Why I Write

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Another line written another test taken no one could see what i think until I found your black ink   When I was young I used pen because I thought my work was perfection
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  
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. 
Fourth grade is when I met him Mr. Smith, my ELAR teacher He didn't make words dim He made them a fine feature Incouraging me to write stories To use my words to send a message
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
Words like water,     wittling mountains into mines,     carving cathedrals into canyons. Epitaph like earth,     steadfast in resolve,     yet constantly changing. Fierce like fire,
   My heart pounds as hateful words storm my ears My hurt is flooding like my tears
“Not good enough?” “Not good enough.” How is it I can work,               My fingers bleeding,               My lips dry,               My shoulders aching,               My legs numb,
Everyday momma would take me to the window    she would sit me on her lap   reach across and open the curtains     Sweetie, What do you see?   I see children laughing momma   
one of the saddest things i've ever known is the weighted feeling that comes with understanding there is some no so much beauty in
Place cards at an empty table say that not just anyone can sit but if you find a blank one in the trash and in your pocket there's a pen then a wasted piece of paper becomes a justifable document
Because I cry on every birthday. Because the smell of my mother’s cigarettes still comforts me.  Because I don’t really like my therapist. Because I can’t sing. Because I once wept at the image of wet roses wrapped in brown paper.
Lips tumble from lips,  fingers pull at fingers,  and words sit heavily on the tongue.    Ears quiver with the sense of quill on paper,  emotions presed out in black ink-- 
Just because my cracked lips are on the brim of falling off when I talk does not mean I do not have something to say. And even though my fingers shake in the wake of you presence does not mean I cannot stand my ground.
My peers look at me. They expect to see something that I simply am not. They want to see a good girl. Who has it all going on. Grades. Body. A strive for excellence.
Momma wrote Years ago a sunlit chapel First grade was ending I was leaving No recollection of the words Only Momma choked on them Sad Tears   Momma never cries
I use my words because they define me Scrambled in my brain until paper sets them free I use my words because today, actions lead to manslaughter
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,
[SHE OPENS THE DOORS AS PER USUAL, LETTING IN ORANGE SUNLIGHT AND A SOFT BREEZE UNTAMED BY THE HEAT.  A SMALL DRYING LEAF FLIES INTO THE STEPS, LANDS IN THE FLOOR OF THE HOUSE’S ENTRANCE. SHE KICKS IT BACK OUT.]
What I am allowed to say, what society says is okay,I care not for it, but I write it anyways, because that’s one of the things they say is alright to write.   
Here's to me Some people slam doors, I slam poems. You judge the box, I open it.  Reality presses against the walls, I want the alternative.  To the times I've messed up.
Life between words Images between Printed sentences Haunting the depths Of your cavernous mind Come alive
You can stay warm You can stay happy You can stay in the sun and play Live a life worth living Living... What a funny thought When you think you're alive you're not The same second you're dead
Will it take for me to become a martyr words for you understand my craft? To die before my time; leaving behind a casket lined with the pages of my life The explanation of my sacrifice
I want to see my reflection when re-reading my words Not to live behind persona painting vividly pictures for stages Slamming relying on metaphors and verbs I want to write honesty
A lone white star falls up, And explodes in a nova of color. It leaves a nebula of grey In a deep blue universe. A golden rocket launches from a lake into space, Vanishes into blackness,
I don't write poetry to be considered cool I don't write poetry to have an advantage for my resume I don't even write poetry to improve my writing skills,   I write because it flows out of me
With nothing left to do or say, I turn around and walk away. I feel their eyes as they glare at me, they must not get my misery. They've never wanted to be my friend, so what would make them try and pretend?
I write in hopes of being understood Because explaining how I feel has not been my best subject. At night, I imagine scenarios that will never come true. Hoping, always hoping, I’d fall asleep soon.
Mama?
Voices matter. Without a voice, Hitler wouldn't have taught us the power of speech. Without a voice, Martin Luther King Jr. wouldn't have taught us dreams can be reached.
I write because I breathe. I write because I feel. I write because if I don't, I'll go mad with all the emotions rattling around inside my head. I write because words are beautiful. I write because they are deadly.
When the world is consumed by the
Why do I write? There was a time when I could say quite simply, Because I love it so. But since March 21st... It seems that isn't so. Now all I write about is the past
Before proceeding, you must first understand one basic primordial idea that my family and I have lived with for most of our lives: the idea of one true God.
I'm wondering if I'm going to heaven or hell. I should know just that so many lies people tell. Corrupts my intel. They say I'm destined for damnation. They put me on the spot like Dalmatians.
Why can't we all get along and sing a song why must bullying occur everywhere and on the web Why can't these men be a father while the woman play both parts in a child's life
Everyday when I wake up I think about the choices I will make ahead. By turning on my light will I make someone else uncomfortable. I work a job that could have belonged to someone else.
I reach for the canister of ash And take my thumb and smear it On my neck, like a holy gash.   I wear my thread every day. I don't question my faith and I never look the other way.  
Him
How well is my destiny written down That times are exact Situations are perfectly placed with the ideal obstacles That made the encounter with him magical  
The wind rustles the branches and the leaves that hold so strongly to them Causing whispers in the forest air Twirling my hair Further down, waves lap the granite rocks that gleam in the sun
Is it too much for me to ask of you? Do you even understand? Why do you keep doing this? Can you just listen to me? For once?   It's getting harder and harder, to even try.
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. 
Head, shoulders, knees, and toes, Ankle biting and cold air, nothing to stop me, but so many things to keep me away.   How does one make words into sentences again? The world has forgotten,
  To me Writing is a release of emotion Whether joy, sadness, hope, or pain. It is self-expression: A colorful mess of half-formed thoughts Laid out on the page For analysis.  
The late night half lit incandescent bulbs when sleep is synonymous  with the detestable scum scraped off the shoe laying on the floor mate under the bed The smell of dust and cotton
When I write a poem I do it for myself I do it for a girl or a boy that lives across the world I do it for my sister I do it for my brothers But mostly, like I said, I do it for myself
Attention... Writing is different, so stop being imcompetent; leaving behind useless memories. Listen to what comes out of your mouth! You all sound like bunch of hounds! Remember, write for reason.
landing lights stomp ancestors awaken themselves on my hand, belongs the nail of a great-great grandmother on my face is an ancient beauty mark, belongs to a great-great-great grandfather
I thought it took a lot to be a writer. Extensive literary courses to use exactly the right word
Money doesn't grow on trees. On the people I know The people I see. Do you have a degree? Does that matter?   Connections lead to success. Does that mean to be a kiss ass?  
Tonight Dear father, I put aside my greed. To pray for those who really are in need. For the children crying, beaten black and blue. I hope they get the chance, to live and fulfill their youth.
Sometimes its hard to let go
What is my college education for 
I write because of the open wounds I possess--the pain, the agony and all the stress.
Surprising how easy I fall,
Believed in what is not true, Faith is what it is, or is it? False is what I break, Truth is what I make, or do I? Destroy what I need, Create what I want, or do I?
Who knew crossing a line could make such a change?
What is there to be said When all the pictures have been painted, when wordsmiths more skilled have woven better phrases Who am I, who am I?Sometimes overcome by Christ's curious effect upon the soul;
I’ve realized something about myself, I’ve realized fear…… I swim because I’m afraid to drown, Climb the tallest mountains because I’m afraid of the height, Skydive because I’m afraid of the fall,
Writing, for me, is therapeutic Life happens and emotions overwhelm me I need to put them somewhere I need a way to deal with them
According to the world wide web science is defined as the study of the natural world based on facts learned through experiments and observations.
 
I feel as though nothing I do will ever be good enough. That I will always live in the shadow of what has already been done. I just can't be who they want me to be,
Wish we could go back to the good ole days Layin' back thinkin' how to make you smile in the best ways But you can't get pass the pain I put you through If only you could see I changed and believe its true
Young and rebellious, with a heart of gold, and a mind of curiosity, Experimenting at every corner, always trying new things, so adventurous, After that one time, that first time, Everything changed…forever.
Busy street So many faces So few people
Ideas Like thunderbolts Fall from the sky
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
I'm weak in the flesh.Though my spirit is so willing Jesus!Sanctify me, this total depravity.
Dreams will be dreams no matter what people seem to say.  We all live everyday by the dreams we continue to replay. Why instead of dream don't we make these actions come true?
I want to make a difference. I want to mark the world. I want a good change. In my life. In others life. I want to fight. I want to suceed. I want to go to college.
Determined Warrior                 Pelted by deadlines             Mauled by knowledge             Held accountable for so many
If I could change the world,I'd make creativity powerful.I'd make it so I would look outside with a smile,Not an unwillingness to face the coming day.
Standing with knowledge roots connected to the world graceful protectors       
Stay away from perfection
My life starts on a mountain; where there is grass, trees,cows,farmers and mothers every morning making coffee and cookies for sale.  Who cuddles you and tells you everything will be fine. 
In Jesus, there is joy.
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,
  From Genesis to Revelation He’s held me at high elevation.   From listening to the Word and going to church I’ve read my Bible and did my research.  
  God is my strength to him I belong. He will never leave me nor forsake me, Therefore I will never be alone.   He will always be there, just call on his name
Comment me like a facebook post  Label me like a hashtag  Post me up like an innstagram Pic You do not see the  Pain  Struggle  Or ME Its funny  Its sad  It hurts 
High school is full of motions and emotions. Television is missing the actual high school promotion. Waving at someone then shaking your head when they leave.
  I get up at six in the morning, to hear you go on and on, about shit that makes me start snoring. When the whole class fails a test you blame us, because teacher knows best.
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,
Hit the road hard and fast all i wanna do is drive fast  you know me well you think ill fail and come running back to you you want to see me fail , to be there to tell me you were right and i was wrong
The strokes of life burn within my paper Seeping through the lines Creating a sunder for the reaper Those creases in your brow
I'm not a writer, I just think a lot.  In a world so crossed and diverse ideas arise and many a times people get lost.  How can we find our way back?
walk through halls but utter silence inside  my mind a blur of noise  outside   'everyone will find a place' 'high school is a better place' but I miss the days of being free
Struggling to be unique, Then in return I get critiqued, Thinking outside the box. But limited as the clock ticktocks. Trying to discover a better way, But your emotion is truly grey.
I’m not good enough Comparing myself to others always Look at the negative side Thoughts run through my mind as I walked through the hallways I’m not good enough Everyone is smarter, more talented, and cool
I have an F but I'm not stupid. That online homework, I couldn't do it.  They all have laptops and phones with apps.  I have a job while my mom naps.  Impossible to learn at school. 
Questions Questions Running through my head All because of something that you said I don't I don't Understand how you could You could Leave me all alone You just You just
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.
       I'm lost in these rivers of peace, Hope swelling and gushing through every pore within me, Love dragging me down in the currents. When His grace oh the unfailing grace sends me drifting up to the shore, And who awaits me there?
