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Write Introspection Poems | Introspection Poems About Write

These Write Introspection poems are examples of Introspection poems about Write. These are the best examples of Write Introspection poems written by international PoetrySoup poets

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Details | Bio |

Unwritten Conversations

He told me to write a poem
About beauty, wind blowing
Hair tossing , dream making stunning
Gorgeousness of living
Beauty addicts and blind ambitions
Movie stars and historical happenings
Formal dresses, women in high heels with 
Faces meant to smile
That’s what poems should be about, he says, 
Your good at that kind of thing, just spit it out

                “Shawty, write a poem about beauty, that’s real poetry”
                                 “Everything is beautiful, baby…”
                 “But what is beautiful to you?”

Beautiful.
Births and rebirths
Phoenix Red celestial torching of the hearts
Interlocking fingers in twilight
Kisses, Death, sorrow, crocodile tears
Laughter, Ecstasy , black
White, brown, yellow, silver crimson
Skin on skin, chest to chest, on and on, soft
Hard City light heaving, breathing against the Ebony sky
Natural Twinkle of diamond shadows, 
Cosmos, Atoms, Hydrogen bonds, Electrons
Nucleus, matter, anti-matter
Smash together, slither mutually
To create harmony.
Everything. 
Everything is beautiful. 

                      “Just write about that then..”
                                 "Not everything has to be written, somtimes you just have to
                                  live it out.."
                      "What's the point then?? What's the point of writing about butterflies 
and waterfalls? I just don't see it? Why do you have to doll everything up and 
make it more then what it is? Not everything has to be picked apart and analyzed."
                                "Mmm, I suppose."
                        "What's real poetry to you?" 
                                 "Everything..."
                         "I don't understand."

I recline and rest my head on his chest
Tracing lines of thought on the ceiling
Helping him dismantle the universe and put it back together
In his own way
Enjoying lyrical symphonies of life
Breath by breath…
Together
Silent

                                     "This, baby, This is real Poetry.."









 



Details | Carpe Diem |

When No One Reads

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
persistent, 
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
please...keep writing.


Details | Personification |

MY POEMS

.                         ‘Violin’ was written on a soft dark velvet night,
                As I drifted - in the dreams -  of the flickering -  candle light;
           Ne’er pre-planned -  nor pondered - nor was she - pre-conceived,
        She came from deep within me, appearing  on the screen,
               As did my favorite poem - my darling ‘Cannon Lee’.

                ‘The Love of a Gentlemen’ -  and ‘Where the Heart Resides,’
                   Came from treasured memories - I tried to keep alive;
                   With words - chosen carefully - to create solidity,
                          I brought them back to life - to live eternally,
                  In vivid hues - more beautiful - than all the autumn leaves.

                   Others - fell like drops of dew  - from flying fingertips,
           That raced across the keyboard  - in hopes they wouldn’t miss,
                The chance to share the beauty - my eyes now fell upon,
           Through the kitchen window  - across the river -  and beyond,
            Where fields of liquid diamonds - glistened in the early dawn.

                    Others came in metaphors -  disguising secrets held;
                      To painful in reality - for me to ever tell. 
                ‘The Rose and the Thorn’ -  poured herself upon the page,
                     A sonnet of over-whelming grief  - rising up from hidden rage,
                         Releasing me forever - from my gilded cage.
                                           
                                                     ~~~~~

                        These poems I write - come day come night,
                                  Come candle or come neon light,
                       Come wind, come rain, come joy, come pain,
                They are the life - the Great Creator -  breathed in me;
                                         They are my breath! 
                                          They are my poetry!

                                                      ~~~~~


                               Author:  Elaine George
                               Written:  January 13th, 2010

Inspired by:  Deborah Guzzi's contest 'How Do You do It - How do you write your poems'?
PLACED: SECOND

Authors Note:  This poem was written on route to Bath, North Carolina via Ferry 
crossing.  It was written on a note-pad from the' Hampton Inn' and transferred 
to my lap-top after returning to Swansborro.


Details | Free verse |

Tension Waiting

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.


Details | Prose Poetry |

Seasons and Imaginations


Wind so cold.
Blowing.
Fondles my face.
Tickling.
The tears from heaven.
Pouring. 
Tapping. 
Dancing.
Unrelenting.
I wonder if i wish
    to stop them
From numbness,
    to waking,
          then sensing.

