Submit Your Poems
Get Your Premium Membership



Best Writing Poems

Below are the all-time best Writing poems written by Poets on PoetrySoup. These top poems in list format are the best examples of writing poems written by PoetrySoup members

View ALL Writing Poems

Search for Writing poems, articles about Writing poems, poetry blogs, or anything else Writing poem related using the PoetrySoup search engine at the top of the page.

Definition & Discussion of Writing Poems
Read Writing Poems

See also: Best Famous Poems

Details | Writing Poem | |

Of Ink

   Partial Paper
 -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 sung 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 propagandas
POET: You are my favorite verse in every stanza
((Only this, and nothing more))
Writing is like giving birth

by;)

Details | Writing Poem | |

Plethora of Poetry

~STRIP TEASE~     Featuring:) SKAT

Silver Skimpy Ink, String, A POET DESTROYER's bling, bling
Think of me as a human ditty delicious decoration,
Something along the line of a sweet tooth temptation
Cherry tastes, between the slit of tender toast 
Fine jumble jam slams down the tongueless throat 
Dance like a diamond on The tight South Pacific Rim
I'll feed you with a slithering seductive sound
My hair soaking, -wet and wild, tonight I trim
A dulcet apple acrostic bottom, to squeeze the greed
Feathers, on top, poetic diction describing to please
At times, I'm in deep dire need of something sweet, and sour 
Endless epic words, and ode to the naked poetic world
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry, 
The good, the bad, the freaking awesome
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)

---

Symbol of the spiritual Sexy SKAT Slang
--Provocative-- A slippery succulent, scrumptious kiss 
Counterparts working the tension, another arrant appetite
I am the Illuminati illusion, laminating luscious illustrated letters  
Indulging in the, satire of one stilt spoken sunset
Like a child's spiking temperature, I often throw tantrums, 
Teasing attentions, by incorporating a pole, paper and pen, 
If someone is uncomfortable with facing the fact, 
When I reveal everything, without removing my high heels
Then you must not be worldly or women and man enough 
I love to spoil and slur my scenery, using my best assets
My strength and power parallel, any unique universe 
That's how confident the audience makes me feel
We The Women and Men of poetry,
Reveals far more than any nudity found in a bar
It does not matter how you do it or who you are.
I'm an entertainer, of Poetry, 
The good, the bad, fantastic and fabulous
Don't worry, I keep my clothe On :)


~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~

Details | Writing Poem | |

Night Owl

Sitting by her open window,
Was a girl deep in thought,
Lost within a book of Poe,
A perfect poem she sought.

With a curious eye,
He watches her pen,
For she gives it a try,
Every now and then.

He will visit her forevermore,
In silent hours of midnight,
Casting his shadow on her floor,
Within the full moonlight.

Mysterious, nocturnal bird,
Calling out to darkened land,
Speaking such wise word,
Which I cannot understand.

I am lonely, I must confess,
It's just you, me and the moon,
You are much like me, I guess,
So, please sing me another tune.

A messenger of death,
Wailing songs of a banshee,
Has my grim reaper cometh,
Was this warning meant for me?

My soul was projected,
In the shadow of a fowl,
A raven I had expected,
Not the silhouette of an owl!