  Shouldn’t it be a sign? When the stress of seven hours makes kids want to get high? When they would rather take the failure Than stand up in class, Because speaking a few words
Darling. where are you? She won't let go of her bear As she gasps for air    
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
I write because I am sick, because I am always filled with anger and sadness.Typing my heart and soul out through these keys onto this screen and now in your mind is how I can slowly save myself.
What is freedom? Is it the light I see in this dark place? Is it just a word, or do I give the meaning to it? Is it the feeling of floating freely in poisonous water? 
Blown away in timeAn illusion that's sublimeFulfilling my thoughts
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
My racing thoughts drag the pen across the page. My feelings pour out in front of my eyes.  Through these words, I am free.  Free from pain.  Free from reality.  As I escape,
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 grew up,With a couple of struggles.I hate to preface,But I don't want to let thisSound like I'm trying to say "poor me".I just want to share my story,Starting when I moved out at fourteen.
I grew up,With a couple of struggles.I hate to preface,But I don't want to let thisSound like I'm trying to say "poor me".I just want to share my story,Starting when I moved out at fourteen.
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
Why do I write poetry? Because it gives me hope. It serves as a flame to light my way. Because in a world of problems, Of lies and fear, Of war and famine, I can control fate.
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
I drift on a cloud, I float through the air, I feel so light, so free, so lacking in care. My lover waits for me, he holds out his hand, He leads me to the coast, the shores of white sand.
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
Being five and starting to lose my mother Not to unseen forces But to a known reason:          Because she no longer wanted to be there Being five and feeling unwanted Unworthy
Because I cannot speak Because I do not speak I have stopped, not knowing how to let them out: these hounds from their cages   Because to release these hounds from their cages would be deadly
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. 
(I write for) the angelwith molten noir feathers(his grace) that was taken(and) his hunter's (love) letters (I) write for the hunterwhose one greatest (sin)was wanting approvalof his brother, his kin
When I was small, my father said that poems need to rhyme.I trusted him - why should I not? My brain was as a sponge.But now that I am old enough, I'm sure to take the plunge -
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.
The world stands still I am unable to surpass it Then, I look into the reflection And I write the wonders I seek Fear I would forget I struggle I the sensation of a cold sweat I am unable to
  It begins like a whisper. Something so small clicks, it’s almost missed and yet, shivers wave over your skin like a mist. You sense something emerge An impulse, an urge
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 write to feel.   I write becouse I need it to be real.  The words on the page solidify my brain, allowing me to no longer feel the pain. I write for the good, I  feel the evil.
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.
I read their words and my heart breaks openWords of the soul that were never spokenCreations of the mind that were made to beVisions of their realityMy soul takes in their endless life
  Drowning in a sea of emotions the currents of anger pulls me back while melancholy drags me d   o      w         n. In the ocean of the mind  there is no escape or relief
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. 
My Best Friend I am a singer; I like to sing. I always thought my voice had a nice little zing. But when I speak to others with my zingy voice; Nobody responds, not even a little noise.  
#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 
Paper is like a piano. The pen is like the musician. The words are notes played on the keys. The poem is the finished peice.   My paper is my piano. I write with the song in my mind.
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.
Have you noticed that only those who do not write ask those who do "Why?" The question fills my head with answers. Not all of them are honest (thank you insecurities) because the reason seems weak.
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,
We ask, "how?" When we ail to know why happiness has eluded our every try. And in our pursuit the scars we've come to bear
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
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
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.
The words that I will say They all must sound cliché But they do not lose truth or ever become passé My words they do convey A message that's been delayed For spoken word still leaves a whole
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
I am a teleporter  I can temporarily leave this world Into a world I create  My own safe haven All I need is my trusty pen and paper Like an artist painting her canvas I imprint my words onto the paper
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
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.
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.   
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 spend much of my time alone Stopped writing as much And why? Well I don't really know But the familiar feeling Ink stains on my fingertips Silence breaking through my room
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.
The sound of sorrow by Ima Ríos   Abducting the yowls a meeting of souls confronting the ground with the magestic sound of fighting and freedom while waiting for the Halidom.
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
Time is flying by Day by day without a pause a week, a month, a year; all wthout a cause. Time is escaping my grasp My mind is clouded with days of the past How can I focus my thoughts and hear myself?
Blood drips down storm drains- Pooled thoughts, whirltide emotions Spatter across time.
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
Nowadays, poetry can be seen as this A sweet song, a love note about roses A rap about getting the desires of the world
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.  
Do not just write for yourself Write for those who cannot express their own beauty   For the albatross that’s wings spread wide For the sea turtle on a deep sea dive
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 think constantly Insesantly Thoughts pour though my mind Some malevolent some kind I can't stop the steam They are flowing all the time Thereis no cure  You can only treat the symptoms
Portraying my life through words alone.  These words I speak set the tone.  The way I am was set by this.  Poetry is top on my list.  That's why I am a member of this site
Sometimes, I just can't talk My throat becomes swollen  And my eyes teary.  I try. I open my mouth, but no noise comes out. I want so bad to tell you. Everything.
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
We become force to write for our own good But must we call it force if writing is what opens up the soul? My soul is a tragic disaster as if a battlefield With in, flowers start to bloom at each printed word.
You gave me love and that was enough yet you continued to give me smiles loads, miles, even piles My words, you enlightened to make me whole everlasting shine that filled a bottomless hole
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
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
In early morning, late at night,  In the car On the road Reading papers, lighting matches It hits like cold air to the back of 
I remember when poets still used ink and paper We’d spill our hearts on the pages But modernly, we write in any way, shape, or form As long as emotion is present
I see, I hear, I touch, I smell, I taste   My senses My senses are bringing in too much information Thoughts are forming Swirling around in my head Feelings are developing Pressure is building
Writing is like A mirror That shows you What your body Can never reveal. Your thoughts. Your feelings. Your desires. Such things Are not so clear In reflective glass.
What happens to me when,I write all the words on a page andit brands my brain then,I watch it flow.Stuck in my own head knowing, nowhere to go.All this stories, roaring and consuming
I write because I can - There's no rhyme or reason To my madness. I put my pen to the paper When I need To let go of my sadness.   I write because I can - This is for no one else
  "How I Found Poetry" The first time I picked up a poem; Shel Silverstein took me away. I could not put the book down; so with the story I stayed. As I continued to grow older;
I am a writer. When I was younger, my mother told me  "Use your words! Use your words!"  when I wanted something or was trying to get my point across.  And even though she claims now it was her 'biggest mistake'
"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  
So Many Places... Where do I wan't to go? Better yet, with who?  
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
Suppressed feelings Hidden thoughts Words unspoken Poured onto paper Art of letters
I write because I don't know what else to do when things seem so crazy and I can't get through to anybody because no one wants to listen to me except that piece of paper where the pen through which my heart bleeds out as ink onto the only outlet I
When I began to write it was to escape from a dark place. To be joined to a rap group that expressed a substantial amount of grace.
Ever since I was in grade school, All I ever wanted to do was entertain people, In any way I could I wanted to move them, Make them feel. Give them something genuine that they could relate to,
Silent yet too powerful to overcomeWe can only feel it when it’s too lateSomething we can’t cure, it can hurt anyoneThe victim’s pains will only escalate
Poetry is hope It means you don’t have to be alone Even when you are   It’s the light breaking through Darkness swirling, spreading, growing   Poetry is beauty
I am the Virtuous I am the Crucified,   Am I insane? Or is it this sweet Asking Alexandria album? Why am I in school still while my friends dropped out? Why am I typing this poor excuse for a poem today?
Fingers curl around a ball point pen,  paper is out and ready. A thought comes to mind,  and is transferred onto a single white sheet. Ink, like a fountain, pours out  making the task easy to complete. 
Rhythm and rhyme, A logical use of my time. A creation of wonder and thought, My own separate world with life being brought.
People write because they like to let out their emotions, while others write because they like too. Some like writing because of creativity, but I like to write because it keeps me alive.
I write because my mother does not have the time to,working long hours six days a weekat a factory job she does not want to keepjust to make ends meet.
When i write it gives me an escape From all of my trials and tribulations My writings take me to a special place   I started writing because my feelings always seemed to get in the way 
"Finding" It's for the release. It's for the rhyme. It's for the rhythm. And falling away from time.   I write for the freedom. I write to bind.
To leave a mark on a place I might never see..
                                 To leave mark on a place I might never see, To show the world what's inside of me. To be remembered is to be great. To be great there are risks to take.
I am from a soldier of a lady;  a mouse of a man musicians; entrepuners,  go getters, old soldiers people that set high standards Those who can make the best out of nothing.   I am from a busy mind
  Do you know? Those little nesting dolls? The ones that have numerous layers And a puny center Well, identify and personality  are like those nesting dolls
Why Do I Write? My heart beats for my love of poetic expression. My heartache, my suffering, my struggle That’s my motivation Not just so I can put the ones that tormented me to shame
Sometimes it is difficult to find, myself when behind closed eyes, all that resides, is darkness, seemingly vast. It is tricky knowing, which way to cast, my trust,
Writing is a passage to the soul, A life etched in ink or coal. My story is different and unheard Yet so many find it so absurd. I write to tell my story, I write to escape my quarry,
She yells with a voice That reaches far beyond miles She yells to rejoice Towards upside down smiles She screams to find peace To a world full of tears She screams to find joy To a crowd with no ears
I write to be free and let everyone hear my voice when a lot of the times I don't have a choice When to get up when to go to bed how to walk how to hold my head what to wear and what I can buy
My friend told me silence was the loudest cry, but if I write it down, does that count?  If I scribble it out in jumbled phrases–carve words into my paper and not my skin, this time, does that count? 
I write because when no one hears,my story must be known.They told me to speak lowI spoke of hope,but someone has to speak out.against hateagainst discrimination,but most of all
there is just a blank page when I look down with a pen in my hand with all the thoughts in my head the beginning is excited  which will turn into a reason that I have decided to write you
Tic. Tok. Tic. Tok. Tic. Tok. Time is running away, growing short, fading to black. It's the end of the film, time to applaud, time to give praise. When the grain of sand is used, it's gone away, no getting it back.
Tenth grade English class For the first time: Frost, Cummings A world of beauty, Love, and passion where I can Escape the routine of my life
I began to write When I was twelve; And at first, I couldn’t Do it very well. Yes, I could rhyme, But I used many clichés, But I started writing for a boy, So I wrote every day.
The sun shine, and the grass grow. The leaves fall, and the moon glow. The cars honk,and the wolf howl. I write because it makes me smile. The wind blow,and the ground shake.
language it shifts changes rearranges it moves and remains but a word is a word and blue is blue but is blue to me the blue to you? is this poem my poem or is for you?
I write to express who I am, who I want to be, and what I feel inside, I write to tell my story, I write to stay strong myslef, and t o help others along the way, for when I write I always express more than I could ever say, out loud or in a whisp
The word must get out Without a sound, It must be louder than a shout!   The word is not heard Nor is it seen, It must be felt within the heart!
