Poets

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My Paris begins with  Those early days  As a conscious flâneur; I recall the couple  On the Metro,   When I was still innocent  Of its labyrinthine complexities;  
Was always scared to talkHardly ever showed my emotionsHated being called on duringclass in fear of being wrong
Was always scared to talkHardly ever showed my emotionsHated being called on duringclass in fear of being wrong
A blurry future isn't a motivation to do better But leave today better than yesterday And even though we don't know what tomorrow looks like Make sure you go at it with your all
Words always slipped in Clouding my head so easily But now It's you Weaving circles Telling tales Pestering my thoughts (Never leaving me alone) And words leave my tongue
The onyx of my eye confesses on this page:soft and torn with a leaking edge,My breath sinks into creamy lines:a fusion of cursive, print,and shallows of wine,My lashes accumulate dust
Gitara, Thank you for your qualities. You’re kind and you see me for me.
do you think the three a.m. sky became jealous of us that night? do you  suppose that this is the  reason the constellations  drifted a little closer?   closer?    closer still?
We're all a bunch of dreamers Some of us advid drinkers Novelists write collections of lies I write the truth before it dies The sweet prose that I can make drip sense Or fall into a senseless abyss
confinment  to this body, this place, this time  doomed to live this day  over and over again    a wave crashes on to shore  steady as the old grandfather clock  the path worn down to dust 
i know wandering and weeping poetswith hardened eyes but gentle souls,and i know happy poets who tookthe world and gave it a heart, somebroken poets who healed up well,some who don't want me to write
The love we shared was shattered in pieces When I placed your photos in my book's creases I was torn apart when it all ended Badly crmupled and emty-handed   I knew it was the last goodbye
I used to be afraid. Afraid to feel Afraid to cry. It’s funny though, I’ve never been afraid to die.
The abstract art of writing Some with a rhyme and a rythym Others with- no. beat at all Splashes             Of
A year ago,I would have done anything to make you stay.A year ago,I had it all in the palm of my handto have it all fall apart six months later.  
Perhaps, In another life I stood a king. Or I just a slave. I was underneath the eagles's wing. Maybe, a sea-shell swept away; a wave.
The purest of thoughts are the ugliest in kindThe prettiest of faces have the darkest of mindsIt is a fact, or maybe a foul But the most hurt of people have the brightest of smiles
Muses are supposed to be: soft, loving; passionate, burning;   But you are: lost, looking.   Your eyes are wide open, always searching; you see everything, but find nothing.
The potency of a poem   An omen to thought provoking    More pungent than potions    More hungry than the wolf is   Ancient, long before the Romans  
A car loses control and hits a baby. Reporters swirl around the dying innocence, Like vultures around potential demise. I grab my pen and write, I grab my laptop and type, I grab my phone and tweet
I’m not much of a poet But then other times I think Maybe I am if Only in some ways   In a rush or a trickle When I least expect them to Words have a way of Flying from my hands  
True love’s kiss, first experienced through written words. First of all kinds memorialized in the pages between her fingers.   At home with the ink stained paper.
p { margin-bottom: 0.1in; line-height: 120%; } In third grade, They handed me a poetry book And I found it terribly boring. I was a child of prose, reading stories of adventures And faraway lands.
It's funny how life picks you up, puts you down Holds you steady,then spin you round. It makes you Laugh, it makes you cry, It'll be like this til the day you die.   It numbs my body it numbs my mind.
I was lead  To the path. Of poetry. By some famous war poets. Siegfried Sassoon and Winfred Owen. And Cpl Robert Lin Cook USMC. Poem Tarawa of his youth.
Some poets have written About their governments Before on issues of their day. Soon, it will be politics as usual. Slamming the character. Of a political opponent.
Are the Gods gift to the world. Some famous and some just common folks.   Poets are descents of story-tellers. All poets see a need, to be told.   Some poems are serious.
    The rustic life, pastoral scenes,    the basis of idyllic dreams    the simple ways of nature come,    its harmony in total sum.    These country settings, warm and real,
How is it that all of us poets live separate lives, never meeting, never speaking, never working together, yet our voices are so similar? The way we all write, there is something that unites us,
Don’t fall in love with a writer Don’t believe them when they say they love you, don’t believe their sorrys
If you do not feel anything When your fingers touch a keyboard   You are not a poet   If there is not the slightest rhythm From the syllables stampeding In a Socratic circle
  Every story needs an endthat's why were here my friend
Is love like a creation?, Is it like a sketch?, 
So There’s this idea that Poets are old white men, rich enough to sit around writing monotonous lines. Like since when did we become Congress? See, poetry…poetry is for the people. Clint Eastwood’s got cameras.
They say poets make the best lovers Or, that’s what I think.
For what I do not seeFor what you doFor what we encounterFor what they don't   To see delightTo see wonderTo see imperfectionTo see warnings  
There was a fire alive in my body Your words had reached deep into me and twisted my soul into contorted shapes Filled with desire I had never know you to pen such meanings from the heart
To my future daughter You will know that you are a queen from the moment you are concieved till you rest your head against the silk linen of your eternal crib
The pain of the world strapped to their ankles a poet is weighed down.   Weighed down like cotton bales strapped to hunched backs; stone uprooted by torn cuticles and nails
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
Pen to paper, ink to letter, Word to phrase, line after line, Rhythm and rhyme, beating in time, Meaning so fine, inspiriation mine, Never will quit, the heart of the poet, Starts when he knows it,
  When I was younger, my favorite poet was Sylvia Plath. I liked her because I related when she wrote about the weight of all the lives she wasn't living and her life under the fig tree.  
Your words slide past me, dance beyond me, tease at the edges of my imagination before disappearing from the pages of my mind.   I see ages in your eyes and pain in your hearts.
Why do we write? To tell others of the sorrows we go through as people? To share with the world how high and mighty we show ourseleves to others but deep down we sore lower then the ground itself? 
  My words flow on paper,the stress loses its leash. Allowing me to be vulnerablewithout the lost of dignity. The pen and the paperbecomes the doctor.
I Remember My exploration of limericks, stanzas started at poets drawn from shavings of high ambition. Fragmented dreams, misplaced desires etched with ink onto my Incomplete storyboard.  
Words flowing from you effortlessly Bringing beauty to the unpretty Light and life to the dark But I must say sweet, gentle poet
Stay silent Sit straight Perfect hair Perfect teeth Perfect body Perfect house\perfect friends ` Perfect parents Perfect! Perfect! Perfect!
For all the heartbroken teenage poets whose hearts are filled with unspoken rhymes, for the lovelorn adolescent authors whose beloved words are spoken out of time,
I am a poet, Poetry creates magic, My words are magic.
It is a disease, a sickness, a monster that grips you when you least expect it. It shows its self through flat characters and erased paragraphs,
  I find it much more difficult to write To tap tap tap into my own mind To indulge my words and to delight In the soft and sweet poetic kind   A man I knew, or did one time
You don't where I come from You don't know what I've been through You don't know how many nights I Stayed up crying for you You just think this is a game But you're the one to realy blame
Running down a dirt street With my bare feet Holding on your hand As tight as I can And never letting go Running from my past And going to the future Running through time ain't a bad crime
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