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Written by Soulhearts in portal Poetry & Free Verse

I Write

I write of rain and clouds

of how they pelt and play

I write of flowers and petals

of their beauty and decay

I write of rivers and oceans

of their quiet and raging storms

I write of butterflies and dragonflies

of their curiosity and humbleness

I write of mountains and hills

of their strength and steadfastness

I write of trees and the wind

of their resilience and permanence

I write of sunsets and sunrises

of their goodbye's and hello's

I write of the moon and the stars

of their darkness and light

Can you tell by now

If you read between the lines

that all I write about

are simply nothing

but all about you

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Written by Soulhearts in portal Poetry & Free Verse
I Write
I write of rain and clouds
of how they pelt and play

I write of flowers and petals
of their beauty and decay

I write of rivers and oceans
of their quiet and raging storms

I write of butterflies and dragonflies
of their curiosity and humbleness

I write of mountains and hills
of their strength and steadfastness

I write of trees and the wind
of their resilience and permanence

I write of sunsets and sunrises
of their goodbye's and hello's

I write of the moon and the stars
of their darkness and light

Can you tell by now
If you read between the lines
that all I write about
are simply nothing
but all about you
#poetry  #writing  #spirituality  #nature 
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I got this idea from a poetry workshop I went to yesterday: Write a poem about what your words do. "My words change" or "My words never lie" for example. Make it as creative as you want! And tag me @LiberalPoet.
Written by OnyxCity in portal Poetry & Free Verse

The Writer, Or Just the Pen

And off they go - in fits and starts they yell.

Or sometimes in soft tones they will reveal

a creature bidden from the depths of Hell

or hidden gems of beauty most surreal.

But when I call they seem to flit away,

like frightened birds upon a shaken bough.

Their absence brings a fear I can’t allay,

that ne’er again will they be with me now.

Then all at once - ah, yes! They have returned,

although they whisper so I barely hear.

And my heart swells - my love they have not spurned -

and slowly doubt can start to disappear.

I strain to hear what tale they bring to mind,

with pen in hand, and paper ready, too.

First one word comes, then several more in kind -

a timid trickle soon becomes a slew.

And those words tell the story of a man,

the picture floats before my very eyes.

I write as fast as any writer can

of journeys that unfold ‘neath clear blue skies.

The words, they tell me what should happen next -

I write of heroes, demons, souls possessed.

Of magic lands and old, forgotten texts,

and gentle maidens lonely and distressed.

The story ends as lovers part in death.

The words tell of a noble sacrifice.

I bring to life the hero’s dying breath.

With poignant words he’s sent to paradise.

And with “The End,” I slump and cry out loud,

without the will to read or write or speak.

I feel not joyous or relieved or proud.

I loved that hero - his death leaves me bleak.

At last I ask myself, “What is this, then?”

the paper drooping limply in my hand.

“Am I the writer? Or am I a pen

that just obeys the words' every command?"

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I got this idea from a poetry workshop I went to yesterday: Write a poem about what your words do. "My words change" or "My words never lie" for example. Make it as creative as you want! And tag me @LiberalPoet.
Written by OnyxCity in portal Poetry & Free Verse
The Writer, Or Just the Pen
And off they go - in fits and starts they yell.
Or sometimes in soft tones they will reveal
a creature bidden from the depths of Hell
or hidden gems of beauty most surreal.
But when I call they seem to flit away,
like frightened birds upon a shaken bough.
Their absence brings a fear I can’t allay,
that ne’er again will they be with me now.
Then all at once - ah, yes! They have returned,
although they whisper so I barely hear.
And my heart swells - my love they have not spurned -
and slowly doubt can start to disappear.
I strain to hear what tale they bring to mind,
with pen in hand, and paper ready, too.
First one word comes, then several more in kind -
a timid trickle soon becomes a slew.
And those words tell the story of a man,
the picture floats before my very eyes.
I write as fast as any writer can
of journeys that unfold ‘neath clear blue skies.
The words, they tell me what should happen next -
I write of heroes, demons, souls possessed.
Of magic lands and old, forgotten texts,
and gentle maidens lonely and distressed.
The story ends as lovers part in death.
The words tell of a noble sacrifice.
I bring to life the hero’s dying breath.
With poignant words he’s sent to paradise.
And with “The End,” I slump and cry out loud,
without the will to read or write or speak.
I feel not joyous or relieved or proud.
I loved that hero - his death leaves me bleak.
At last I ask myself, “What is this, then?”
the paper drooping limply in my hand.
“Am I the writer? Or am I a pen
that just obeys the words' every command?"
#fantasy  #poetry  #words  #writing  #mindofthewriter 
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Written by poeticasymptote in portal Poetry & Free Verse