Why I Write   How else would I describe the setting sun? The beauty of pink and yellow glow How would I describe being in love?
I write to take away the pain That memories can bring I write to offer up my thoughts To anyone or thing   I write to express anger and fear In ways I can’t with voice
Messages, communication-- This is what I love. It's why I write songs and share God's good news.   Poetry, like quiet music Is similar, And I write it for the same reason.  
An empty canvas Is as pure as snow, And as white as the clouds   As time struggles on The canvas is yellowed and aged, It is torn and mangled,   The canvas is distraught,
Why I write I don’t know. The reason’s not set in stone. One day reading became silver and writing became gold. Why I write I don’t know. These feelings went untold.
Well, I have a shovel in hand,  Standing before a mountain, a wonderland, Written on a sign was, "Stranger, you'd better dig," -find all the treasures, all the 'thingamajigs.' and you'll be glad you did."
        Free is a bird whose wings are unburdened by the problems of the world With a pen and paper, I am free to be who I am And who I want to be Free to express myself, my words, my thoughts
The Clouds,   they press their whole existence against the cold glass pane in the sky and they watch us, but they are content, they do not envy us, because,   The Clouds,
Every time I write it is as if I am splattering a little bit of myself across the sky for the world to see. I’d say, “Look! That’s what I AM.”
Generation Gap   Now I type but then in times Before this our culture used symbols as words. Indus spoke an indecipherable language to us now. To unearth their meaning even so long after
  i bleed the words because the world cuts me open   i feel so intensely the sharp clang of pots or the searing pain of a burn   maybe it's passion (or maybe it's idealism)
I write because I am sad I write because I am Strong I write because sometimes I need my feelings in a song. I write because I love it I write because I hate it I write because I need it more than I admit it
When I write a poem, at first, I feel so nervous-- like a lovesick, teenager experiencing her first kiss. You feel a burning sensation in your stomach as though a flame inside has been ignited, then,
I can hear the pen, Scratching, scratching, scratching. I can see the ink, Writing, writing, writing.
Often we question who and why we are But is it possible to just be? Stop the questioning of why Can't I just be me?   I have a purpose I have figured it out I have a pen and paper
Each sunrise highlights this ongoing battle of relapse and recovery. In a world overruled by the constant roar of flying bullets outside your window, it isn't hard to not check under the bed every night for monsters.
I am a writer.  Who is writing a poem. Words flow, but is a river made? A river flows but were any words made? I write and write and write and write But does that always mean I'm right?
There was a certain familiarity to itLike breathing.Creating a stage of my  own desiresWith my pen
I write because no one hears my cry. I write because no one wants to listne to my vents I write because I feel better when letting the paper take all the negative thoughts. I write because I want to write.
Ever hear of the story of a young boy age 16 with big dreams for his life? All it would take is a different scene for his life to start and begin starting with a pen, paper in his hand, words flowing from his lips.
I write for the people who fought for me, paved the way for a better and brighter future for us. That encouraged the intelligence and strength- of a people who are shunned.
When the walls move in and the room gets small, When the ground disappears and I suddenly fall, When the sky gets so dark I can only see black, When reality disappears, I have a panic attack…  
Another day with a blocked mind. The pen and paper remain uncaring. They sit, waiting to be Used.   In the evening, my mind settles. Words form. The paper is scribbled on.
  A blank expanse stretched across the flat, like unscathed, snowy ground, Yearning still for its promised adornment, pleading to be found. A lightly clasped structure, aimed with ink, is eager for the rush,
Have you ever asked a bird why does he fly? Or asked a fish why does she swim? I am often out of my mind, but these words bring me back again.  Consistently misunderstood, But these words...they understand me.
Swaddled, protected- from Ugly to Envied Beauty.  The New, I embrace.  Fragile at first, I burst free.  Stretching my tenacious wings  I fly my own path.  Clinging to my birth place, to Origin- I return- Back as new with changed limbs.  Fragile th
Who knows you better than yourself?
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?
I sit across from A dark haired lady Her face is full of concern   “Have you ever thought About putting your feelings
Anything is poetry The bird that just perched on a tree all alone Two people were fighting and one slammed down the phone Just write a few lines Take your time Make it rhyme Or not.  
I worked hard to get to where I am now To purse my education in the years to come And to become unable to purse my education Due to financial problems would be an unfair call.
To get away from the drama that just may consume me I write my hearts true desires the thickness of the pain layers upon layers have taken a painstaking toll on me writing takes the weight off my shoulders
What is a life with out words, Words are everything, Without words how do we communicate? Even they talk; the birds, They have a nice ring, Words decipher at a fast rate, I was first persuaded by Nick,
What else is there to do, but write? How else am I supposed to  put my emotions on display? When I write, I let you in. I want you to Come in. I want you to be able to see
  I am a writer with no topic, But everything to be said.   I am in love with the scene of blank pages, But am terrified by their audacity.   I could script a scene of poets,
Life, It takes you by surprise, Thoughts, secrets, worries, stories, It all adds up, Losing a sister, A best friend, Having the time of our lives,  Growing, Making memories,
My great grandmother could not read and her daughter could not write. My mother passed me the pen and told me to fly. When I write, I unlock the diaries belonging to the hearts of all my mothers.
  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.
Numb the pain Or bring feeling back. That equilibrium is vital Too much feeling I cannot function Not enough leads to the same   Tell the world how I feel.
I write because I’m quiet Because no one knows my thoughts They slowly build inside me Until they start to rot   The only way they leave me Is through my finger tips They find their sweet escape
Spoken words, Often not enough. Though both connect to the same central creativity. Touch and taste are unequal. There's something  powerful about the embellished words
We are infiniteOur souls galaxiesOur minds universesOur bodies space itself Supernovas implode on the backs of closed eyelidsPulsing neon colors morph in and out
The paper is my portal  And the pen, my magic. I don't live to write, I write to live. Because reality can be Too much to handle, And the truth Too much to bare.
To be Heard, To Speak my Mind Too long my voice has been ignored Too long my voice has been silenced. I say no more. I say ENOUGH. I have a mind: Powerful. Brilliant. Unique.
You know when you sit long enough somewhere And your mind begins to wander It wanders to the darkest depths of despair You feel about life and its never ending twists and turns.
I see that red pen. I know that that demon of correction is already poised and waiting even before I hand in my paper. I know that it’s thirsty for the flesh of new material. It’s wired to massacre any seams of creativity it sees.
Write.Written as the philosopher devised ways to thinkbut the thought was only told through speech.Yet speech was only allowed for those that began to speak
I write for the souls of the memories Buried in my chest, Budding their way through the underground tunnels Of what is and what used to be. Reality knows not the form in which A dancer must bend,
They say actions speak louder I say it isn’t so When one feels powerless and like they haven’t strength to grow Stuck between here and there
Air
School, work, life Stress I can't breathe Homework piled high I need a break Pencil, paper Words flow freely Ahhh, air Sweet fresh air A break from madness, A mini vacation
     Haikus are easy Everyone can write them           But me
Something that has been seen,By both those of our timeAnd the times that have passed before us. Something that will be seenBy those that come afterOur world has turned to dust. Eternal.Neverchanging.The waves flow through the sandsOf time. I write
I wrote a line or two of poem once because it was required of me. An assignment given by the teacher. And wonder of wonders it stuck with me. I couldn't get enough. Poem after poem
A little bit of poetry can help feed the brain A good anology, would be, trees and rain Not only that but it can also help ease some pain The way clots stop, and block, bleeding veins
  I-                                                        (She who is                                                  a Lost sea inside)
I write because I can't speak. Words get stuck Behind the plastic on my teeth. It's hard to talk on the spot, Make a great retort, or give the Class an amazing report of the
I was born without a mouth, And taught never to shout out, Or questions things or try to change, It’s best if it remains the same.   Without a mouth, There is no voice, That can be heard,
Some may ask how I was introduced to poetry, but I beg to differ because poetry introduced itself to me, see I lived in a world where everything seemed okay, but when my friend named conflict paid a visit,
Writing for me is more than scribing ink on papyrus It’s freedom and duty for me to uphold what is righteous I speak not for myself for I have nothing of value of which to say
      First voice: poets anonymous how may I help you? I am addicted to poetry many of the symptoms include 1.       Dry throat because I have spit fire multiple time a on a stage
I like poetry, because it's easy to read Where the writer has kept Only what you need. Rolling off my tounge like a summer breeze. Not always rhyming, But with a good flow And immaculate timing.  
It isn’t about me It isn’t about you It is about everybody I don’t want one person to see I want them all to see I write for the world So every continent can see So the world can see
I am a poet, and yes I do know it. I'm not one of the most articulate, not one of the most beautiful, My words are set on fire by the passion in my heart The words flow from my innermost to the paper, unconstrained.
Poetry is a language spoken by many, Though only some choose to be eloquent writters. I write to illuminate my world.   I write to open my eyes, to uncover everything in diguise.
Walking down an empty road Passing places once called home, Silence echoes in the air Amongst the mist I roam.   Drifting like a flightless kite, Submersed in dark without a light,
That feeling of utter desperation That pit in the stomach and weight on the shoulders The feeling of complete relief when that is erased and satisfaction of being complete again and whole once more  
When I was a little girl, I was a afraid to write,  a fear that I might just not be good enough, to stuff my thoughts and words on a page,  to give life to my emotions,  whether joy or rage, 
I keep alot of thoughts within myself.Whenever it became too much to hold in they spewed out themselves. Words with power of their own. Prisoners inside my mind, it was not their home.Talking leads to frustration.
An oxen pulls a cart with all its might   its muscles strain forming shapes that outline patches of its body   bulging from its skin veins protrude  
Somewhere, through these two hundred pounds of chocolate milk and chicken strips, lies an idea. And while it's different every time I put it down on pen and paper, the method is the same. Draft.
I first started to write because it was enticing for me it became exciting then at the age of sixteen I came into some tough times then the rhymes allowed me to release my emotions I was bursting with sadness and anger becoming a stranger to mysel
Freedom has been fought for and won in many ways Wars on land, or battles on the waves Politics, revolutions and rebellions But the freedom that exists no matter circumstance or strife
Words are powerful, especially when they’re written Well, to me it is. When we speak, people hear But, do they actually listen? I write because My feelings become stronger and my thoughts are more organized
I'm breathing my words in, my pen is letting them out. Everything I can't say it sinks in, this is what my lifes about, this is what I live fo; to write the words I can not say the words many cannot say,
"Brush your hair" Said my mother, and I did. "Clean your room" Said my father, and I did. "Write for us" Said the teacher, and I always did. There wasn't a question in my mind.  I just did. 
When I open my mouth,  no sense comes out like a radio playing static sound.   My words filter through ears yet no one can hear the things they've ignored all these years.  