Details | Writing Poem | |

Super Soupers

It was a rainy day so I flipped through a stack of comics
My Amazing Poet series
Finally I picked the fabulous Five
I liked the picture on the front
Yanny the Zen Master with long black hair
Becca the Creative and Beautiful with her mythical pen
One of my favorites sultry Eileen known as the Emotionator
Anne the Philosopher was right there beside Eileen with her magical smile
Then to round out this team was Vicky Victorious calling from the wilderness 
In this edition they were battling the Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack
who had kidnapped Newbie Timothy Hicks
As I read their words I was in awe of my Heros
They made me cry
They brought me to new worlds
Filled with adventures
Sexy had new meaning
Tears became diamonds
Winds swirled inside my head
All the emotions of the rainbow
I longed to write with such clarity and strength
I tried to flex my poetic Muscles
Worked out every day
Then on the back of the comic
A scrawny poet sat on a beach
Beside the girl of his dreams
He is writing for her when along comes a muscular poet
The big poet kicks metaphorical sand in his face
The the scrawny poets girl is whisked away
Underneath it says
Are you tired of having Metaphorical sand kicked in your face?
Are other Poets getting the girl?
All that can change
Join the Andrea Dietrich School of Creative Poetry
She will have you writing like The Fabulous Five
You will never be afraid to flex those poetic muscles again
So I cut out the back page and sent my five dollars
The address is PO Box 88888 Inspiration California 
Now all I can do is wait
What will the future Hold?


Note there are many Poets here who would appear in my vast Amazing poet series.
Poet Destroyer and Joker Jack are not Evil nemeses they were chosen for the roll
because of their names( also I love their work.) I hope you enjoyed my little tale.
Some of the younger poets may not be familiar with the Charles Atlas ads that used
to be on the back of comics, the rest of you I am sure will get the joke.


Details | Writing Poem | |

Poet -This Poem is About You

-Dear, Mr & Mrs Poet- 

Do you ever question where it comes from?
This poem's about you, sit down and get a load off 
Tranquilize your pen, take heed to the ecstatic applause 

The things in life we take for granting, in time get worse 
From WHICH' our lives transverse, ascends a deep poetic curse 
You write almost everything, rehearsing every living verse 
Embezzling words, like Martha Stewart, ---NOT YOURS!
Withdrawing from your substance, 
--yielding it to others, who aren't devoted lovers 
Spacing your lines, ready for reader's digest, 
Educating the mind, like Albert Einstein

You paint a different horizon for the color blind,
Drop a note, forecasting the news, that brings, Spring to mind
Your adrenaline, leaves people with a feel good faint.
At this level, Poet you're better than high speed Internet,
Anything that makes you feel this is the real deal, 
Today, you write like there's no tomorrow, borrowing yesterday's clay
Inspiring ink, left to right, feeding the need to breed a poetic degree 
Your dramatic dialogue, deserve 'The Peoples Choice award."

I love the sweet audio, when you lowercase every word
It's done so well, hell, let's never capitalize another word
Reaching a point across, when capitalizing every letter, 
This is your world, take it, manipulate it, with the perfect stanza
Produce it like a poetic film, imagery, action, CUT it like Jerry Bruckheimer 
One day Hollywood will incite a roll, looking for the best poetry soup rhymer

Your tears and affection, you pour on partial paper,
Showing every word you want to enunciate
A SHOULDER-- gone cold, drowning, forgetting the normal way
Writing about the pure religion that meets your light, 
A beautiful flower under the moonlight
Hear the bells, Poe wrote about, adding sprinkles to the twinkle in your eyes, 
A redolent scent not meant to be forgotten, from Eden's garden
Taking nature, by course, granting her a crown, before slamming us down
I will call her out --The evil and the fury of a goddess, a beast
This is my feast, I welcome you to my jungle, and the outer bounds of time.

If you ever question where it comes from?
Sit down and get a load off, listen---Where's the ecstatic applause?
I'm not afraid to say, -----I'm Proud to be A Poet Without A Cause

by;PD
I do it for fun

Details | Writing Poem | |

Toilet Bowl Committee

Toilet Bowl Committee (aka: Uptown Hood)

A lavatory confinement
my$h!tdontstinkcomode.com
---
If you want to moderate this place, pick up the pace
From the mouth down to the @$$
Your so called kind has no class,
Fed by these political rejects, never elected for what was!
No matter,
They wipe their assets clean with our dreams
Forgetting to wipe their own toilet seats clean
Trying to make us feel dirtier than scat
Feeding off our paper when their toilet bowl water level is low