Poet-Muse

the world is my poet

the world is my muse

I am thy poet

I am thy muse

read and be read

be what thou choose

words to regret

words to refuse

poems that we get

poems that we lose

the world is thy poet

the world is thy muse

be thou my poet

be thou my muse

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Written by poeticasymptote in portal Poetry & Free Verse
Poet-Muse
the world is my poet
the world is my muse

I am thy poet
I am thy muse

read and be read
be what thou choose

words to regret
words to refuse

poems that we get
poems that we lose

the world is thy poet
the world is thy muse

be thou my poet
be thou my muse
#romance  #poetry  #philosophy  #writing  #love 
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Written by poeticasymptote in portal Micropoetry

Often

Oft a poem's hid in a drop of tear,

Oft out of poet's reluctance, for fear

Oft of muse's habit to disappear.

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Written by poeticasymptote in portal Micropoetry
Often
Oft a poem's hid in a drop of tear,
Oft out of poet's reluctance, for fear
Oft of muse's habit to disappear.
#poetry  #philosophy  #writing  #opinion  #sadpoems 
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Written by InkArtist in portal Poetry & Free Verse

~we are of similar fingers

a letter to god-

 

 

 

the darkening clouds press against an unholy blue

& a gospel of crows from the cornfields

sing their daily devotion in d minor

 

 

there is pressure in my lungs, father

for I have sinned

a thinness of air, shallow with grief

& I'm emptied of belief that there lies

any beauty in a woman who wears

two faces

 

 

& if I am, perhaps, a shadow, a ghost

a previous apparition or a future prediction

a grey blemish on an ultrasound

wishing to be born again

will you fill the absence in my arteries

with an aperture of threnody

& two thirds red ink

so I can bleed verse

on the pages of my skin

 

 

rebirth me a poet, father

turn my eyes east past spent bone

& collective sighs

that I might write the measurement

of trust found in wind

& stand beside me, us two, barefoot

among wilted petals

so I can touch the laboring ground

the crab apple rooted for fruit

& miles draped in lavender

 

 

father, cup hands to my ears

that I might hear the flutesongs echo

in distant valleys of valediction

the cracking sounds of a doe & fawn

sojourning in summer's forest

call of a meadowlark

in fall's forgiving rustle of leaves

 

 

rebirth me a poet, father

& I shall write the meaning of the moon

 

 

its pure white soul forever hanging on

 

 

lah  3.6.14 ©®

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Written by InkArtist in portal Poetry & Free Verse
~we are of similar fingers
a letter to god-
 
 
 
the darkening clouds press against an unholy blue
& a gospel of crows from the cornfields
sing their daily devotion in d minor
 
 
there is pressure in my lungs, father
for I have sinned
a thinness of air, shallow with grief
& I'm emptied of belief that there lies
any beauty in a woman who wears
two faces
 
 
& if I am, perhaps, a shadow, a ghost
a previous apparition or a future prediction
a grey blemish on an ultrasound
wishing to be born again
will you fill the absence in my arteries
with an aperture of threnody
& two thirds red ink
so I can bleed verse
on the pages of my skin
 
 
rebirth me a poet, father
turn my eyes east past spent bone
& collective sighs
that I might write the measurement
of trust found in wind
& stand beside me, us two, barefoot
among wilted petals
so I can touch the laboring ground
the crab apple rooted for fruit
& miles draped in lavender
 
 
father, cup hands to my ears
that I might hear the flutesongs echo
in distant valleys of valediction
the cracking sounds of a doe & fawn
sojourning in summer's forest
call of a meadowlark
in fall's forgiving rustle of leaves
 
 
rebirth me a poet, father
& I shall write the meaning of the moon
 
 
its pure white soul forever hanging on
 

 



lah  3.6.14 ©®
#poetry  #reflection  #writing  #spirituality  #memories  #thoughts  #personal  #introspection  #emptiness 
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Written by Intimacycolours

my life

is such a mess

the dust

has no place

to lay

i keep my mind

cluttered

so that there is no

room for you

m.l. awad

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Written by Intimacycolours
my life
is such a mess
the dust
has no place
to lay

i keep my mind
cluttered
so that there is no
room for you

m.l. awad
#poetry  #words  #poem  #writing  #love  #coping  #poet  #wordporn  #shortpoem  #mess 
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Written by InkArtist in portal Poetry & Free Verse

~sobering thoughts

don’t come to her at 6am

 

 

before she’s intoxicated on caffeine

and triple shots of dark rum, until a

warm tingle spreads as it creeps up her

cold thighs and pulses like inspiration

to an artist’s veins

 

 

don’t come to her unless she’s high

 