I read poetry as a way to find beauty within the worldEven when I believe the world has been irreparably corruptedBy the big names of the corporations who trample souls to get their way
I lived a life, where you're forgotten- left and right.   As I got older, I grew distant- my heart got colder.   Communication, was obviously- completely no fun.  
the Words sing emotions springing forth sad songs of happiness, a melancholy air For poetry is my self-reflection of the world shining through imperfect eyes.   I am me not often questioning
The answer to this age old question  seems to be everchanging for me   When I was small and niave I wrote about the boys I was to shy to speak with, yet adored with every inch of my 4 foot frame
When the room is still, you can hear the untencil briskly brush the paper. I can hear my thoughts, my fears, my, emotions thump at the roundness of my skull. The words, they scream at me.
If Iswallow my words I cannot lie.  If I hold back my tears I cannot cry.  I will not let go  Of these emotions I hold, But the weight on my shoulders  Continues to grow.
Words.   The kind of words that evoke vivid emotions and wake memories on a shelf  long hidden under a thick fuzzy coat of dust. Obscured by bound volumes of the every day 
My breath haltsA quiet gasp escapes my lipsThe bones in my chest breakMy limbs quiver and shake All feeling is lost
Everyone has that one “hitch” the one that they either can’t or just won’t get over… and mines is poetry. The addiction is so premature and pure.
Five years and my love for you has not changed. Five years and I never miss you any less. Five years and my longing to be with you never wavers. Nine years of your all knowing eyes. Nine years of your arms, ears, and heart wide open.
Who is the still figure illustrating my mirrored image? Is it not from the moment we are born that ignites the art of curosity, and the strive to achieve.
I write to escape Reality's dark cape. I write to expolore The world outside my door. Others don't understand what writing means to me Because they don't see the things I see. I write to express
Everyone says two is better than one A couple of treasures is greater than none They say, "You're so lucky, you can do both" encouraging, empowering, influencing my growth 
I write for the sake of understanding myself To be entitled to something I can control To feel, to have certainty Without poetry I am an utter nothing  I write because I must  It is something spectacular
I begin all of my writing at a liesurely pace, in deep thought about what is going to happen next.
I don’t write to live I live to write Words flow from me give My thoughts new light No other form Could myself express The freedom I get From writing.   My feelings, my thoughts,
Pain is an ocean. Drowning me. Words were the lifeboat. Rescuing me. I was young. Probably thirteen. They were my heroes. Writers. They were believers. Fighters. A wide-eyed boy. Follower.
There are too many thoughts in my head. There is too much to ponder over. 
My hand, yes it hurts but my mind hurts more. Why do I write you ask? Because I can't go back to how I was before.  I can't afford to be that girl Who feels the need to end it all.
Para aquel hombre sentado bajo el sereno de la noche, Con su mirada perdida en el tiempo sin ningún reproche,   A ese hombre de cabellos plateado, La vida lo lleno de doradas riquezas que el mismo fue cosechando,
I won’t pretend to be an unfortunate soul, With hardships and suffering I could barely handle. But I have had my fair share of emotional misery. Tears have fallen on my pillow
Why I write... It's simply for existence. I am a vessel full of words. Peek inside me and that is what you will see. I am raw emotion And I want no filter to make me murky.
In a world so loud,
To tell a story, To sing a song,  To rewrite the words of times gone by, Or write of the times that have yet to come,  To use our right of freedom of speech,  To relieve our grief
You never leave me even when everyone else walks out and stabs me in the back and lets me down over and over again.   You never leave me You are there
A freedom of expression a true definition of exacping the world the moment the ink is relaesed from the pen the truth are my feelings spilled out onto paper a gateway from the judgements of society
When my thoughts can't form Coherent sentences I can put together My fragmented thoughts Into stanzas.
With every closing of my eye, It opens to the scary world. I see hate and fear towards one another. We no longer work hand in hand, But dog eat dog.   The fight for success,
Words written in led or words written in ink; whenever I find a chance, I really begin to think.   Words written in red or words written in pink; When I find the chance to write, it feels like it was meant to be.
Intertwined deep within your mind, I do see craving for more. It's clawing inside you, breaking it all, Making you numb, oblivious to the high. You want nothing more than that drug your soul desires.
The words expressed bring peace of mind the simple rhyme helps me unwind   It helps things make sense and gives me confidence It helps me speak It helps me think  
If I can't close my eyes and imagine the endless metaphors  there is no need for these eyes of mine If I can't sway to the flows and effortless quotes that glide from mouths
I write because i can't express the way things make me depressed. Not aloud atleast, so on pages i unleash a beast. Everyone is under the impression that i don't feel, that alone makes me reel.
Sometimes I dream That I will see them again My momma My poppa But when I wake All I can see is darkness I do not breathe in air This is pure musk that fills my lungs
Silence Silence is golden No, there lies truths unfolded Gold is the truth and silence is the corrosion Failure to speak of such things Leads to conversations about other things
Why I write? A question so simple and small. How else could each moment become history? Yesterday's memories to the wayside would fall.   I could not keep to myself in silent reverie,
Days go by from that day People were desperate each day They would show their stuff off They would even sleep in a loft No one could bring up the money No one couldnt even afford a donkey
Why do I write through day and night  through fights and strife  and loss of sight?  Because poetry will remain. When my plane loses flight and I fall from heights and I'm filled with fright.
Poetry to me is like the air I breathe. It lives in everything I see because it's everything I believe.  When I had no one poetry had me. 
"Why do I write?"Sounds more like "Why do I live?"I write because I have have no choiceOr rather because I have the willAnd the power to be able to expressMy emotion through the usage of This thing called "The English Language." I didn't wake up o
My mind is always empty But when it comes to poetry My mind expands To more of what it understands   The words flow from my brain from the happiness or the pain
Just like a butterfly she's hard to catch  Just like a butterfly she's unique  Just like a butterfly she's hard to pair with a match   Just like a butterfly she's a mystery
  Tis given that so we go about our lives Flame-filled flesh foregoing the world, Hidden and concealed, in the shadows of the mask, Seeking the grain to erect the pearl.  
The world before me Is dark and dangerous What lies ahead Is foreign and uncertain   I write on paper What I am unsure of So that maybe my words Can guide me to answers  
  You know when you finally find a place you belong? a home, a place where your heart feels set, a place that feels safe? When days are long and exhausting
Senses unfolding,  Speech's inadequacies drown, I will write to be heard.
They say birds of a feather flock together.     But maybe that’s why I feel under the weather. With my body tethered to this world I sought a way to be liberated.
The emptiness consumes you, filling your soul with darkness, you can't run fast enough, you can't hide well enough, Because it is inside you, forever.
Anger, love, all emotions Bottled up inside Nothing with breath cares Only the lined paper The lines absorb the hate They give all their love The lined paper will always be there
My mind races, Screaming to be heard.   But the words blur, The sentences trickle away. My jaw clenches shut, And my mouth turns to desert sand. A lump invades my throat,
I remember   The silent, lonely nights Where I sat, a small child, With nothing but a book as a friend.   My stuffed toys would smile and watch me read
My dear old friend, your time on this earth has ended For me, it was much too soon and I wish I could of arranged it so I was more prepared
I write to keep the food down I write to clear my tears  I write to stay alive   Maybe it is smarter to pick up the pen Than it is to bend over a toilet bowl   I write to be worth something
The world is more vivid for you Then me, Trapped in the mono-green, Womb of the earth. Watching you all scurry by Seeing more with your naked eye
A creative child Driven wild By one’s own imagination   Thoughts abound Running around Dreaming of creation   No one knows A story untold Of one’s pent up emotions  
I saw it among the others,the bright dazzling purple pen caught my eye.I knew I must have it.I must rescue it from the dull colors surrrounding it.Eager to use my prize,I drop its point on my paper.
The love of poetry that came The love of words that began It all happened here—At poetry slam Words begin to build Ideas begin to flourish My mind became blown
A heart unvoiced would wither Without a pen to let flow A thousand thoughts spanning time Unrestrained emotion shown   A way to blend fantasy and reality
Why do I write, why do you breath? Why do I cry, speak and scream Oh why, oh why do I write? Shut up, listen, I’ll talk to you later
Word upon word, page upon page This is why I write Escape the hurt and pain, all the realities of this world I am a warlock, the pen is my wand And with it I create My imagination fuels my passion
It's a signature. It's the way the pencil moves along the paper. The way it defines all capabilities of existence. The way your imagination takes flight. The way words can form an entirely new realm. I write to be bold and truthful.
  Why do I write? Why, of course for the power! The power to choose, The fate of the story, How does it start and how does it end?
I'm not mute Though my lips are silent. Not cruel Though my thoughts turn violent. I don't agree When I have nothing to say. My mind rebels When my feet obey. You ask for my thoughts
  Why I write: I write to unleash desire Like many forbidden dreams, I write at night I write to control the beast who wishes to devour
POETRY A POWERFUL way of expressing how you feel. An ODDLY beautiful way of explaining a situation. An EXTRAORDINARY way of writing that's different than the rest. A TRUST between words and their author.
I began as any other: unable to know my other talents. I wanted to test myself further: finding them with many accidents.   It began as a task that was given: write a poem with five stanzas.
The difference in you using your voice Can mean the choice of leading a revolution  Or watching underdogs silenced Now which would you chose? During many points in my story Where I thought I was dead.
  I write because I am an Aquarius I write because I’m bold. I write because I can. I write because I want to debrief. I write because I love to eat. I write because I am fabulous.
My dearest darling, I am right here can't you see? You are the one who set me free. My smiling sunshine, You gave me courage when I doubt, You make me smile when I pout.
I tap my pen and bite my lip Thinking of subjects on the slip. Not a word comes to mind for an instant But my mind whirs, fingers twitch insistent. Then suddenly ablaze the worlds fly
There is a dark place where nightmares slitherA place where sickness has no cureA place where the depths of hell shall riseA place where flames consume every ocean and river
  Compressed with so much anger, My body cannot take.   So little, frail, and meager, I then begin to shake.   The feelings forced inside me, Are harshly packed so full.  
I don't want to be the same as others I want to stand out among the crowd I want to be the sore thumb amongst soft, fine fingers I want to be the blue among the red the vibrant, bright yellow
Ask me why I write. And I’ll ask you why you breathe. Writing is my air.
I write for every time I cannot speak. For the nights where a whisper will shatter the silence And the shards will pierce my hazy mind. For the days when the curves of my lips cannot being to shape
I started writing to express the hurt that was wrapped, twisted, and concocted inside of me. It seemed to be the only way that I could fully open up and express where I actually wanted to be.
