-A poet in heat-
Ink carries its own tale,
When moonshine intoxicates your pen
Bottles of ink fill your mind
Composing symphonies on every line
Drops of passion all over the mask you wear
Nothing compares to black stains and broken nails
This part of you
"A CAN'T BE REMOVED" tattoo
The tough skin you'll ever live in
Fountain pens of split identities
Who Are You?
Sinking words like no other
Poisoned ink piercing every rhyme
Inferior poet, making the heart pure
Anger plus anger "GIVE ME MORE!"
You have a desire to paint all day,
Breathing and beating in every way
Toxic lines, from which ink flows
Inhaling images from the world
Deep and cold sorrowed emotions
True love is always easy to poetize
Dear Poet: "Ink Never Lies."
Pretty pink acrostic ink when she's nearby
Sugar and salt, Epic taste of reality
Ballads sang under the full moon
Sunny Sonnets, on any rainy day
Ode's of rivers from your past
A dark smile jotting down memory lane
Monologue tears brought under pressure
Loading cartridges of fresh Senryu and Haiku"
Dramatic red runs through your veins when all is done
Unfolding old and new propaganda's
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
((Only this, and nothing more))
Writing is like giving birth
Copyright © Poet Destroyer A
The swordsman who draws his blade
Heart racing at the keening of steel on scabbard
Tension coiled, poised for the unleashing
Held back by muscles tight with glee.
I am as the soldier, held in stance,
The lioness crouched beneath the concealing grass
As it sways back and forth, as insects sing along the day
Her every breath is halted, her veins do not pulse,
And just as the swordsman stands
They are statues in this moment,
Statues of derision,
Mocking, with their stillness, the very charged tension within.
And I am as the lioness frozen before her pounce
Coiled with motivation and purpose,
And I am as the tongue held with words clinging off its’ edge
Ready to lash out and strike with direction
But I am as the frozen purpose, held tight
Waiting, for a warrior to stand before me
For a reason to uncoil, to lash out with words and pounce.
But I am now as the pen halting before the purest of paper
White and supple, in askance for the lightest touch
A slash of the tip, drawing lines in ink
Lines like a hunter’s bowstring, taut with intent,
As the pen lies frozen above its prey, the falcon petrified aloft still winds
I am the need coiled tight like a wound jack in the box
But alas, there is no victim to frighten,
No pray to pounce upon, no sword or bared neck to slash against
And I am here, with pen frozen, ink ready to be drawn taut
And I have nothing to draw in the ink, no prey or purpose to evoke
I am coiled tight with energy, but it is release that so eludes me,
I am coiled tight with purpose, but it is direction that so denies me.
And here I am, pouncing at ground before me,
Slicing away at the air around me
Scratching away with a dry pen, on paper still white in askance
I write about…
I write about the coil within, and the lack without
And alone I wonder,
Is it enough, is it enough to go on, a wound up box
Waiting for the slightest touch, the weakest parry, to live.
Copyright © Samir Georges
The missing light,
That love comes again...
Are like a hard glide,
In a shining rainbow's light...
All dreams and fantasies,
Can be reality,
Is based on reality...
But all histories aren't the same...
Sometimes, we dive,
In our lives...
For what you see,
For what it is...,
'Cause time passes,
But, memories remain...
To your heart,
The body, does,
The mind, thinks,
And, the heart, feels...,
While, the soul, lives...
To remember the past,
To live the present,
And to wait and pursue the future...
Listen to your heart,
Before you are telling goodbye,
Might lead to demise...,
But, remember that destiny can be changed...
Life is unpredictable,
But space and time,
Could be controlled...
And even if some die,
We may survive...
Might have an endless beginning...
All that remains,
Is to be reborn...