Toilet bowl PO-poes, wiping without dental floss
Missing everything in between reality
Trying to be kind, saying "One Day We'll Be Good Enough!"
Offering their Golden Plunger, straight from the Home Depot shelves
No Thank You! My plunger a true gift from Mr. Wal-Mart himself

Next time you feel the need to offer a reference point
Please caption your name when you drop by,
Rinse thoroughly when speaking my name,
Then I will listen when you talk civilized
Correct my punctuations and spelling errors 
The weakest trait you wear
You are no Prophet, just white tissue turning brown
Your Justification comes from old dried up grapes falling from the vines
Ridicule will never give you the respect, for what you are!
We, the few poets from the hood, overpowers any change you offer Goodwill
Crumbling and flushing what does not meet your standards
Trying hard to force feed us soup, without giving us bibs

Thank you
Toilet Bowl Committee
For clogging up my drain with your bull$h!T


By: Keeping it Real (The Downtown Hood) 
Date: 12-15-13

~A Poet Destroyer Collaboration~

Details | Writing Poem | |

A Reminder: To Be


Those of you with a unique voice,
with a vision painted outside the lines of over-regulated cadence and rhyme,
I implore you to continue exploring a core
that is fearless in writing against the grain of convention --
for this very friction is a sandpaper helping to perpetually re-invent 
yourself by smoothing your raw, unfiltered passion
into a timeless chair in which people of the future will sit in
while reading your poetry ....

.... and their brows will crease, their eyebrows will arch into gates
where sighs of enlightenment will pass through,
for they are reading poetry that has not lost its novelty,
nor is it mimicry: a despondent, washed-out version
of 20 million other identically tired poems already written and read.

If you feel yourself being sucked down by the undertow 
of homogenization, fight against the current, drag yourself onto shore,
let sunlight percolate pure word-intentions from the nucleus 
of your ancient psalm-writing ancestry.

Your ancestors left behind DNA building blocks,
disciplinary examples and practices 
with which to construct mitochondrial drift
that bridges together the past and future
into a runway for you to take-off from
after the training wheels have been removed,
and gain a bird's eye view of what was,
what will always be sacred but not yours to build a mynah nest in
once truth's marrow is tasted from its winged divine inspiration --
a bird's eye view lifting above carbon-copy complacency.

To always be the freedom that manifests your luminous originality.




September 18th, 2013

*Author's Note: This piece isn't about writing in form or not writing in form. 
To ass.u.me such, is being short-sighted.

Having been a member here for years now, I have noticed a recurring phenomenon 
on this site. Many times, new members join who showcase a freshness, a sharp distinction in their style and poetic voice. They are a breath of fresh air for this site 
to breathe in. Over time, one can literally watch some of these members begin to homogenize themselves into a more general, stale style of writing. I am not sure 
wot all the variables are for this phenomenon, and it likely differs according to each experience. Depending on circumstance, I can only speculate the reasons why some people are willing to compromise their distinctness on this site. Maybe sometimes it happens because of entering too many contests? Of wanting to fit in with the flock?

When I do see it happen, I want to yell: "No, no, no! Stop! Please don't do it! Turn 
back while you still have the chance! Please don't compromise your distinctness for some inane contest .jpegs and congratulations, or insincere, back-patting comments. One sincerely inspired comment, is worth more than 10,000 petty comments -- worth 
so much more."





+/-

Details | Writing Poem | |

CRISP WHITE PAPER

Crisp white paper
unmarred by any crease    crackling with newness
Tiny bluish spider veins march in formation 
across the page with the lingering scent of sap
from the fresh green pine of a previous life

Crisp white paper
positioned just so on the scarred top
of the old oak desk     Pencils laying alongside
sharpened to pointy tips     The erasers smooth
as yet un-rubbed    un-nibbled in thought

Crisp white paper
silently waiting    beckoning the writer
by its very existence    
by the uncluttered expanse    begging to be filled 
with pencil scratches and eraser burns

