you again.  
CLOSE YOUR EYES AND VISUALIZE A BETTER WAY OF LIFE... I CAME HERE TO CREATE A MORE PEACEFUL LIFE... I FELT AS IF IT WAS TIME FOR ME TO REALLY BE HEARD... MAYBE TODAY WAS MY DAY TO SEE THE BEAUTY MY WORDS.. I USUALLY WRITE AS I THINK...
DO YOU LOVE ME OR THE THINGS THAT I DO FOR YOU... I TRIED TO STAY FOCUSED SO THAT I WOULDNT LOSE SIGHT OF YOU.. I TRIED TO IMAGINE MY WORLD WITH ONLY MY WEARY HEART...
SOME SAY THAT WE ARE UNWILLING TO UNITE... THAT WE AREN'T STRONG ENOUGH TO WIN THE FIGHT... WELL I BELIEVE IF WE STAND AS ONE WE WILL BECOME ONE NATION... I PRAY THAT WE CAN BE PROUD OF WHAT ARE KIDS WILL BECOME..
I Will.   I will lift you from the ground when you fall, Be at your side with even just one call,
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
A car loses control and hits a baby. Reporters swirl around the dying innocence, Like vultures around potential demise. I grab my pen and write, I grab my laptop and type, I grab my phone and tweet
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
I don’t write for entertainment, to gossip, or to complain about my life past or present . I write because, I believe my words are one of the things I have left in this world.
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
It baffles me daily: how we insist That we sustain on food, water, and air. Birds have as much; yet from us they desist. Money's our answer, if there's plenty spared.
 We yearn to create something beautiful  When the ink craft fully spills down to paper  We wish to make every letter etch its impression When we write the conscience in our mind is clear
  Lost, Without you that’s what I am, You are my everything, I never feel alone when you are there, The world makes sense when you speak,
I can’t live without a story. It’s harsh to say it, but that’s the truth. When everyone who loves me is gone, if I live on,  I’ll mourn and cry and try to deny it. But in the end, I will survive—
I dare you to take a venture into the mind of a writer The depths of the mind of a writer go so deep you are unsure if you would be able to escape after entering But I promise you You would not regret taking the chance
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
And yet the flow of my disorderly conduct, bathes me in illuminous light. Dissonance fills the passion of my soul, Filling the void with certain strife. The sweetness of the vinegar taffy,
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; 
As she sits to write, so many thoughts cloud her subconscious.
I am a chameleon The colorful pariah Blending in so perfectly To painted walls behind us Oh, how can I know myself? When I'm never the same No anchor set no place my home Of business and whimsy
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,
 Yes em master no em master
Let it flow, let it be Out on pages from your mind Grammer won't get you fined Spelling doesn't count on creativity Single minds don't get their way english teachers set up laws
Writers BlockWriters BlockWriters BlockWriters BlockWriters Block  N E E D I N S P I R A T I O N  . . . . .   My brain is melting right now . 
  Her electric soul, her aching soul is scared and shines a cowardly light. They call her humble, humble and divine. Who wouldn’t love a girl with skin so fine?
  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,
I would paint myself a writer writing in my shoebox apartment, thousands of pages strewn about my room beautiful nonsense  covering every single one   I'd create stories  about sad girls 
"I dated a writer once. I think.... I'd like to date one again." She eased the statement from her lips confidently and seeking of my approval. I only laughed at her.
You seduced me. Drew me in played me for the fool and I bit took the bait tried to dart away only driving the hook in deeper
A pen that flows Is a pen that knows What it wants And where to go But when it stops It gets stuck Like myself In a rut There are things That I could write But none of my words
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