Copyright © Ruben A. Hernandez Diaz
Your captivating sonnet, a single verse then
two, the words I write seem not quite right
compared to the ones from you
I've often used too many, and consume your
point of view, your ability to say so much
by using just a few
Thank you Mr. Shakespeare for a friend I met
today, because of you she's come from many
miles away. I frolic in your descriptions
of each and every noun, as each verse bursts
and like a poor beggar, quenches my thirst
I thank Mr. Poe for his stories of woe that
deeply stirs my raven soul, coercing the
sadness out of the quills, convincing me that
time kills, love heals, color spills…
I begin to write my single verse, that
might turn into two, I savor a rarest gift,
the one that came from you. I take a turn,
my desire’s to please, but discover as I
write the poem, the poetry writes me
Karen Anglesey 2002
Copyright © Karen Anglesey
I am Reality’s angel
resting on the broad shoulders of discovery
the truth feeds darkness and engulfs its target
ideas and concepts in turn become meaningless to you
there is a creator of all things
He is just and patient
many still have fallen into the masses of shadow
wrapped in their own filthy idols of philosophy
I have seen grown men fall like rose petals
and weaklings rise into unjust leaders
forever the follower of furtive evil
dominating only to remain inferior
the most important answers lie in the unseen regions
where no sense can fully give assurance
the mind that so many unreasonably twist and turn
grows weary because of the distance it must take
and truth be told the distance is not what frustrates
it is knowing we are seeking something far
that could very possibly not exist,
that our minds can twist into theoretical, idealistic nonsense
it is knowing all we really think we know
and yes—even a lie
all that has been written thus far rests under my wings
under the warmth in which you refuse to feel
can you believe in me—
though I am completely unseen?
how much more difficult would it be to see
Copyright © Laura Breidenthal
My own piece of heaven, a quiet little nook,
With only the finest parchment in a leather book,
A feather quill pen and an ocean of ink,
My thoughts would never stop to think,
Every single line I write would rhyme,
My poetry would be beautiful and sublime,
I'd be entertained daily, by Dr. Seuss,
And, put to sleep nightly, by Mother Goose,
Lessons from Byron, Shelley, Coleridge and Poe,
Teaching me every single thing that they know.
My own piece of heaven, will have to wait,
Until one day, when I must meet my fate,
So, for now I will have to be content,
With my own words that may be heaven sent,
Inspiration from my idols is all I need,
Writing poetry in a notebook from Mead,
With this cheap, plastic Bic pen,
And a dream to be, just like them.
Copyright © Kelly Deschler
July 16, 2014- Inspiration for
"When No One Reads"
When no one reads, keep writing
right now just might not be the right time.
Poets are currently considered
lowest of low, scum of slums
but that doesn't mean things will always be this way.
Be patient growing your poet trees
doing it for the right reasons
dredge that sludge of truth stuck deep within your gut.
Get it out, get words down
just don't try so hard
and please pay no attention to those lacking appreciation for your goddamned art.
When no one reads
Copyright © JSLambert Mister ROBOTO
I don't like nasty limericks.
I don't like vulgar words.
I'd rather write of better things,
like maybe watching birds.
So many poets feel the need
to write such graphic things.
The art of poetry to me
is making words that sing.
It's easy to be nasty.
It takes no brain at all.
But I can't keep from wondering
where you get the gall.
My poems may not be 'genius'.
I'm sure they don't compare
to many other writer's work
but mine, I like to share.
No matter if you're ninety
or if you're only nine
you needn't feel ashamed to click
on poetry that's mine.
Copyright © Mary Nagy
I do not know?
[beforehand i just want to let you know that i wrote this in honor of November 17th. which is
To Write Love On Her Arms Day. im hoping to come up with a better one before than. but i
still hope you enjoy this quickly-wrote one(: ]
this is about me.
this is my story.
it is about my struggle,
my fall downs,
&& all the breakdowns.
this is about every wound i placed upon my body.
over 60 self inflicted wounds,
that as my story went on they began to heal.
i stoped writing "give up"
i began to write love on my arms<3
this is about me.
this is my story.
it is about my past.
how it haunted me for years,
&& how im still running from some of it.
this is how i went from a hood rat,
to me actually caring about myself.
i began to write love on my arms<3
this is about me.
this is my story.
it is about how i learned to keep the bottle off of my nightstand.
i dont need liquor running through my veins 24/7.
i started to look at life through sober eyes.
i began to write love on my arms<3
&& as i wrote this day after day, i saw that i was loved.
i found comfort in better things then pills, liquor, && razorblades.
&& even though i am still in healing,
my story is not over.
&& it will never be.
i still write love on my arms<3
Copyright © Saralynn SpaceCadet
Approvals I Should Praise
The rhythm of my pen knows no bounds
Its ticks, treks, and steps knows no count.
The songs on my lip just loose the count.
No where, I suppose to untie the bond.
Strong bones are so much in here
They touch and squeeze out letters bountifully.
In these bones, many light I have received gracefully.
Linda is one, Andrea is two among all of you there.
You are all amazing guests in this field
Cup of water..., cup of tea come to toast.
Many hugs, many thanks to you, writ and host.