Wherever I would goRight or left, up and down and all aroundI could never really see much in lifeTo relax and be happy, wasn't much my styleI and everyone else could see, that I wasn't really me
She breathes into me Like a gentle wind On a hot summers day. She feeds me all I need And gives me all I like. Filled with such a beauty, I am never alone. For words and writings,
Why I write That is the question isn’t it? Why do rhymes and songs of verbs and the paintings of words consume my spirit? To be the sustenance of my soul and the beatings of my heart? As my tears cry in poetry
Feeling deserted and solitary Just me, a pen, and paper My emotions settle in and beign to vary Never once did i think it would happen again But thinking back i was only ten
I write for others, I am just a kid, they say but when I write I am more!  I can change the world On paper it wont show age  It will show wisdom If I can change just one life
                                              There are many reasons regarding why people write Whether it is as a hobby or to pass time by However, I write for a truly different reason
  Emotions blur my judgment and vision Anger flashes and the red lights glisten Jealousy shines green in ways to distract Love, a pink hue, makes my reason retract Then sorrow, empty, deep blue, blinding
  I think, I think.I thought.SoI write, I write.I wrote.Sit,I speak, I speak.I spoke,what was written on my notes.
(poems go here) I write because I don't know how not to, how not to express the pains and gains from the claims and vanity of this life.
My mind cannot be held prisoner It has to be set free. This is why I became a writer. To express all the thoughts in me.  
  Because always the muses are heard in the whispers of the half-yellow hills floating awake and also in her whispers, so eager to be aloof from me.   Because always the pen-arm desires
I use poems to tell my thoughts when normal words won't do To express my inner, darker sides that I'm afraid of too It feels like in my darkest times, my words come best in rhyme
  The words are boiling in my blood. To speak of things yet unsaid. I take a pen and let it bleed. Innocent pages white now red.   I dare not seal these words of mine.
I write to experience you, Lord, Your abundant grace, Always embracing me in your love, Breaking my self, To love others.    I write to express my frustration, The world wears me down, but,
Life and its many surprises. What happens before each sunset and after sunrises. That is why I write.   The ups and downs, the smiles, the frowns, the laughs, the snorts,
  Why I Write? I write because if I don’t Somebody else will tell my story Somebody else will see what I saw Feel what I felt Hear what I heard For me   Why I Write?
"Scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble, scribble...CRACK!"           I groan as look down to see what my pencil had attacked. The words seem ok, the sentences intact,
I write because when I scream            my words fall out of my throat like angry gasps I write because when I dance             my hands become intertwined with vibrations and words i cannot understand
I write. I write to love, for the people who do not deserve my love. I write to feel, the emotions I do not feel. I write to express, so I can release the anger within. I write to understand,
Thundercloud waters Tapdance across midnight webs Into my smartphone.
A little girl built a mighty fortress,Words. Of complexity and undeniable eloquence,What she hoped to be inside.
Why do we write? It's almost like screaming, but so quiet- So innocent- so unimposing, almost as if we were trying not to disturb the world with our words.   Every writer knows to be careful with their words,
I write to speak my mind. I write to keep my thoughts inside. I write to express. I write to impress. I write to remember. I write to forget. I write because I have to.
Why I write , you might never know.  How it feels to have the words flow, from my mind through my soul to the paper..  all my secrets out to be told. 
you don’t ever notice her, but she’s there, the smiling woman with her home in the corner of the screen, spilling a foreign tongue from her fingertips, touching them gently to her lips,
I write to vent, to get the words destroying my thoughts, like the tornado that went through Oklahoma this year, out of my head. I write because I won't be judged, because I can stay anonymous. I write so others will know that they are not alone.
My days flutter and fly, Much as the wondrous world, Though I look up at the sky, I still wait for my meaning to unfurl.   Each day I would lie and wait and watch the birds,
To me, poetry is an expression An expression of various senses What you see, hear, smell, taste and feel You see reality, the true forms of people and things
Words too heavy with pain, To be given the weight of sound, Thoughts too vile to ever deign, To consider saying aloud,  
I was just a kid you know back in middle schoolNever thought poetry or any of that shit would end up being what I doBut it isNow I’m stuck refreshing Rhymezone.com and trying to figure out
Through life of worry and uneasiness, Delightful dealings divulge disarming doubts. But writing poems melts my life's mess, And slows down the mental fast-moving train.  
Interpreting doesn't get us far does it? You're wrong. It's what moves us along once we are stationary, when our thoughts and words settle down too. But for you? You're more than that. And for me? I'm bored by that. Poetry, poetry.
When I was a little girl  I was told I could do anything Be anything  Achieve anything  I was told that I would always be enough And I was convinced  That on my daddy's shoulders 
When you get the answer to your problem; then you think it is over,Then get a little feeling of peace and happiness, but still, you’re not going anywhere.Then you feel that special guy really likes you and adore you,
(poems go here)
To write is to have power The power to speak The power to educate, and be educated. To write is to have will The will to believe The will to succeed To write is to fight
People walking around doing what they want trying to be different without the taunt But as a child freedom involves trust with parents that can disappear like dust Destroying that freedom gets you locked up
Poetry is the air I breathe, the sacred serene sound of peace, the one and only complete atmosphere, where symbols provoke happiness or fear.
What is it that puts poemsIn such a fondness of our heartThe passion, rhythm, meterOh so many ways to start
A peom, mama? Now what could that be? A poem, said she, is what we will read. Let it drizzle into your ears And melt away your fears So the words that you hear will lull you to sleep
She writes for the reason of feeling. The reason of no one believing. Belief of who she is. The girl of truth spoken in her ears. The day she seen and heard. Heard the truth being told to her.
(poems go here) Have you ever felt down and out? Stupid? Unsuccessful? Afraid? Bored? Tired? Helpless? Well I have For I am HUMAN But the world seems to forget Shh….
I write to have a voice A voice that can scream A voice that can cry A voice that can laugh A voice that is understood by others A voice that means something   I write to have feeling
Sometimes without pencil and white space I think my mind would go dizzy with thought, too much heart all cluttered in space ambiguity-- my mind would burst in the mix nowhere to go
I am my poetry I am the carefully designed  Lyrical lines Of insanity  I am a walking scar  and poetry has healed me while leaving her mark I do not regret she was simply staking her place
When I'm lost  is why... I write. Because sheets are white  to glow and shine light  on a better path than mine. When I'm angry is why..I write a highway escaping life.
Poetry and writing means the world to me. Without it, I am incomplete. Without art, I am nothing. Music, dancing and writing hold hands together in my world And skip down the sand lined beaches of my imagination
When everything comes crashing in And there’s nowhere to go but the wall I transform my emotions to ink on paper No one knows the way I feel but A smile can’t fool my best friend,
Children believe, such wonderous things, As children are want to do. But those wonderous things are made clear to be, Nothing more than childish dreams. For what once was will no longer be,
Why do I write? I write because I'm angry, I write because it's my right to write, I write because I love to.
The rhythm of the light glows bright metaphysically as I write. Dreams gratify in the night with the   messenger's kryptonite, chemiluminescence from the sixth sense fills the essence. Ogasmic waves  
Society told me that I should not feel the same for men as I should for women Society told me that I should always be covered when leaving my home
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
When you dance to music, you must feel so alive. When you have the wind blowing through your hair, you must feel so revived. When you drink liquor, you must feel a fluid drive. So when you try to write, do you ever feel so deprived?
As I sit down to find a writing utencil, I quickly recite the phrases in my head. Then, I scribble down my thoughts with a pencil as if millions of dancing words in my head come together by a lead.  
Hidden system, rules function like clockwork in my head Crank, crank, crank: the demands on the system More work, more power, more output required
Poets have power through words, phrases, and rhymes There is always meaning behind every line Poetry is an escape, a world unknown The beauty is that you can refer back to feelings and emotions you felt, after you've grown
Back when tying my shoes warranted a pat on the back, and I sang Scooby-Dooby Doo as Mom cooked dinner-- back when I sat on the laundry machine to hide-and-seek, and fairytales nurtured my very being...  
I don't write because my poems create floral borders around my resumes and college applications No,  I started writing after my third grade teacher persuaded me how  My writing was different from the other girls.
It's not for love. It's not for fame. I don't need the world to know my name. It's not for peace. It's not for change. It's not to heal some deep inner pain.
Life can be good Life can be bad But the one thing you can do is keep your head up high And your feet down low Their will always be haters out there
What is it that compels me to write?
It was like a never ending feeling running through my vains that lead to my fingers, tips I remember it like it was yesterday, yesterday five years ago Could've been the amount of stress that was put on, me
Lost my mother At the hands of death. A childhood of struggle From breath to breath. A void too sudden Without warning or shame.
There's a certain profound beauty In watching words string together In such elegance to eventually  Form such a sweet everything.   To find that I too could be the  Stringer of these words
In between the mingled breaths and the quiet pitter patter of rain, When the night swallows the moon whole and the in-between collage of colors before day breaks the night, I sit and I write.
When they ask why i write how could i explain? it's like asking why one cries when they are in pain or why a bird responds to a bird call I'm pretty sure y'all heard about newtons third law words are,
We may not think that we are strong enough Let someone try to tear down our identity, and that fire will burn up everything daring to block its path, let alone doubt its power We may think we aren't smart enough
I sit here thinking in the dark About what had happened and what was the spark You are my truest friend And will always be till the very end
I write because it is an essential part of me. It’s my silver lining when the clouds lingering become too much. Writing gives off a sense of hope, comfort, criticism and encouragement. It’s my expressive outlet, as I’m sure it is for all writers.
  Words spill onto the paper from my pen. Words that shape and create new realities. All our secrets here lay bare. Truth made plain in black-and-white. Here there is no maybe. Here everyone is free.
These walls are clutteredwith the scribblingsof clumsy hands.Small fingers clench markerstoo big to hold tight enoughto articulate dreamstoo great to let go of.Us “grown ups” know nothing
That pen is a pick A shovel A trowel Picking away at the dirt.   The dirt that covers That tomb of emotions Hidden away so long ago.   So long ago Hidden away.  
because we live and breathe and 
I didn't take writing into consideration for a while It was a group of letters to me, nothing more, and nothing less No emotion that positively strikes other souls around me
Uncertainty grows around us as time whispers into our ears And with age, we lose hope, year after year Dreams are planted and watered for the young at heart But time comes to play and tears these dreams apart.
A pulling sensation draws me to the world of words and sentences. A cyclone inside me unleashes these words, drawing, painting, imagining a faint picture. I was little when I noticed...
Writing allows me to express inner, deeper feelings, wants, and thoughts.
I remember it like it was yesterday when I was an uncontrollable teen. I was always skipping school, fighting, I was already angry but i didnt have a reason to. I have great parents who would give me the world if they could.
My vocabulary may not seem so big But my mind is always wondering. My skin isn't as bright as the one next to me But my diction and tone is brighter then them.
Words are my escape. They are my thoughts expressed. They are how I understand myself. I write as an expression. The relief I feel is exquisite. When I write, I can make something beautiful. I can capture attention. I can captivate my readers.
To be successful is hard Yet, to fail is a given. It's ok to be '16 and pregnant' That’s the world we live in. I look up at the TV screens And think they got it great. Watch the news and here the bash
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I write to let go I write to say no I write to be heard I write to hide behind written word.   I write for my freedom I write for my soul I write for my heart I write for the polls.