Crisp white paper
the spaces between the spider veins slowly filling 
with imagination    running briskly     unfettered
The cadence of letters wandering     merging into words 
of liquid emotion flowing in remembered rhythm

Crisp white paper
smelling of crackling fires    pine needles snapping     
logs popping    flames hissing     lapping at the edges 
curling in on themselves as the page morphs 
into a new reality shaped by creative fire		
                                             burning brightly once more




Details | Writing Poem | |

Afraid To Fly

Life spins out of control…
today I slip into oblivion, floating without roots
over the sun, slowly turning from all I can see,
spinning against the wind, against the earth.
When do I fall?
                    I should be enjoying the ride.
                              I’ve always been afraid to fly…
                                       
 afraid of what’s below and all the spaces between –
                          maybe afraid of me.      
How old will I be when the spinning stops?
I’m getting dizzy, feeling faint…
Minute by minute, I count down – 10, 9, 8…
I’m surely not alone!

Words ground me…yes, I’ll write a poem.
Every letter’s like a hum in my head –
notes in a never ending song.

I’ll write a poem for you and only you.
A poem you’ll never read
               because you think you know me.

You think you know my song.
Perhaps, if you took the time to really read,
you’d find a little piece of me…carry it in your pocket
like a treasure to behold.

I’m spinning out of control…you don’t know, you don’t see.

Only God knows why…help me God enjoy the ride.    

Details | Writing Poem | |

In a Winter Cabin

Couched upon the mountain tops,
Winter bleeds white on stone.
The blinding haze of a million spots
Speckles the morning air,
Vaporous through crystalline glass.

Words woven like tapestry
Spark a fire from within.
Seeking answers to intrigue
That fill one with wonder --
An explosion of words to the heart.

Warmth from fire and leather
Fills flesh and bone with life.
Though seated within this cabin,
Ink and paper give respite
From a harsh landscape
Beyond the oak and nail.

Details | Writing Poem | |

We Push The Pen

We push the pen to make you feel
the gentle tapping of the falling rain,
the stinging burn of the summer sun
the heavy heart of despair and pain.

We push the pen to make you see
the vibrant orange of a monarch wing,
the secretive soul hidden in our eyes,
the golden sunrise in early morning.

We push the pen to make you taste
the sweetness of love's first kiss,
the bitterness of heartbreaking defeat
the richness of pure chocolate bliss.

We push the pen to make you hear
the clear waters babbling in the brook,
the forgotten laughter of our inner child
the cracking spine of a brand new book.

We push the pen to make you savor
the pungent petals of the red rose,
the crisp aroma of a tart green apple
the autumn air that excites the nose.

We each push the pen in different ways
with our own tone of voice and mystique,
an art form that no other can duplicate,
no right or wrong, just wonderfully unique.




Details | Writing Poem | |

Pretty Poet

Where Have All The Pretty Poets Gone? 

A real poet are you, charismatic over everything you serve
Showcasing, a rainbow that folds the perfect world wide perspective
I'm talking about flawless literature at its best no typos, no muss
Just a page full of boredom and rust
Thank you for having Lunesta all up in my head
It's like reading a poetry lesson, from the extras of The Walking Dead
An image frozen cold, waiting for inspiration to hit like Al Capone
I'm bored of your flora flamboyant language rocking me like stones
A psychedelic trip, into the odyssey of a blind man's tale
A home where I am pushed to open a dictionary & thesaurus with braille
Wondering what you just said, --Hakuna Matata, what a wonderful day! 
  
The best rocket pen poet in the USA Today, 
Launching words like no tomorrow, a fool of wordplay and sorrow
A godlike guinea-pig genius, delegating poetry politician style
Perhaps, one day you will become a famous writer
Burning books, like a cigarette lighter
Until then, enjoy pushing your pen as if it was cocaine, 
Snorting up and cutting up the food chain in vain
Patronizing and ignoring those, for better or worse
A solo cup stuck up another cup, -won't even look my way
Correct me if you will, it's no big deal
Just don't forget to give me the same respect I offer you

Until then my pretty poetic friend, I kneel before no one 

By: ME
5-25-14

Details | Writing Poem | |

Sadness Is The Sweetest Emotion

"Our sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought." - Percy Shelley


Do not tell me to smile
while tears run down my cheek,
just because I am melancholy
does not mean I am weak.