... Eden that crowns my garden and its yields.
Special parcel to my coy mistress, Linda.
All sea, roses...and sweet showers to you.
And my lady Andrea; always brand new!
I love you all... your words in my wall are tender.
Poet Destroyer A,
and to the rest of Poetrysoupers.
I am Grateful for your warm welcome.
Copyright © Abdulhafeez Oyewole
I usually write in couplet rhyme
Its simply what I do it's not by design
It's just the way the words seem to flow
Into my head up out of my soul
I love the ones that are full of light
See they are what brought me up out of the night
People prove they care by the things that they do
So I write this light for all of you
I write it because I wish you to know
True beauty is born with-in the soul
The soul is a thing that cherishes the light
Do you not embrace the stars through the dark of night
Well as you do know my words are true
They may twinkle bright but not as bright as you
You are angels who covered me in your prayers
Let me know I'm someone worthy of care
I hold you all in my heart just like my wife
Like her you are "a blessing in my life"
Copyright © Michael Jordan
Writing is my challenge each day
But it's not the words or what to say.
It is the connection with other writers here
Because I feel I'm not worthy or equal I fear.
The talent expressed by so many others
Often makes me want to hide under the covers.
The gems that are written and ones that I read
Are so inspired, personal, and give me a need.
That's why I come here every time
To see what others have put in their rhyme.
Carolyn always has a message for me to ponder
And others write things that make me wonder.
I often race to the "New Poems" just to see
If by some chance there's one by which P.D has destroyed me.
And Carol, Bob, Nick, Emily, Wilma, and "the Sweetheart"
Write things that sometimes I just can't pull apart.
The Doc has written so many things
I am amazed sometimes at the thoughts he brings.
Others are here who write so well
Their words do me so oft compel.
For like unto them I want to be
Writing words that have meaning for others to see.
Will they be worthy I say when I'm done
Or will they be read by others, as I've intentioned.
You know I feel so many emotions just now
Because of all these writers, I just don't know how.
For they are a driving force for me
And part of my challenge each day is to make them see.
That because of them I have to write
Sometimes into the wee hours of the night.
To pick a favorite writer is...well a difficult choice
So I pick them all, because they shout with one voice.
"Write, you fool, then write some more"
Words I hear and cannot ignore.
So I choose them all...all here in this group
The ones who have made me hungry for Soup.
There, I've said it...and you know that's not in haste
The Soupers that are here are the best of all to taste.
Copyright © Daniel Cwiak
A new morning once again,
promising difference from others before.
Beautiful this morning as I write with pen
and I feel my spirit soar.
I cannot help but stand in awe
of all that I see before me.
Once again, I hear the call
to write of what my eyes see.
Quiet subdues the great expanse
of the forest to the mountains beyond.
A hawk overhead in the great distance
circles steadily and then is gone.
The sky takes on a hazy look
with the sun not quite coming through.
It is to me as if nothing took
away from this beautiful view.
This day for me holds promises anew
as I see it's quiet start.
Opportunities in this day will come to
strengthen and encourage my heart.
Douglas L. Ace
Copyright © Douglas Ace
My Inspiration, My Only Beloved, My Most Dearest WIFE
Fellow POETS' Masterpiece Laureates of Poetry LENORE ELLEN : Laureate
Each Stanza THEY WRITE Poetic Knowledge With POETIC LOVE
Bringing Memories Yesteryear POETS Living in Our HEARTS
From the Future, to the Past They INSPIRE all of Our POEMS Fellow POETS' words of Life
EMOTIONS of LOVE FEELINGS ; I DON'T KNOW Penned For History
UNCONDITIONAL ANSWERS : Created With Feathered QUILLED Pen
Education and Learning FOR ALL the Future POETS Write SALUTATIONS TO THEM
POETRY IS Life Rhyme : withstands all TIME Write with HEART AND SOUL
Inspired By and Dedicated To Laura Mckenzie Author Notes ; Read Top to Botom Left to
Right. Read each Horizonal line Left to Right Example line one all three Senryu
My Inspiration, My Only Beloved, My Most Dearest WIFE Also Read Capital Words in the 3
Horizontal Senryu Example : WIFE POETS' LENORE ELLEN ; THEY WRITE POETIC LOVE
Copyright © HGarvey Daniel Esquire
Come on artists
lets play a game
its all different to me and i want you to see how i am different
and let me shine as you sign up another way
as i prove to you my leadership of this new age wave
give them new meanings
like you never knew you could
and lets make the psychics pine through our words to figure out
what they are reading and believing
I wanna see your hearts and spades
dressed in tall grass or lemonaide
i wanna see your cups and wands
inbetween whispering winds and songs lead me there
i know you can come on
come on be strong
like a suit of clubs or diamonds
show me something
and then sprinkle your writings
and we'll make collectors out of all those we invite here
as they read and ponder the meanings of our literature
whats in your hand?