I am a writer. A passion within, Emotional release starts with paper and a pen. My heart starts to flutter, My knees are weak, Just at the sight of a blank sheet. How a spirit can feel
Words are spelled differently in languages I don't speak, but they all mean the same when they're about you. Words are just tiny black lines and curves, but attached they become the things you used to say to me, too.
I search somewhere inside myself and find myself beyond myself.   Poetry, prose, paragraph, rhyme -- these structures may be used or transcended to express my thoughts, dark or sublime,
I sat in a sea sadness  One that drove me to utter madness   But my friend my lover The only being meant to discover   You were the words I thought couldn’t find
The art of writing should not be a question of why or why not, but of how. But to answer the question, that is a very simple question with a lot of answers. I write to dispel the dark storms that society has cursed me with.
He was born a mute, Until the ink got a hold of him. It stretched his tongue and as he licked the back of his teeth, He realized he had a voice. He found confidence in the deep and in the bass,
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.
Reasons I write, there are many Firstly there are no rules I write what I want How I want Even so, I pay attention to spelling And that pesky grammar I write to express my views
What was once hewn from the depth of scraped knees And harshly driven splinters underneath sultry summer skies Twisted and began to slither down my skin At the tender age of thirteen
  Oh, you got it all figured out? She writes the screams in her head. You say cause she’s insane someone better call the feds. When truth is, that’s a shield:
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,
this amazing poem which is the greatest haiku is my gift to you
I looked up at the Aztec sun/ I knew the world had just begun/ The rain poured down/ Drowning out all sound/ Except the brain-dead taunts they threw/ I took them and I knew/ That there had to be more than this/ More than this Hell we call Earth/ S
A writer writes the words they writeforming each sentance with care Some writers write into the nightwhile others simply stare Some writers write with eloquencetheir words a masquerade
If writing gives me a voice, then I should seek someone to hear me. Though simply hearing will not do, it is listening that makes the difference.
I write to feel I write to know I write to see I write to know what I think and to see what I feel I write to explain the world that I know.  I write to keep silence the thunder in my mind.  
The words rush through me like a raging river If anyone could stare into the depths of my soul they would quiver.  I write for the anguish I am feeling inside  Sometimes I don't even know if I'm alive. 
My voice bursts out of me at will It knows neither manners nor volume Like a siren, it echoes loud and shrill It's the Joker in its costume   For my smaller voice is not meant to speak
I am not a conformist/ I am a writer/                                                                                                                                                                               And the ideas I follow may be confo
It all started with Charlotte's Web and, "Daddy, let me try!"    I traveled to Hogwarts, and France, and got lost at sea.   I was best friends with Huckleberry Finn,
It has bestowed upon me The final year of my academic career in grade school Through all the truimphs and failures that goes with each year i' am the 12th Man
My life has been fairly easy Besides living with a mom who doesn't love me Depending on Food Stamps for our next meal Can't buy necessities without a good deal My dad works all hours to make ends meet
In my small garden, I grow thousands of proses, I love every kind.   Thorny, smooth, dark, bright, Their messages glare clear strength, Proses are roses.   Yet when the fire,
Words can mean happy Words can mean sad Words can be good Words can be bad A poem can be what you want it to be A poem can be what others happen to see
Graduation in 8 weeks , because i didnt graduate in june im not complaining , kinda anxious , gotta go back to school eighteen , known to slack off but when i want it , ill go and get it
Words constantly flow through my head They get cluttered and mushed together It feels amazing to reach out and grab one To write it or type it or even just to say it out loud Then another and another
Here’s to another day where I am seen but invisible                                                              Where I cloak myself in the shadows like one of the Deathly Hallows                                    Alone and miserable            
I write to show the world, there is hope for the youth, I write to show the world that we don't speak lies, but the truth. I write to be heard from people who do not want to hear,
  Flying among the stars On a sliver stretch of moonlight The words go past me Flying of the page  
The black dress swirls when she spins. It follows her movements and seems to know exactly where she wants to go. It knows where she’s been and where she is destined to visit. The little girl’s favorite dress is her paper.
One thousand Ten hundereds One hundred tens One thousand ones Four thousand quarters Ten thousand dimes Twenty thousand nickels One hundred thousand pennies That's a lot of pennies.
The size of her heart The length of her arms The stride in her steps Even when she's tired No time for lack The sweat on her forehead The arch in her back It's transforming into a hump
because I must because I love it because I'm clever because the world needs to hear me.   Because I want the world to hear me.   Yes. No? Maybe.  Because.  
In the sixth grade my eyes were opened. Poetry became a powerful and wonderful form of expression. It seemed to ooze out my brain like warm, chocolate syrup. I matured through broadening
(Fast sad lane of reality, other stories don't match with family, left lost on the streets with insanity, none realized the real, feel what empty stomachs got without a meal, split one time so he'll make at least a dime, bedless because of bed bug
Why do I write?I have found that, even though seeing is believingLooks can be oh-so deceiving. For me, the will to believe comes from the power of sound
I think. Alot. But who can listen? Who has the time? Who wants to? It bothers me. But poetry. Always there. Waiting. On me. Confessions. Thoughts. Stories.
The earth shakes The sky storms The sun shines The world turns   Birds chirp Dogs bark Cats purr Wolves howl   Porsche writes Porsche defines Porsche expresses
You ask why I write. So that I feel what was lost, feel the pain once mine.   I feel nothing now, no pain happiness nothing. I feel not a thing   Why am I like this?
They say that your life is in your hands and those hands carry your future, but in reality that future reflects your past and in actuality, that past reflects where you stand.
When he said, "Write me your story," That girl only took one piece of paper But he He made sure to add an 's' at the end of her paper   That girl wrote too much she stopped When she ran out of lead
Over one hundred billion humans have inhabited this earth Till the moment of their death and since the moment of their birth Each of them working, to advance the human race
Poetry is like a diary that reflects you and your soul. The words that flow from your heart to fingers, slowly seems to find its way to paper.
Poetry is the long winter’s night The powdery snow ever so white Poetry is the glittering Christmas tree And the time spent between you and me
Every morning and night I chant for understanding and peace, to help my way along the path as a human being. The beads flow though my fingers as all 108 repetitions of the mantra are cycled.
A homeschooled girl who skipped a grade, Picked up a book she found that laid. “Mommy! Mommy!” the young girl screamed, And in her eyes you saw a gleam. “Po-ee-try” the girl pronounced,
I write to tell my story in the realest way I write to get my education on some day I write as a college sophomore with hopes and dreams no better than those who surround me I write for the ability to see the world someday
If you asked me why I write, I would say: I write to live. For writing allows me to  help, understand, communicate . Writing allows me to touch the hearts of other.
Why I write? I write to free, to make them all believe, to really see if it is or not meant to be.
They say the way I raise my palms towards the sky in prayer is savagely, I think the ignorance and lack of understanding is cowardly. They say the way I lay this scarf on the hairs of my very head  is despicable,
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.
A writer lives a thousand lives, and none,And though a life may be worth more than words,The words remain when every life is done.
Alone, with so many thoughts and desires.  Alone, no one shares these thoughts with me.  Alone, I didn't know if exaggerating the beauties in this world made me a liar.  Alone is what I though I'd always be. 
I was little I was sick my throat was closed I couldn't breathe I couln't talk. I was small, I was bright, my vocal cords worked fine, but I was scared, I was shy,
can’t you feel a story waiting to be told? can’t you hear the impossible whisper? can’t you imagine the grasses alive? don't you see it?  
In 3rd grade I was given a pen and paper told to fill it with something meaningful something moving and life changing as a youg child I could not think of such thing Such a thing a poetry was another assignment
I see my childhood and see nothing but a mystery. A pile of poetry books, A lonely flower growing wild in a solitary garden, and no water- not anywhere.  Like a wave of relief, like music after perpetual silence,
The new world is waiting for you, ready to light the way. Sitting back and watching the cold, unforgiving past simply fade away. New opportunities just waiting to be fullfilled. 
Why I write poetry? Why don't I write poetry? Why miss out on an opportunity to vent? Why not express the freedoms that I have? Why let inhibitions keep me down? Why keep emotions bottled up inside?
  Poetry. Seemed pointless to me. Why not just say what you mean. Instead of concealing your feelings behind Riddles and rhymes. It’s frustrating to understand. Just tell me how you feel!
Should I yell? Should I shout? Should I scream? Should I cry out?   Then will you hear me? But why can't you? Then will you understand me? But why won't you?  
Elpis
I am complicated. There is more to me than people realize. I have feelings. Do they know how much I care? Do they know how much it hurts? I am angry. Fuck everything and everyone. I am happy.
Poetry: My lifesupport, My lifeforce, My sweet, sweet savior, He is the one I crave; My one true, lone lover. With each line we scribe together He gently kisses the pain, The depression,
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
Can you feel it? The rhythm inside – My brainwaves take me for a ride. It pulses through my thoughts and makes Them twist until the thinking aches.
I never think of myself as a writer per se but as a young man, never really often expressing myself properly, I found writing to be a great way to communicate.
I I slam because I’m me And I’m me therefore I slam If you don’t get it I understand I’ll try and explain it as best as I can I’m not an artist That is plain to see If I’ve had a rough day
Show emotion? I can't Deep within my heart, Nice and tight, My emotions sleep; inaccessible I reach down Try to bring them out. Not far enough; buried too deep down. Therefore, I write.
The joyful The smile-fakers The simple The up to no good The believers The "special" The "I'm fine" The "I'm okay" The brave The strong The saved The depressed
Why do people write? To let the whole world see you from a new angel.
Step up, say your piece. Listen to my words. Hear me speak. Close your mouth and listen here. All these emotions I have bottled up, I've kept them to myself. I've shut up, but writing allows me to speak my mind.
Today I am feeling heartbeats in the earth beneath me, raising rubble with each thump. Pressing thumbs against against against the lips of liars only spreads suppression through their veins.
The Screams The constant reminders of who society expects me to be The dreaded tasks Work, School, Death Is there no in between? Ahh but there is That sweet sweet moment where you escape
I am a teenager I am young but feel so old around my peers I am alone with my elders I am whole with the gossip I abhor- my heart just seems to break. Thepressures irr irreg
guess this is how you master dancing with the stars a slew of ancient footprints in the sand So pirouette upon the roofs of houses made of cards sell scores of petrichor in little cans
Always that Lone Ranger Running with the bulls Every hour encountering trouble and undesirable stress. With a pen and paper, Life seems easier. The thrilling Savior of humanity That
I write poems because somethings are better said in letters, words, thought-out sentences. Where the reader is distilled, isolate, can not talk while reading, and can not refuse to understand my perspective or message.
A piece of clay lies on the table shapeless, but filled with info with knowledge that is barely stable ready, but nowhere to go
Some people experiences love others can only see it and write about it Love is scary Love is so scary At any given time your own lover can leave you without your permission
We allow these words to fly So that we may feel free Free from the thoughts that provoke pain Free from anxiety and free from shame.