I cannot fake happiness
these are real tears I cry,
if they are invisible to you
I really wonder why.

They say look on the bright side
and this only makes me mad,
my emotions are not hidden
I am unafraid to be sad.

You cannot understand it
wished, prayed for it to go,
these sorrows you tried to end
yet, this is all I know.

Tears flow through my veins
not the red blood of life,
this heart sobs, it does not beat
outpouring all my cares and strife.

I am happy in sadness
not in a fake smile,
so, let my tears fall
I want to be sad for awhile.

If you hate sad poetry
than I am not for you,
I will write a "happy" poem
when I am ready to.





Written by: Kelly Deschler
September 20th, 2013


Details | Writing Poem | |

A Contest Win of Friendship

A fledgling poet round two thousand three, I found some friends who mentored me; they led me to a site called Shadow Poetry. By mental challenges there, I was fed. I learned to better write according to specific forms or themes, and I was thrilled by all the many things that would ensue the more time there I spent; I was fulfilled! The annual big contest, Shadow Ink, gave not just money, but a chapbook deal. I paid to enter it and did not think I stood a chance. How good I soon would feel! My best friend and I tied. We HAD to call our chapbook “Friendship Garden.” That said it all! Note: Shadowpoetry.com was not able to be maintained as an interactive poetry community and after several wonderful years, the owner had to pull out. All our chapbooks were removed from the bookstore and the contests are no longer done. Today it is a website for writers' development only.

Details | Writing Poem | |

Another Day

A torch carried on forever, indeed,
for the aggressive rhymer in me,
is alive again, unshackled and freed,
rising to challenge another day, I see.

As I found myself lost deep in Tolkien,
with epic Star Wars, never ending,
surrounded in a geek paradise, serene,
optical illusions before me, suspending.

Life's songs on guitar strings strummed,
an epiphany unlike they've ever heard,
euphoric dreams in my visions hummed,
as I pen archaic word after archaic word.

Artistry is born only to be my brother,
encircled this star, a pentagram made,
my day is done, I have conquered another,
as the sun slowly brings down the shade.






A Word Collage For Chan Hurst



(Cyndi MacMillan's contest)


Details | Writing Poem | |

The Message that Never Came

She waited....
heart beat expectancy
to heightened degree
it would come
It MUST come
every day
waiting
for the message
"There must be a mistake!
How could he just vanish
disappear into thin air
and not care
No, there must be 
some explanation!"

Perhaps he was sick
perhaps he was dying
and he didn't want her to know
wanted to spare her the pain
all sorts of crazy thoughts
keep her awake at night
as she waited
and waited
for that message

The months passed
the pain grew and didn't subside
it didn't grow dull
nor did it recede
it did bleed...
though her eyes it tore
down her cheeks it bore
her disbelief
it could not be
where was the message???
asking for...forgiveness
begging for....love
a second chance
revival of romance

She waited
for that message
waited because her faith in him
refused to be shattered
though battered
by the calendar mockery
day and month debauchery
Yet...each new morning brought hope
steeped in the belief
of his chivalry
and integrity
for the one whom she knew
could not be the one untrue
cruel and heartless enough
to have to taken her for a fool

she grew heart old
and soul weary
dead on her feet dreary
as she waited for a message
a message
that never came

Eileen Manassian

Details | Writing Poem | |

Nevermore

I write of a man named Edgar Allan Poe,
Whose dark, tortured soul could not rest,
His work is something every poet should know,
These stories are among some of the best.