a royal flush a pair?
and as we deal the cards they stumble upon at this endless game
of cribbage or poker
or war who is winning and getting points?
what card means what to who and why
tell me artist as you write with your style on low and high
what makes what suit smile and fade shine and slide?
inside outside sphere of influence
be their collective the object of the psychics to crave?
blind leading the blind
and something they are after for days and days
a few cards your favorite cards play smart or dumb
shuffle the cards pick a game deal a hand
reveal what your playing and one day i'll tell you what we're playing what your
to someone one day when the stumble your way
the mystery of nothing speaks something
and we rebuild the puzzle of cartomancy better and better this way
once you know you can't
blind leadin gthe blind
so after you read this you can't
play along your uninvited
strike it off your list of things to do
round one is over now go find all who wrote
all who write all who have wriitten the masterpieces
of cards and see what they mean today and collect them for that is something no
one else can do
until round two....
Copyright © Troy Nelson
Here’s my plea: Let’s write a poem for the world to read;
And in it is a message that all can relate or heed;
Encourage others to pick a pen instead of a gun;
With this poem let people be taught to bond
all spirits, whether in distress or in joy with a smile;
This poem we write be a reminder that life is fragile;
That peace is at hand, only if we want to achieve;
People will learn to greet enemies and they shall be received;
All of us can write, whether you’re white, black, or brown;
Just believe in what you can do; and not to aspire the crown
Of hate, if you dare tomorrow comes without tears,
Nor will there be worries of living in fears;
With this poem, people will burst not
In paroxysm of rage, but, be inspired to share a lot
Such as love, hope, or maybe, just give a friendly kiss;
You know, it’s easy to write a poem, than writing peace.
Copyright © Ernesto P. Santiago
To write the finest poem that your heart and mind permit
You must let go of yourself and earthly bonds, dream vocally
Speak aloud in your mind of feelings, both good and bad
Let the words overcome you, present themselves to you
Take them, rearrange them and stir in deep meaning
Thereby touching on the heart of something that matters so
In other words, to write that one, that special one, let yourself go
Copyright © Michael Degenhardt
I never write a poem
That doesn’t write itself.
I catch a buzz and come alive
Like a puppet off it’s shelf.
Hearing many voices,
Whose words are never mine.
My pen becomes a painter’s brush
Forming visions on a line.
I seem to be a better person,
When it’s time to sit down and write.
A higher power guides my hand,
Sharing wisdom by day and night.
People born to create,
Have no choice but to perform.
It’s the rush of sharing their gift,
That elevates them from the norm.
What would our world become,
Without intervention from above?
Angry beings in a revolving cage,
With no sense of passion or love.
Copyright © Tom Zart
A veces, quisiera gritar,
A veces, pienso en ustedes,
Pienso en espacio,
Pienso en transparencia,
Pienso en huesos,
Pienso en naturaleza,
Pienso en actuar,
Pienso en todo...
Desearía volver a amar como antes,
Desearía saber más allá,
Desearía expresar más de lo normal,
Desearía unas manos agarrar,
Desearía en hombros impregnar,
Desearía contigo llorar,
Desearía contigo caminar,
Desearía tus abrazos recibir,
Desearía mi corazón de plata y titanio arreglar,
Desearía mi mente repasar...
Desearía que no me traicionaran,
Desearía con besos y amistad despertar,
Desearía en un paraíso soñar,
Desearía a todos concientizar,
Desearía a todos impresionar,
Desearía construir nuevos horizontes,
Desearía adversidades borrar,
Desearía romper leyes,
Desearía ser libre,
Desearía a todos ayudar,
Aunque me cueste la vida...
Pienso en querer el deseo infinito,
Quiero un amor eterno,
Deseo uno amistad inquebrantable,
Para no morir más...
Copyright © Ruben A. Hernandez Diaz
A void of Facebook
Creativity dies here...