 

she’s much too intimate with her addiction

the way she lets it kiss her skin

nibble on her nicotine stained fingers

 

 

and her freedom

 

 

her typewriter dust is like a toxic concoction

of pharmaceuticals and street chalk

straw sucked and exhilarating

 

 

and don’t expect her to come to you

or come for you

 

 

she stays behind the wet crumble of

cardboard walls, writing with needles

wondering if that wretched smell is

piss or poison

 

 

 

lah  9.21.11 ©®

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Written by InkArtist in portal Poetry & Free Verse
~sobering thoughts
don’t come to her at 6am
 
 
before she’s intoxicated on caffeine
and triple shots of dark rum, until a
warm tingle spreads as it creeps up her
cold thighs and pulses like inspiration
to an artist’s veins
 
 
don’t come to her unless she’s high
 
 
she’s much too intimate with her addiction
the way she lets it kiss her skin
nibble on her nicotine stained fingers
 
 
and her freedom
 
 
her typewriter dust is like a toxic concoction
of pharmaceuticals and street chalk
straw sucked and exhilarating
 
 
and don’t expect her to come to you
or come for you
 
 
she stays behind the wet crumble of
cardboard walls, writing with needles
wondering if that wretched smell is
piss or poison
 
 

 
lah  9.21.11 ©®
#poetry  #writing  #alcohol  #drugs  #thoughts  #personal  #addiction  #raw  #bukowskiesque  #hank 
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Written by InkArtist in portal Poetry & Free Verse

~hypethral

 

i. december

 

 

with nothing left to harvest

of a chillblain night

old stars burn swiftly

and collapse to metaphors

 

tremor my memory's edge

          like tongues

keeping conversation with

palsied premonitions

 

it's as if even a rusted moon resists

the imperfections of my half-naked

bones

a slight shift of light

an unraveling of reasons

 

seasons shuttered

to a darkened house

 

the familiar blur

 

 

 

ii. january

 

 

hourly, through this relentless

cold baptism 

I stoke the backfire

 

underneath the kindling of napalm

and molecules smolders

a consummation

 

a cause and effect

 

the escaping dark column 

creates a cloudbank

          some kind of smokescreen

that passes by my half-sighted pane

 

perhaps pollution of the dead

hours

 

an inarticulate darkening

 

 

 

iii. february

 

 

cancel now this grieving 

from my green eyes

 

contain all things off white

and winter-wounded

or remain widowed black

buried beneath a grey-haired horizon

 

eavesdrop from that cemented ceiling

to a voice unearthed

a reversal of sighs

as if the sound of leaden trees

          all bare-armed and longing

becomes an allegory of nous

 

an unlikely song

 

 

 

iv. march

 

 

as slow as sunday snow

I shred the advancing shadows

of eleven hours of damp ink

and build a papernest

vowing to become a bird

- uncaged

 

feathers preened, softened for flight

pulled the same way virgin petals stare

sunward

 

like pillars of melting smoke

find me now

          released

my slowfade into blue

 

I am wingspread

 

 

 

 

 

 

lah  1.28.14 ©®

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Written by InkArtist in portal Poetry & Free Verse
~hypethral


 
i. december
 
 
with nothing left to harvest
of a chillblain night
old stars burn swiftly
and collapse to metaphors
 
tremor my memory's edge
          like tongues
keeping conversation with
palsied premonitions
 
it's as if even a rusted moon resists
the imperfections of my half-naked
bones
a slight shift of light
an unraveling of reasons
 
seasons shuttered
to a darkened house
 
the familiar blur
 
 
 
ii. january
 
 
hourly, through this relentless
cold baptism 
I stoke the backfire
 
underneath the kindling of napalm
and molecules smolders
a consummation
 
a cause and effect
 
the escaping dark column 
creates a cloudbank
          some kind of smokescreen
that passes by my half-sighted pane
 
perhaps pollution of the dead
hours
 
an inarticulate darkening
 
 
 
iii. february
 
 
cancel now this grieving 
from my green eyes
 
contain all things off white
and winter-wounded
or remain widowed black
buried beneath a grey-haired horizon
 
eavesdrop from that cemented ceiling
to a voice unearthed
a reversal of sighs
as if the sound of leaden trees
          all bare-armed and longing
becomes an allegory of nous
 
an unlikely song
 
 
 
iv. march
 
 
as slow as sunday snow
I shred the advancing shadows
of eleven hours of damp ink
and build a papernest
vowing to become a bird
- uncaged
 
feathers preened, softened for flight
pulled the same way virgin petals stare
sunward
 
like pillars of melting smoke
find me now
          released
my slowfade into blue
 
I am wingspread
 
 
 
