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A storm, A wave, A serenade? Premises to start an escapade An understanding Of the hard to wind music box Of the artist’s pox
I sit in front of this adjunct paper, this beginning begging for something other than me blankly staring at it.
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’m focused the Computer not comprehending whether or not i am truly thinking about what i am
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
words i cannot quite grasp float around my head like secondhand smoke. (never touching my lips, but killing me nonetheless.)
Write a poem about what poetry means to you. Sounds pretty simple. Write a poem. Um... Poetry to me Is an interesting way To write differently.
Slow me down Limit my speed Dwindle me down to my thoughts My feelings don’t matter At least not to me
My fingers wildly compose literary sheet music of emotions. Scaling keystrokes somehow translate my inner entity and immortalizes it with words.
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
A Wordsmith to her most beloved words... Withhold from me not one jumbled jot, Or else I’d just as soon go blind. Redeem me or unleash my mind,
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,
My brain pounds with such intensity that I can feel no other pain inside my body, the meticulous beat of my own heart has become my enemy. Each thump signifying a wave of cruel pulses throughout the synapsis of my own brain.
Behind this smile you see, tis fake, a mask concealing all, behind this awful bliss, it's emperor will fall. The Steel doors not enter to thee, the bottle that's sealed tight,
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?
Around this time, at ten o’ clock, I have some raging writer’s block. I can’t write on a Saturday I wish I could go out to play. The TV was turned up too loud.
Tired, to even when the pen scratches paper, an uneven blank etched scrawl, It mirrors the state of mind, a crease present now and for all the pages to come, Over lines and crossing through spaces,
I won’t say the English language is beautifulyet it’s enormity turns me numbit’s a curse it seems (blessing too)
Roaring of the keys Magical letters of time Forever written
Writer’s block, Oh writer’s block, What have I done to thee? Have I spurned your black advance? Belittled your cold ways?
Surroundings uninspiring—lost in a mind’s abyss,Euterpe distraught and limp.Notes tumbled from her flutetoo soft to echo, too lameto provoke a response.Only when sought her sisters’ help.
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,
ink flows freely from a pen that paper can do naught but reject reflect direct ink stutters, smears antagonized by frustration self-flagellation
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,
Creative juices flow... Like a gentle stream that comes to an island and must choose if the waters flow: left or right
my mind— is as b l a n k as this page—i am unmotivated, talking to the wallsuninspired— because the walls never talk back to me
I'm not a poet I'm not great at rhyme But when I long to express
I have so much to say, but I cannot find the words. Give me a topic; I can spit out heart-wrenching stanzas about love, loss, desperation.
Emotions swirl in my head like a never ending stom cloud overhead. I'm sad, happy, mad, humbled and so many others as life's accomplishments and defeats pass threw like rain.
I write because it free's me, from all the pain and agony that's concealed deep inside of me. I write because that's how people listen to me not physically but emotionally.
Words, Conceived inside my head, Scramble to find a way out. They scurry along my bloodstream, Towards my fingertips, Which hold the answer to freedom: A pen lays lifeless in my hand,
Why I write To let the pain all out The sleepless nights when I wasn't thought about Kick off the pedal stool when I had something to say Made fun of because what I wore that day
time stands still as I take a seat as I feel my hands shaking the passion running through me my heart is racing this simple thought in creation this never ending tune this pattern this urge
The words swim through my mind. They flutter like butterflies in the wind Then crumble like the ashes of a fire. A beautifully worded line Falls apart, rewritten and thinned Destroyed in an inky funeral pyre.
Words have flown south for the winter; no rhymes are left to roost in the eaves of my brain. My pen is in hand and my paper ready, but without words I am blank and empty, my mind a placid
Can't write, can't breathe Late nights, no steam The engine lost the train, Lost its bark, lost its name Lost in translation, Need a vacation Where did you go out there, lying low