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Greeting Card Maker | Poem Art Generator

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“Words We Cannot Escape” Words we can no longer speak we tap dance over keys bruised blackly numb Winter palette in hand Autumn now gone across white-washed notes fixated on stark enclosed walls the scent of old Lavender swimming in its vanilla escapes us each word appears miraculously in form a zealous charcoal footprint smouldering across a blank page, we ardently try not to follow the others, the try too hards - along their numerous paths stranded without lanterns they speak in strange babbling tongues the peculiar sounds are the echoes of their words kept in empty jars full of lost smiles and expletives, here they place their homeless purpose within their vacant epithets, promises and prayers - they place them reverently here, in this Bedlam place - they maintain their upward inflections their ever-ready smiling emptiness speaks trying their best to win accords with fully committed asylum strangers but they know better, and so do we - one step across the line drawn, their communal ant lines broken the act is met with strict contrition the ununique expel the once upwardly cherished odd paragons, as unwanted and abnormal discards - the lacerated division becomes the norm; we smile, like a wraith inside, silently, like a rag being rung out irreverently we are left hanging, bleeding out over the rails, unpegged in the blisterng breeze without reciprocal meaning the result, bloodless and brutalised inside invisible tears, no crocodiles, they are coolly removed, the unsaid speak silently like coward poets, hearts forever falling like words reigning into a bucket full of lost empty dreams words we can no longer speak are words we cannot escape; like a drug, words replace everything in Bedlam, we make friends of monsters we eternally breathe them in, their sharp teeth on leads their cancer spreads, like vampires they are, intravenously without resistance, invited in windows open no one home becomes the norm, as if in a stark hospital bed, we are cannula fed. Bedlam becomes us Candide Diderot. ‘25 “O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing…” (Ode To The West Wind/Percy Bysshe Shelley) “The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! … The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem’d a vision; I would ne’er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.” (Ode To The West Wind/Percy Bysshe Shelley) “I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky ) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out…” (ChimeraPoet)

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Words We Cannot Escape

“Words We Cannot Escape” Words we can no longer speak we tap dance over keys bruised blackly numb Winter palette in hand Autumn now gone across white-washed notes fixated on stark enclosed walls the scent of old Lavender swimming in its vanilla escapes us each word appears miraculously in form a zealous charcoal footprint smouldering across a blank page, we ardently try not to follow the others, the try too hards - along their numerous paths stranded without lanterns they speak in strange babbling tongues the peculiar sounds are the echoes of their words kept in empty jars full of lost smiles and expletives, here they place their homeless purpose within their vacant epithets, promises and prayers - they place them reverently here, in this Bedlam place - they maintain their upward inflections their ever-ready smiling emptiness speaks trying their best to win accords with fully committed asylum strangers but they know better, and so do we - one step across the line drawn, their communal ant lines broken the act is met with strict contrition the ununique expel the once upwardly cherished odd paragons, as unwanted and abnormal discards - the lacerated division becomes the norm; we smile, like a wraith inside, silently, like a rag being rung out irreverently we are left hanging, bleeding out over the rails, unpegged in the blisterng breeze without reciprocal meaning the result, bloodless and brutalised inside invisible tears, no crocodiles, they are coolly removed, the unsaid speak silently like coward poets, hearts forever falling like words reigning into a bucket full of lost empty dreams words we can no longer speak are words we cannot escape; like a drug, words replace everything in Bedlam, we make friends of monsters we eternally breathe them in, their sharp teeth on leads their cancer spreads, like vampires they are, intravenously without resistance, invited in windows open no one home becomes the norm, as if in a stark hospital bed, we are cannula fed. Bedlam becomes us Candide Diderot. ‘25 “O wild West Wind, thou breath of Autumn’s being, Thou, from whose unseen presence the leaves dead Are driven, like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing…” (Ode To The West Wind/Percy Bysshe Shelley) “The impulse of thy strength, only less free Than thou, O uncontrollable! … The comrade of thy wanderings over Heaven, As then, when to outstrip thy skiey speed Scarce seem’d a vision; I would ne’er have striven As thus with thee in prayer in my sore need. Oh, lift me as a wave, a leaf, a cloud! I fall upon the thorns of life! I bleed! A heavy weight of hours has chain’d and bow’d One too like thee: tameless, and swift, and proud.” (Ode To The West Wind/Percy Bysshe Shelley) “I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky ) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out…” (ChimeraPoet)

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