The little voice in me says,
Wait, don't go.
Stay a little longer. I plead.
Sing for me today, rain.
With the gliding rhythm on my piano,
                                                  I'll play.
Chilly Wind, caress my bare skin 
     with the pure coldness that you bring.
Unusual,
     like it's my first time in the snow.
Somehow, 
     the fire tree never fades in the picture.
The yellow sunkissed leaves, too.
What is it about Summer and Fall
    that I can't forget?
Memories. Sweet imaginations.

The chilly rain. The misty wind.
You are here. 
Freeze me with the sharp coldness you give.
Calm me. Maybe, comfort me.
And, if you leave
Will you visit me when summertime comes?
Before it gets too late
   And again I fold.



Details | Free verse |

o’, just for once, to receive what i give…

if he were to write me a love poem, would it breathe 
like the quintessence of begin? would it live 
as the moon to the sea – as precise as the art
of expanse along kismets journey, and all horizons linear? 
would it wind-wash and rush my untouched
expanse, as a field soft and wild, exhaling through hair?
would you hear all of my hurt as it crashes to floors; crashing
through my glass floors, formed by years of perfected neglect; 
(reverberating through centuries of cause and effect)

or would it die in my hands;
turn to dust
at your
feet?

no. 

to read his undying words, such as my deepest imaginings 
can conjure, would be as if the very sun had come to rest beneath 
my bosom, shining exponentially forth every wish and dream i have 
ever harbored within the safe haven of my yearnings, since long 
before the birth of time itself!

o’, words given from the depths of my hearts deliberate daydreams, 
from the vastness of your perpetual being,
would surely render my mind useless, striking my fluttering 
body numb, and alive all at once!
if my love ever wrote me a love poem, i would answer 
by way of warm lips on eyelids, (weary from longing 
and unrequited need) gliding them 
down his fair face, kissing years of spent tears into the oblivion that is       
no more (the culmination of death and the sweet realization 
of answered prayers), and yet

i would no sooner ask him to write me a love poem, then I would 
expose my longing to receive one.


Details | Free verse |

Reality's Angel

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 is meaningless 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 Him?


Details | Ballade |

I'll only write the truth

I’ll only write the truth

I have always wrote my poems
To please the eyes of others
I’ve wrote those songs of nature
I have wrote about my lover
I have always wanted comments
So I’d write words oh so sweet
But this is only half of me
And I want to be complete.

So now I write only the truth
And how I really feel
It’s all that now shall come from me
I’ll show folk what is real
I’ll write on my philosophy
And really give folk me
Unless the truth is spoken
How can a man be free.

I see the writings on this site
About religions, and beliefs
And I feel that I must do the same
Even though I bring on grief
I’ll miss out on the comments
But do I really care?
For I am here, to speak the truth
A thing that’s very rare.

12 January 2014 @ 0625hrs


Details | Free verse |

Orgasm Of Sadness

images pour erratically
falling on eyelashes 
tears fueling my pen 
always the sadness 
finds me waiting 


wrenching emotion 
twisting my heart 
in a vice grip 
can't stop the images 
from driving me insane 


raped and murdered eyes 
pleading for children 
drowned beneath 
adult oppression 
and addiction 


it's the emptiness 
that I write 
a cursed 

social consciousness
that blinds


I don't write love 
for it lies 
can't find happiness 
to send to my pen 
for it lays behind 
my eyes 
a tired whore 
spent and overused 
with too much hype 


can't even pen security 
never found that either 
under blankets or kisses 
not even in hardened urges 
that deflate just as quickly 
conveying only want and need 


no I write of sadness 
I return there 
a drunk to cheap wine 
guzzling my addiction 
with lust 
it holds me safe 
for it is familiar 


I live it 
I see it 
it knows my name 
and I know its


we are intimate 
sadness and I 
a couple 
twisted together 

in some grotesque 
sexual position 
culiminating in orgasm 
with my depressed pen

 

 

 


Details | Lyric |

Through Mundane Clouds

To make a word mean something new,
With some uniqueness  -
O what genius!
These words are washed of all their color
Black and white, lo, gray
With boredom.
So what’s left to write about,
When words mean nothing more today
Than they did  one thousand  yesterdays,
Where lyrics sung like gentle sparrows
Lifted on a feathered wing
To heights I dare not envy -
                   O such jealousy I carry!
What utterance can be invented 
That will strike a brand new language in me?
Woe, to have just one new word
To write across the clearest sky… 
Mark, until it breaks through  mundane clouds,
I call upon a devil’s darn to sew my lips -
Until righteous words rain down from heaven
Where I shall  taste sweet nectar of fresh letters
Falling into gorgeous arrangements
On crisp white sheets.


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