Copyright © Dan Keir
Sometimes my poetry is just a case of words,
and not necessarily my reality;
and that’s what is so beautiful about writing
You can be who you want to be on any level
and tell secrets about fantasies that may never be;
or take trips to other dimensions on mental journeys, or places that some don’t even think exist
They mimic thoughts that manifest themselves as poetry
and rest on pages patiently waiting to adhere
My words are a reflection of my heart
and they reveal the truth behind my mask of fear
they deliver reality doses whether they are just cases,
or me in the absolute right here
My words exude positive intentions;
my imperfections apparent but I accepted rejections
and reversed dejection
and decided to bare all my fantasies, my flaws my very soul
Uncertain how voiced verses appeal to outside sources but internally they set me free
They provide a medium of light and creativity
A chance to apply knowledge and a time for reflecting on and making changes in my frequency
My words are attached to my soul and its overwhelming ability to just be
They reflect what I was before
the choices I’ve made and the reasons that this life is perfect
according to divine order
They represent the voices of my ancestors from the beginning of time
because up until now,
the ending wasn’t within reach so I make sure that I
carefully choose the format and the right place and time
to deliver the message that may be blatant or hidden inside –
of the abstract placements of verbs
giving praise to the source of power that calmly submits to the voice
connected to my words
I am the originator of my own words
I hope that you are inspired, or simply entertained
by the process by which I've placed my words
Copyright © humble b
Sometimes I admire the littlest things
A simple rock. A blade of grass.
They need no future goals, no tax exemptions
They don’t need to go anywhere or be anything
They just are.
Sometimes, especially when I’m reading life insurance policies,
I envy the rocks and the grass
And try to be like them for a moment.
I sit perfectly still and give myself to the wind-
And it whispers in my ear:
And for that moment I don’t need to go anywhere or be anything.
And at the snap of my fingers,
All the complex widgets and gizmos that make up my life
Fold into paper airplanes and fly off in the wind.
Copyright © Jacob Reinhardt
Streaks of Ink, Across a blank page
Sounds of expression, to be released on stage
Words flow midair, only a chosen few understand
Emotions from each side, both beautiful & bland
Not your typical poet, nothing at all like the displays
So rare and unique, strong and bright like the morning rays
Words from experience, from dreams and my reality of life
Words form memories
Memories of struggle, love and strife
No copy and paste, No stolen words here
These are cries from my heart
Emotions created throughout the years
A title I endure so deep
A gift from my God, I've chosen to keep
No particular topic, Just pure extacy from word play
Spilling these words brings me a high, I must say
A poet, A writer and a singer some days
I welcome you to the pieces of me
My words shall guide you through my mind aka my maze.
Kioshi Love <3
Copyright © Kioshi Love
A puzzle piece you are to me
Like a vine without any leaves.
Your heart is pure your soul is
Gold, the sweetest thing I'll
ever hold! A miracle in my eyes
it seemed, knowing they said
no babies for me! Always a
surprise you seem to be just
like a puzzle piece! At 9 months
you walked but not until 4 did
you first talk! Always a terror
making a beautiful mess always
a surprise that has yet to be
met! The twists and turns I
know we will see will seem
somewhat like a roller coaster
to me! The milestones and
special gifts you bring will make
my life seem Like a dream, my
special boy I have always said
How special I knew not till
Aspergers they said! The
journey will be trying the
journey will seem long! But
with our family together we will
chug along! My special boy I
love you so and cannot wait to
see you mature and grow! Now
we have a goal we have our
dream you see to make you the
perfect fitting puzzle piece!!
Written by: Christina Kirks
McCullouch 04/05/2012 For
Jonathan S McCullouch Jr
Mommy loves you to eternity
and beyond! Forever and
Copyright © Christina McCullouch
Such an Amazing girl god put into my life.
He knew i needed you at that exact time
Funny when we met I thought you were to good for me
But when you approached me the sweetest girl I did meet.
From that day on we have never truly been apart cause I
carry you around everywhere in my heart. You have been the
rock when I needed a friend around, you have been the light
when the darkness consumed me and took away my sunshine
Even when were miles apart the phone connects us and keeps
our strongest bond. 17 years feels like such a short time but
I feel I have always had you in my life. Soul Sisters we were
meant to be.. You my beloved friend are such a fresh breeze
Even after a year apart it was like yesterday that we did part
so through the many miles and through the long hard road
I know this friendship will always survive. Your a burst of joy
to me each day I thank the Lord for the sweet blessing he gave!