I write because I can And without a fee, For writing is so special As it gives me glee. I know I’m not great But I’ll do my very best, And when you see me coming Don’t let it be like the rest.
I have thoughts that I often don speak I just keep them all inside not wanting anyone to know the real me, I write to express, to voice, to vent, with emotions that cant be seen like i'm living life behind tint.
So who said little girls weren’t worth it? Who ever said there was no such thing as superheroes?
You ask me why I write? I write because I am mortal I write because time is mine enemy you ask why I write? my name may not be remembered my words may not live on yet I still write
I've been wanting to cry. Wanting to let it all out. but I need not punch and pout Or to just scream and shout. Inside I dive into a flow. More gentle than a stream. where my rhymes just row,
Poetry is the foundation of the universe. It is the flow that moves rivers and streams along. It is the ground that laughing children run and play upon. It is the melody and harmony of the music that graces our ears.
Approached Seventh to the eighth, may kids will turn to faith, Fall school semester has begun, and there’s no where left to run slammed into my seat for the summer is done, we whip out our pencils and there’s no more fun
The sweet melody rings in my ears It touches my soul and it is sweet like sugar and honey It sends it golden notes flying through the air. It falls like rain on my soul, softly falls
I think i was eight when i started to appreciate a new world that had monsters, and dragons, and dungeons. It was colorful when i felt colorless insightful when i felt blind there when i wasn't
When thoughts weren't enough, I turned to you. When no one would listen, I turned to you. When no one understood, what my heart has been through I'd open this book, and I'd write to you.
I wrote, to make them happy I wrote, as recompense for being born
I recall being in grade school sitting at my desk while my teacher read these words to me, they were cool flowing and piecing together so well, certainly not a mess
This is for you— you who cannot escape, who wishes that dragons existed if only to heat your existence and give you reason to live and to breathe.
I write about the moments in life That are too complex for the spoken word, And I write to dissect every problem That I can't bear to inflict upon a friend. I write to express the misunderstood beauty
He writes, because sometimes...his pen and his piece of paper, are the only things he can heal through his words After advice from everyone else's life has left his lips...last pennies given to the poor
I write because the only letters written by them written on my own skin Every scar a lesson I taught myself not wanting to depend upon anything else My spoken words never coming out as I thought
So many inspiring people People who stand up for what they believe in The ones who punch their fists through walls just to make their point The ones who march for hours holding up signs so they can have their rights back
Am I gay? Homosexually or Happily which one? Answer the question Help me see what you see I feel like i have a choice here A choice so strong others may have to see it for me
The single millisecond before an embrace from a loved one, before I know how tight it will be, how much I will miss it when it leaves, never to be felt in the same way, or how much it will mean is my favorite moment.
Onion Peeling As I write poems, me myself is being peeled. One poem by one, I find my true voice. Going deeper and deeper, I find my identity. Like onion being peeled, I dive into my world.
There was a guy once. I thought I was in love with him. And when he surprised me with a breakup text, And my friends didn’t care to ask me about my feelings, I decided to write.
I write to be a liar. When words of concern squeeze me into concrete cracks I can assure you, I’m fine, It’s the girl on paper who needs saving.
Some days, there's a hole within: a gaping mouth, a wailing baby, an empty gnawing hole. Its crying maw draws me in, want to hold it, want to forget, want to feel the rain
At a young age words were power to me. Even if I never understood the meaning, the bigger the words the better they sounded. Focusing all that I was, am, and will be into each dynamic phrase.
I write to clear my head. I write to clear the air. I write so I can know what happened even if I wasn't there. I write in the morning and sometimes when I eat.
Why do I write? Seems a silly question. I write because I read. Nobody knows the beauty Of a blank page, Where anything can happen. Someone can be anyone. Teen girls solve mysteries,
Rowing, dipping the oars into diction Words I refrain from dripping Onto anything but paper— In case of them sinking.
I am so young but yet I feel so old The sun sits high but yet I feel so cold Sometime I question the route I chose I question what it is that I behold I wonder how things would unfold
For my whole being To come forth along paper Expression by pen.
Poetry is like a window Where nothing is hidden The transparency of it all Makes you go the far distance To show your true emotion Feels like your floating in an ocean The ease of your mind
Here it comes Then there it goes It came into my life when I needed it most
Mind, heart, pen and pad are the main ingredients. Easiest way to fight off my silent demons. My fave way to organize whatever I'm scheming.
The future is so uncertain Although there are days that it’s all I think about. Where will I be? What will I be doing? & more importantly who will be there? It’s crazy…
Poetry translates the words in my heart, feelings I hold inside longing to come out, I write because it is my way to fight, these words are the pits into my deepest feelings, an escape from this world,
Writing is my art, it is the way I sing when my pen moves, I spread my wings flying high above the Earth, the written word has me lifted my writing is magical;I feel truly gifted
tippity tap clickity clack fingers fly over the keys the pen brushes the page flowing boxy words form words that pour from the soul words that march from the heart My dreams and failures
Each sunrise highlights this ongoing battle of relapse and recovery In a world overruled by a constant roar of gunshots outside your window, It's hard to not check under your bed every night for monsters
I’m freeing the mind of a unspoken truth. Hands made free to move Eye’s not restricted to the structure of grammar Error is excepted and no longer matter Speaking words that were restrained from plot of speech
I opened my eyes To see a world unknown. Colors dancing Ideas Singing Blowing my mind to bits. I look at the new world This world where I am Free To be Me. To imagine
Build a wall around yourself. Barricaded like the ancient cities of Rome. Walking through the halls quietly with these words spinning through your head. Knitting a scarf so intricately bound expressing the sorrow of that day.
Some people buy those books, That are found at those stores. The books are hidden in nooks, And in cracks in the floors.
I am poetry, poetry is me. My life is a poem, written in reality. My emotions are the topic, my struggle is the comma.
Everyone I know can vouch that I have a mutant’s mind. Conversations end in judgmental gazes, Soaked in awkward silences, My cranium throbs,
Why do I write? I write so that our thoughts will then become a voice, A voice of power, reason, and of meaning, A means of expression that allows me to rid of my feelings,
Poesía eres tú y yo. Poesía es la luz como la oscura. La risa vivida hasta la muerte sufrida. Poesía nos conecta a los dos. Esto no es poesía, es solo un simple gesto sin gesto, o tal ves,
He dons a sunny Sunday suit Yellow and black Yellow and black He dons a sunny Sunday suit Color it, Pat Color it, Pat He is your creation He is your toy He dons what you dare draw,
Wrenched from the insides, pulled without any meaning, just words then. Anyone can have ‘just words.’ Dug out from silent, sad shells and exposed to worldly light, see the beauty
I choose my words because of their freedom the freedom they fought for they fought for me. I, too, am a warrior my weapons are my words. They are sharp and shocking, smooth and soothing.
My want to be a hero drove me to this art form called poetry An infestation of ungifted lyricist has has seeped into hip-hop and they are growing uncontrollably
If you were to ask me how I was introduced to poetry, I couldn’t tell you… It was as if it’s always been there to cure my needs, like the colors of an oak tree, or the majesty of an evening sunset.
Most say it is just words. Others say it's just for fun. Some just hear roars That leave it undone...
Tell me what to do Tell me what to say Shut my lips with glue Ignore me everyday Never able to act Always hiding Lying to hide the fact That I feel unsatisfying
When I was younger I witnessed Mamma crying in the midst of night Daddy would gaze out windows and nothing seemed right Big sister told me to go back to sleep knowing tomorrow I'd refuse to eat
A picture is worth a thousand words, Yet to craft your speech is a revered skill, I can go out now and capture birds, In a picture atop some hill, But to express what weighs down my mind,
The first to know The last to cry. The greatest smile The worse way to die.
They asked, "Will, why do you write?" -Because of my struggle, because of my fight and the yelling/screaming I hear at night for the same Micheal Jordan took flight same as the theory why the sun is so bright
Life is about power. The ebb and the flow, those that come and those who go, We all have power inside, but never enough to feel happy when we go to sleep at night.
poems help release the stress the pain the hurt and lonleyness it keeps me happy and sane thank you writing my stories and poems filling books and pages with heart felt word I need to get out
(poems go here) Living, breathing Seeking, seeing I am I no matter what the case Poetry has always been my face No matter what your race You can express yourself through a poem
(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
I write so I won't forget about you , I write when there's nothing else to do , the paper doesn't judge me or look at me strange when I'm myself. I write to be heard and listened to ,
One must think express live never rest fight be strong pursue push on
(poems go here) I wish to be a poet Written songs on a note My inner thoughts Of how I fought To right the wrong In a sweet song Rhyming and timing In tune with The moon
To give in within the social norms and forget how we were before would be asking the impossible, creating the identity, masked hide the dignity, and forget the past.
Writing poetry is a way to express physically my unexpressed verbal feelings. I write to show the deeper meaning of my feelings. Writing releases the anger, sadness, happiness, joy, and any other emotional feeling within me.
To the untrained eye I am flat static innocent simple. For the naïve I have nothing to give or teach or say because they see nothing and know not what to look for.
If you saw the me I am Instead of the me I wear You wouldn’t believe me If you saw the brokenness and tears Instead of the smiles and joy You wouldn’t like me
  I write for no other reason than I hate that blinking line with its taunting Disappearance And reappearance Its ability To Be And Not to be And then be again.
I didn't start on a stage. And i never could have guessed id be into poetry at a young age. I grew up with finger painting kids, The delinquents who chose popularity over education and the bully's.
Poetry. It’s one word that can say many things. It can express someone’s feelings. It can show someone’s pain. When it comes to poetry, anything can be said.
I write to be free, to express my pain I write to tell thoughts that drive me insane I write with joy, love, and care To describe what is fair and unfair To tell my tale of who I am
They say the eyes are a window to the soul. The painter’s creation is a reflection of the heart. Well my words are the expressions of my mind. When my nights would be so cold and my temper so hot.
Chains Chains Chains Chains Call for a need of change Born free Every child learns how to wear the manacles How to chain their minds to someone else's paradigm How to live with bent backs
Once there was a girl A girl like any other She was a quite girl, a shy girl The girl had friends She never felt she fit She was a lonely girl, a sad girl
why do I write? well its not for the money me with out writings like a bee without honey I write for my heart I write to stay sane I write to show my feelings and capture my pain.
Who am I? Because I'm struggling in a way that I don't understand, And I'm living in a world that relationships So easily become a misconception of a wholesome bond. I have this fleeting heart making me incapable.
I write for my brother Who is 13 years old, who is autistic, and wonderful
Never good with speaking, but always great with writing. Repressing what could not be said. Feeling alone and misunderstood. Trying to cover wounds that are never healing but expanding. These are the reasons I write.
I've been asked why I write, And to that I must reply, To this question in quite, "If I" format as to why... So I begin....
I write because I'm a liar. I write because I can't express my feelings. I write because the Earth rotates. I write because I'm alive. I write because people are judgamental.