"The Raven" was never more ghastly and grim,
"The Pit And The Pendulum" which tortured him,
"The Valley Of Unrest" was such a quiet place,
Where "The Sleeper" dreams in peaceful grace,
"The Murders In The Rue Morgue" were a mystery,
"The Fall Of The House Of Usher" had a gloomy history,
"The Black Cat" was dead, but suffered no pain,
"The Tell-Tale Heart" is what drove him insane,
"The Masque Of The Red Death" did conceal,
While "The Purloined Letter" did reveal,
"The Premature Burial" meant for the dead,
"Annabel Lee" was the corpse bride he wed,
"Spirits Of The Dead" found themselves alone,
"The Conqueror Worm" that fed on human bone,
"The Haunted Palace" was wandered by ghosts,
"Tamerlane" written for one he loved the most.

As the poetry flowed from his heart,
One tragic day, death came to his door,
Finally his tortured soul could depart,
He would then pick up his pen, nevermore.

Details | Writing Poem | |

The Simple Pen

            The Simple Pen

I am but a simple man with pen in hand
To cut open a slice of universe with verse
And with the ink
Let it bleed not red
It flows instead with mortal colors
Over a life well spent
What is left over
We drink this in a cup
Pour more to fill it up
But little at a time
Too much reality can cloud your mind
Said the simple man with bleeding pen
 

Details | Writing Poem | |

Flowing again

Flowing again

Aaah, here she comes that magic flow
That brings on words that gleam and glow
As my dear muse touches my soul
She knows me, she knows her role
She nudges me with mystic hands
Then comes a feeling sweet, and grand
With all it’s love and, joy in life
I’m back again the time is rife

Don’t want to struggle any more 
To write words down that do me bore
I do not like the thinking mode 
I’ll just sit down and write some ode
That flows like river to the sea
I’ll write like me, I’ll write like me
With all my heart, and all my soul
As my pen performs its role

So here I am with my own style
 Each word I write gives me a smile
I love to write, I love to write!
Oh how it gives me such delight
Watching words come flowing out
That I’m a poet, I have no doubt
Cause words they dance inside of me
Till soon they’re flowing lose and free.

5 October 2014

Details | Writing Poem | |

The Poet

Etching tales that run in trails along a parchment sheet
From feathered quill in trembling hand so longing now for sleep
As black ink drips down from the lip that rounds the pewter well
While a raven watches from his perch on the windowsill  

Fluttering flames dance above a pool of cooling wax
As the candle wanes away against a night of velvet black
Recalling long lost love again by the glow of candlelight
In a dreamlike state the poet writes… long into the night

Smouldering eyes upon the joy and sorrow of his life 
Alone but for his tears the poet writes and writes and writes
Until he finds her there upon the shore of Evermore
Standing at the foot of heaven’s door… his sweet Lenore

His name a whisper on her lips above the ocean roar
Until the well runs dry and the poet writes no more
A broken quill on tearstained parchment in the early dawn
But the poem he wrote that velvet night…still lives on and on.

Author:  Elaine George
Written:  May, 2014






Details | Writing Poem | |

MGMT:Please FIX ME SOME SOUP

*(For Me, the soup tastes good, For others...not so much.)

INDEED, there may be something wrong with the Soup
if spices don't get right many people will be leaving the table soon.

Good people have pointed out problems with taste and temperature to MGMT
only to fall on deaf ears.
Apparently the problems have been stewing for years.

There are hard working mothers, fathers, sons, daughters and grandparents
fighting for a cause in which they firmly believe.
They pay fees each year to a leader who they don't know and cannot see.

They taste and they eat and they share with the community.
They've invested with time and money and poured out their hearts with much 
continuity.

Forty to one lopsided comment reply ratios have made their day hard
all these folks want is a little quality soup after punching the old time card.

I've sat at the table and witnessed smiles erase in defeat.
I've listen to their requests get neglected each day on repeat.