 
 

 
lah  1.28.14 ©®
#poetry  #reflection  #writing  #memories  #thoughts  #personal  #introspection  #sadness  #retrospection  #vignettes 
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Written by InkArtist in portal Micropoetry

~forecasting

I wonder if sky waits

for a storm to arrive

the way a poet waits

for words

both expecting to claim

the rain

both beguiled by

the bending air

lah  4.18.16 ©®

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Written by InkArtist in portal Micropoetry
~forecasting







I wonder if sky waits
for a storm to arrive
the way a poet waits
for words

both expecting to claim
the rain
both beguiled by
the bending air









lah  4.18.16 ©®
#poetry  #reflection  #writing  #nature  #thoughts  #personal  #micropoetry 
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Why Do You Write? As a writer who understands the multitude of reasons why people have started to become writers I really want to know what makes you want to write. Consider this a way for me to get to know more about you as a writer!
Written by Lucianowrites in portal Nonfiction

Why Do I Write?

This is unusual but I am going to put down my own entry here. I really want to get to know people who create the high quality content Prose is known for.

For me writing is one of the ultimate skills capable of constantly improving and even capable of transforming ones life when used properly by brave individuals who are both fearless and determined to change their lives through writing. 

Writing is my favorite thing to do. I love to spend hours at a keyboard typing something witty, something well-researched, and eventually sharing it with the world through the internet. I am happy I live in an age where my age is not capable of preventing me from writing and being taken seriously as a writer. I am happy I live in an age where through the internet my writing is capable of being seen and reacted to, without any barriers. 

I write for a variety of reasons. Depending on my mood I can write to educate people, or I can write to get people to take my arguments seriously (and to come to the same conclusions I have), or solely to entertain. I also possess an unshakable belief that writing is a tremendous skill and one that can change lives and even the world, particularly in this age where even language is no longer an obstacle to those who are truly determined to overcome it. Writing now matters more than ever because the barriers to entry to writing are fading away now more than ever. No longer is age a factor for serious writers, or language, or even the lack of a publisher.  

I write because I want to leave a mark on the world around me. I want to do this through entertainment, through education, and through affecting how people think. I want to challenge how people think. I want to make people reconsider their positions, while also granting them entertainment. I want people to consider new positions and challenges to their beliefs seriously, while giving them something in return: entertainment. For me writing quality literature is entertaining and reading writing of high quality is also entertainment. 

I write because writing enables me to strength my voice. I write because through writing I can change minds and converse seriously with other historians, with other thinkers and people who believe they can use their writing to shape their reality. It's remarkable to me that I can write this freely and I intend to use that as much as I can, and eventually I believe I'll be able to make a living through my own writing. 

I would love to know why you write! 

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Why Do You Write? As a writer who understands the multitude of reasons why people have started to become writers I really want to know what makes you want to write. Consider this a way for me to get to know more about you as a writer!
Written by Lucianowrites in portal Nonfiction
Why Do I Write?
This is unusual but I am going to put down my own entry here. I really want to get to know people who create the high quality content Prose is known for.

For me writing is one of the ultimate skills capable of constantly improving and even capable of transforming ones life when used properly by brave individuals who are both fearless and determined to change their lives through writing. 

Writing is my favorite thing to do. I love to spend hours at a keyboard typing something witty, something well-researched, and eventually sharing it with the world through the internet. I am happy I live in an age where my age is not capable of preventing me from writing and being taken seriously as a writer. I am happy I live in an age where through the internet my writing is capable of being seen and reacted to, without any barriers. 

I write for a variety of reasons. Depending on my mood I can write to educate people, or I can write to get people to take my arguments seriously (and to come to the same conclusions I have), or solely to entertain. I also possess an unshakable belief that writing is a tremendous skill and one that can change lives and even the world, particularly in this age where even language is no longer an obstacle to those who are truly determined to overcome it. Writing now matters more than ever because the barriers to entry to writing are fading away now more than ever. No longer is age a factor for serious writers, or language, or even the lack of a publisher.  

I write because I want to leave a mark on the world around me. I want to do this through entertainment, through education, and through affecting how people think. I want to challenge how people think. I want to make people reconsider their positions, while also granting them entertainment. I want people to consider new positions and challenges to their beliefs seriously, while giving them something in return: entertainment. For me writing quality literature is entertaining and reading writing of high quality is also entertainment. 

I write because writing enables me to strength my voice. I write because through writing I can change minds and converse seriously with other historians, with other thinkers and people who believe they can use their writing to shape their reality. It's remarkable to me that I can write this freely and I intend to use that as much as I can, and eventually I believe I'll be able to make a living through my own writing. 

I would love to know why you write! 
#writing  #motivation  #meta  #writingaboutwriting 
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