The noise is all around us. Yet we live without listening, we speak without listening. I write to be heard. I write to feel the spine tingling adventure that is vivid in my mind but not in others.
What is the reason I write? The bold black words on crisp bright pages of white. Creating and integrating descriptive meanings while I kick back and enjoy other poets and my own readings.
I write to rid the roof of my mouth from words stuck thick in my throat stealing my breath suffocating any sane thoughts I might have left
A soul crushed beneath the weight of life Wings heavy with burdens Beating frustrations within a cage of flesh With labored breath and nowhere to turn Life a gaping hole, spilling across time The blood seeping
She lives a life of class and pride with secrets locked behind pearly white smiles Where beauty is her truth and stolen was her youth Poetry saved her life
The world was dead. I heard nothing, no sound, no slightest disruption But that voice inside my head. And it echoed words. Words that were poetry; Written words, but more than that They were alive.
I write to express. To express my happiness, pain, and suffering in my lifetime. I write to share. To share my story with those who have been through hell. I write to feel. To feel heartbreak and joy. I write to live.
I write poetry for the lack of words existing In a situation that cannot be explained in stories. Although I may lack a certain sense of rhythm Pure talent, whatever… When it comes to how lines sound on a page
Pressure is an odd thing, It really, truly is. Yes, pressure is an oddity Made by human hands. It can cut of your breathing And slow down yourself. It can make you feel restless
I am Poet, hear me roar. Widening are our eyes to poetry Widening to poetry through music, through words. We hear, we see, we can taste what's before us. We come to this place to put it out there
Here amongst phonemes and graphemes I can hide the truth. Words have the power to expose, But they also hold the power to conceal. Poetry lets me play outside the laws and boundaries of prose. I can neglect the period
In the unparalleled place, I finally attain Nor only courage abundant, I conquer the lions, Fighting the seemingly impossible, I am Alexander’s soldier, Ruthless to establish my empire.
When I feel for the disadvantaged I write, When there is chaos everywhere and I know the solution I write, When my brethren are brutally killed I write, To share the pain, to discover a solution,
I write to live. I write because I'm free The reason I write is to simply be. No one achieves the same style as me I like that whatever I write is unique I write to entertain and to share something deep
People ask me it everyday In my response I always say I write so my opinion will be heard With my words strong, like a sword. That is what I wish
In desperation, I leave words carved into IHOP napkins and left on nightstands. I would carve into the western cedar, but my pen is dull. I leave with words dripping down the hall in carbon-
I write to find relief that doesn't involve slashing skin. I write because my pen says the words that my mouth can't. I write because my paragraphs can't stutter. I write because
if our bodies are locks, then words are keys to all the little truths that we keep, hidden behind the eyes and smiles of seven billion trembling heartbeats. they are
I see the world through a tilted glass The lines and numbers taking on- A double meaning. The way I think makes a mad-chink In my cynical armor. For to breathe a poem back to life
I write to express the things I can’t say, The words that would cause me to break If I were to speak This is why I write. I write knowing that no one will read these words,
My heart is heavy, with sorrow and grief It needs time to heal It is desperate, starving for relief.
Brittle bones, shaking hands, forgotten. Sits broken like the world, spotted with age, wrapped in folds of time. At the brim ready to escape. To run from lips cracked and dry, the concrete that traps us.
Why do we write the things that we do? We feel as though our art gives us an emotional catharsis... A purge from our anger. Why do we write? It makes us feel better.
Writing is my escape A way to express my feelings Without actually speaking Writing is my escape When I am hurt I write through the pain
The words I write. I wish they were the worms to the apple, your mind, eating their way to the core. The hammers to your piano striking particular chords, Notes that clash like metal – D#/E
An inside of a rose, So fragile and smooth. My thoughts are enclosed, but down on paper it soothes.
It's who I am. How you feel, how you love, what you stand for, It's written in a symphony of words, that explains what you look for, how you explain yourself. It shows the world what's bottled up,
I walked a thin line And sometimes I stumbled, But it wasn’t until the day I spiraled into imminent darkness, That I opened my eyes and saw the surrounding loneliness. The black air I could taste,
Subjugated to emotional heights, My frail pre-teen mind succumbed to the sweet, underlying comfort a typewriter provides. I could throw my heart at something, without it being ripped to shreds,
I write to let out all the things that I cannot say in fear that I will get judged. I write to calm my nerves and to let myself know that I can’t give up.
I write to be Ambitious I write because I'm Notorious and When I'm feeling Glorious I write to Educate and To Lead with my Intelligence I write because I'm Caring I write to get through Anxiety
I write my feelings I write about my worries. When everything else seems unappealing I write in a hurry. When nothing else calms me My poems are my refuge. Inspiration blooms forth from my mind
I see faces each day The same faces that pass by the same way Nothing, nothing is all I say My lips quiver but my voice is nothing but a weak mocking squeak
I wake up, hit play and start. Listening to what I hear is art. I jump and dance and sing along, I'm not sure what it is about this song. Is it the amazing chord progression or melody?
At 15 I discovered what silence meant. I wrapped myself in the absence of my brother’s voice and let it smother me. I was 18 before I remembered that I had something to say. I press ink to paper the way
Poetry. Like pictures, it creates a visual. Poetry.
Rollercoaster in my head Twisting roadmap in four dimensions Crumbling, rebuilding Rebuilt. Unsuitable for more concrete mediums.
I write because I have a life to save, One that used to look quite grave.
The pain that throbs inside of me The thing that keeps me from losing myself The feelings that I write down to express myself The musical lyrics behind my true feelings.
At the starting of the week Things seem a little bit bleak My parents are upset Over something pitifully unnecessary I bet I’m near dead tired I pray for the next “holiday”, even that I get fired Not that it would make much of a difference If you
Why I write seems such a complex question to pose, With so many shimmering answers to reply with that shout for attention, In my soul.
River flows by Like years of my life A school of faith Where someone showed me why The words flow like water Water of forgiveness Flowing faster and faster When the mind's just a mess
Why do I write? Why do I breathe? Why do I fight? Why do babies teeth? It's the circle of life It's just how things go A man grows up, finds a wife If you don't cut your hair you'll grow a fro
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.
What is that emotion? Locking the words in, compressing the thoughts, your feelings seeping through your heart. Turning tides of complexity in your soul, making your muscles stiff and numb.
You rejoice, you cry, you fear, you rant, you tire. you scream, you laugh, you whisper. Eyes open, eyes closed. Endless silence. Eternal silence. No one hears. There is a savior. There is a solution.
Poetry is cocaine Poetry is heroin Poetry is the Addiction that keeps you coming back for more Poetry is the escape Poetry is the getaway Poetry is the superhero
I never thought I was that girl The girl perpetually attached to her steno pad with a backpack full of ink pens and dreams But once the words started flowing Relief came over me
I refuse to inflict pain, But I simply want to feel. I want the hurt to end, But the pain comes back again. There are healthy ways to deal, I know. But the temptation is so strong.
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.
The email appeared in my inbox. "You have a new scholarship available," it said; I didn't want to write about a bunch of schlock, So I chose to be truthful instead. I really don't care much for poems,
Echos of the past Linger in my ear Whispering their written words. I remember the first time Dickinson's words framed before me, "I am nobody. Who are you?" Who am I? I didn't know then.
You ask me why I write? I'd be glad to tell you so, it's not for fame, that dangerous bird, no it's really not for show. It's not so that others may read, and say "Oh I can relate,"
One lonely ink drop, in the midst of chaos. The words are moving. They’re dancing like sunbeams chasing each other’s tails. They’re jumping and laughing they’ve got secrets to tell.
Why do I write? Why do the birds sing? Why does the moon smile at the sun and dance for him every night?
I write for the joys that life brings right after the pain, just like seeing the sunshine after the rain. I write to comfort those who read and for those who want to put their weary minds at ease.
To me, poetry means coming out of your shell, Opening your world to other people, Expressing yourself, being yourself. Writing poetry is just another way of crying, Without having to use your tear ducts.
The tempting call of a blank screen on my computer urges my fingers to type away. Many ideas flow through my mind; making themselves at home in the world of my imagination.
Words are a web of tangled imperfections Different in their composition and order Each a heartbeat in a symphony of chaos Yet when they intersect they become one All differences aside, they collide.
I cannot control any emotion that floods through my head It suddenly became a devotion And the hunger was well fed When my mind feels heavy I put my pen to paper It may not occur daily
Time to go, time to run, time to work, and time for fun. Time for life time to laugh time to cry there are times for others then there are times for me times to think
The trick to being shameless that is, letting go of shame    doubt seeded in your heart waiting to grow with every sunrise   is to cast it out for the scrutiny of faceless strangers – necessity for me
That one kid that one kid who is quiet and kind that one kid who is different in the mind that one kid who is oft ignored that one kid who couldn't see why.
When you try you're relieved, free, knowing they all believed. To save our world from hurt, temptation,and lies. Our history is slipping, disappearing, and flying. Technology springing with such rise.
Have you ever breathed life In to a few letters, So artfully They jumped off The paper?
Words on a page: deceptively simple. Some ink, scratches, lines and dots; but small and still, they whisper and ripple of life, beauty, feelings and thoughts.
The freedom to fly across the keys, to describe a thought to express a feeling, These actions are recent luxuries once limited and criminalized;
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
I do not lack independence, initiative, ambition. I do not rely on Hallmark moments and Nicholas Sparks movies to live out my teenage dreams in a fabricated reality.
Do you write because you like the way that people look at you when you say, proudly, I am a poet or is it because there is a girl or a boy (or anyone) in your life that you want to hear your insides,
Back when life rampaged me, Sent demons to attack me. As it continues to do today. My only escape is the text I imagine. The diction that is obsolete from normal thought.
Everyone has that teacher that influenced and made them bright mine guided and focused me and she is why I write   I fell in love with the art of words how they can express and sometimes be trite
If never a pencil had graced my hand, How would I know myself? A mirror, while great and grand, Could never pierce beyond my eyes. So silent is their murky stealth.
Flowing like a river, smooth as song Yet powerful as the weapons of war Like the atomb bomb. Words destroy and pierce like the tip of a sword but fewer things bring greater hope or healing,
Sometimes I need time Time for just me Time to let my thoughts run free That's when I turn to poetry
Everyone always tells you to write what you know but honestly why can’t I just write what I don’t know don’t see can’t understand because I truly believe that’s what makes us honorable as poets
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
When I write a story I'm writing another world that people can dive into and escape from their own troubles. I write so that people can hear me.
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.
in the beginning, this was my mind: a grey slab of clay. it spun smoothly; the surface immaculate.
Feathers warming and tickling the heart, Or maybe air, lifting it up Higher than the sun! Not happy or sad, Just good, full, light With a terrible aching for more, Though I already have it,
Why do you write? So you can hear me Why do you write? So maybe you'll understand me. Why do you write? to express the feelings from deep within that I cannot form my lips to say. Why do you write?
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