Where is the owner operator, could someone please step in and perform a 
table visit?
Getting this restaurant up to code ain't everything I suppose, but it'd sure be 
exquisite!

Now I'm just an outsider, secret shopper if you will,
Getting this change in motion would ease so many emotions...
consider it dessert taken off the bill.

Details | Writing Poem | |

My Muse, I So Abuse

My Muse, I So Abuse

My muse crying loudly, please write this way
I replied laughing, that will be the day
She storms off in a most indignant huff
I shouting at her, damn isn't that tough?

No fear, she always runs as she returns 
she my heart so loves, as my mind she burns
I, that often sit on cold bed of stones
She, poetic judge that often breaks bones!

Dead of night she cuddles up to me near
utters words, sweet nothings and a cold fear
I inquire, but my heart you love so dear
She shouts, that was a folly from last year!

My muse and I play wicked cat and mouse
She may be the roof but I am the House!

Robert J. Lindley, 08-26- 2014

note: My muse is a vindictive little tramp
she makes me kneel humbly before she lights the lamp!

Details | Writing Poem | |

WHEN I LOVE THEE

I LOVE THEE I am no voluptuous beauty nor do I live a life of purity I can only say: I love wholeheartedly with all I am so truthfully I keep my heart open though it gets hurt so often I avoid to be irate as I know love changes the heart rate.. Guys tried to coo and woo, they say words as for "only you" Yet, hard to believe it is true as I see some untrue I give chances as my heart marks with tact entrances I learned from various instances looking man in romances In places where rules impede, two persons who wants to bid Not of money but of affection, in them must be determination I love thee not of what you have… Not even of who you are but to how you are to me… If I love you, don't tell me much what to do… As me, myself will show you, I am that real and true.. Yes, I am liked by many but tell you what: I don't like this honey nor am I proud of it in anyway One is enough to make me stay Stand with me through it all, I give my best not to fall My name your sweetest call echoing in every wall.. Hold me firm yet dear; allow me to move closely We'll make it anyhow, treading smoothly on flows... We are strong, aren't we? No one moving alone Together we'll face phases in tune, though there will dunes.. © OLIVE ELOISA D. GUILLERMO 3:25 pm, 07/13/2013 CONTEST: ANY POEM GOES #13 SPONSOR: POET DESTROYER 8TH PLACE (TO GOD BE THE GREATEST GLORY)

Details | Writing Poem | |

TO PLAGIARISE

Thief of words – the only one you fool is yourself! 24th February 2015

Details | Writing Poem | |

Wearying for you too

An answer to Frank L Stantons  'Wearyin' for you' as Robert Lindley requested.

Wearying for you too

I’m wearying for you as well
Each day is like some kind of Hell
I’m missing you with all my heart
I cannot stand us being apart
I want to be there, home with you
It seems like crying’s all I do

My love, I also feel this way
It gets worse from day to day
People pass me, and they look
They see I’m looing so forsook
They just don’t know how I love you
It seems like crying’s all I do.

I miss that chair, I really do
Sitting there, just me and you
With fire alight, heating the room
And you and I we seem to bloom
Oh Darling I’m so lonesome too
It seems like crying’s all I do

I take a walk in the city streets
I say hello to folk I meet
But there’s no life within my voice
I’m miserable I have no choice
Because my love, I’m missing you
It seems like crying’s all I do.

I go back home in the dark of night
And still I’m feeling far from bright
I go to bed, and try to sleep
As lonely night, it hears me weep
I lie awake the whole night through
It seems like crying’s all I do

The long night over, the dawn is here
It’s still the same, I miss you Dear
The birds they give no joy at all
This loneliness oh, it’s so cruel
I feel so down, I’m missing you
It seems that crying’s all I do.

I’m coming home, can’t take no more
My bags all packed, I’m out the door
I need to see your smile again
This loneliness drives me insane
I don’t want this I just need you
It seems that crying’s all I do

28 July 2014 @ 1230hrs.