Copyright © Christina McCullouch
My love of poetry started when I was still a five- year old child
When my parents asked me to memorize verses and rhymes
With all my feelings and actions, I recited my poems in front of a crowd
Innocently receiving adulations but not a handful of dime
The first piece I memorized was entitled, “Cradle Hymn”
I was a small girl sent in a poem competition, so naïve
When I’ve grown up , I realized it’s a song lyric with Christmas theme
So, I sang it and started to develop my good voice quite a bit
When I was a teenager, I memorized speech and declamation pieces
My teacher sent me in a poem contest for a campaign against drug addiction
I tried to deliver my piece like a candidate for a star award actress
Acting like a drug addict teenage girl longing for parents’ love and attention
As years went by, I turned out to be quite a flirty lady
With puppy love and sweet crushes to some guys around me
When one of them got me, so happy until I forgot all about reciting poetry
Relationship went long but when we broke up, it created another life’s story
All my heart brokenness has turned me out to be a poem writer
I also wrote few poems for my family, dreams and for close friends’ requests
My passion of poetry blazed and turned out to be greater
When I found a writing spot, motivated and inspired by my friends-the great poets
Feb. 6, 2013
Contest: Who What Where
Sponsor: Poet Carol Sunshine Brown
Copyright © Leonora Galinta
Why Poets Write
Why do poets write?,
Why does the moon shine at night?.
Why does water fall with such grace?,
Why is a rainbow such a beautiful sight?
So, why do poets write?
Do they write because the moon shines so bright?
Do they write because water falls with such grace?
Or is it because of the majesty of a hawk, in flight?
Poets write because that’s what we do,
Whether it be a Sonnet, Etheree or Haiku,
We see things through our own prism,
And write about it in our creative point of view.
This is why I write,
I write because I see beauty in the moonlight,
I appreciate the splendor of a waterfall,
And the majesty of a hawk, in flight.
I write because it feeds my soul,
Writing the perfect poem is my ultimate goal,
I write, I do my best,
The rest is out of my control.
The perfect words, in the perfect order,
Follow the rules, no pressure,
Slowly see your creation come alive,
When it works, there’s nothing better.
Poets, generally, don’t write for the glory,
We heal people by proxy,
We are emotion peddlers,
And we do it all for free.
I can’t speak for everyone, nor would I try,
My urge to write is something I’d best not deny,
Or things go drastically wrong,
Like ice, in the middle of July.
So, regardless of why you write,
Keep your vision in sight,
Take criticism with a grain of salt,
Never get discouraged, never get uptight.
Copyright © Samual Ronthorpe
Happiness in a Wrong way – Zamreen Zarook
In the notion of seeking happiness,
I thought of stepping in to nonsense,
I dream I could find success,
But I had only little access.
Every attempt that I lend,
It was an utter failure at the end,
My life was full of difficult bend,
But God is always there as a good friend.
My deeds travel in various ways,
Some times in subways,
Or in times it goes in highways,
But I had the belief, God is there always.
North and south families surrounded,
East and west friends are rounded,
Every time fear on death soughed,
I am trapped, and my merits are loaded.
Copyright © Zamreen Zarook
Jack and Jill went up the hill to fetch some pails of water
Jack climbed some trees while Jill was picking some pretty flowers
After some hours Jack realized that he was wasting time
So he called Jill to hurry up before ‘tis half past nine
So off they went to continue their very long journey
‘Till they passed by an old beggar and gave him some money
When they both reached the well Jack and Jill filled up their buckets
Near the well were some berries which they put in their pockets
When they reached home their momma and papa were so happy
For dinner they had meatballs and soup and chicken curry
And five bags of bananas which a rich neighbor gave them
The good that you do to others will always be returned
Copyright © Mariam M.
The doorway to my mind,
once again shall be forever closed.
For words I used to fling,
like birds notes as they sing,
Have all been properly disposed.
This world that I tried to change,
has kept me hidden from its view.
So I would begin to think,
that my words just stink,
although that may not be actually true?
Thinking of myself as a poet
though maybe nothing more than a bumbling fool.
From my heart I would pour,
simple words to adore,
but perhaps I should have studied poetry in school.
Yet a sadness still grips my heart,
like a thorny rosebush as it grows.
With the beauty of its flowers,
growing skyward as it towers,
though near it no one ever goes.
Many poets say they are not poets.
I say this mere fact is simply untrue.
For the words you write,
are read with pure delight,
once written from the soul within you.
Some guy who thought he was a poet
Copyright © Dan Kearley