Best Introspectionwrite Poems
When I put pen to paper
To write in free verse or rhyme,
What I create is according to mood
The feelings I have at the time.
When I'm in tune with my inner self
I write from the level of soul.
Outpourings are deeply spiritual
For Divine Love writes the scroll.
Sometimes I'm philosophical.
Understanding wish to share,
So I open my mind to wisdom's touch
Let her take over from there.
If I'm feeling playful
Then a sense of humour I use,
To create some joy and laughter
Young and old alike to amuse.
I might just want to share feelings,
So with the gift of empathy
I try to reach other's hearts and minds,
So to set their feelings free.
I also take from what I see in life
Nature's beauty spread all around.
And so portray with expressive words
To capture every sight and sound.
I am like the artist
That paints on canvas for all to see.
My pen is my brush, words my colours
And feelings do the artwork for me.
In order to form these words,
you must start by being unsure.
from comforting warmth, to a artic discomfort
switching to fire and ice again.
Temperature like a predator
in the Sahara desert dusk.
Sit on your porch at dusk,
watch the clouds create their words.
Be your linguistic barrier’s predator.
Mentally conjunctions float unsurely
from a mastermind. Look up again,
wonder if Neruda felt discomfort.
Do geniuses feel discomfort?
There is something stimulating about dusk.
Forget. Forget about the poem again,
look around. Everywhere, there are words.
Nature’s are certain but society is unsure.
Awaken your predator
Prey on inhibitions, predator.
Relax and drink it in, relieve discomfort,
tongue against cup. In unsure
clouds, words. Not just in dusk
either. Insects make sharp words.
Crumple a sheet of paper. Again.
Now throw it out, again and again.
Soon, sensing a literary victim, your predator
will chase it. Wonder what a word
really is. The pen will give you discomfort
in your hand. Take some paper. Dusk
is now ending; Be absolutely sure
this time you will write it. Surely,
you will crumple it up again.
Don’t get a flashlight, it’s still dusk;
the lines are blurry. Your predator
will inspect you, it’s hunger discomforting.
Write. These words
won’t write themselves. No words do. Surely
by now you know that. How discomforting the pen feels. Again
you are unsure. Until dusk is over, and your predator is bored, will it be done.
-Stephen Kofi Opare Obeng
How can I change what has already been changed?
Everything has been tried over a thousands ways,
and there my perplexing question lays...
without a persuasive answer connecting the flow of words
to a revelation that necessity has invoked!
What else can I write when every subject
has already been written about by those illustrious writers?
But there's never a shortage of inventiveness...
that's found in the intellectual cleverness
that's only found in their depth!
How can I possibly replace the gentle pen which flows,
from an imagination so genuine and free?
I'll complete my sentences that wouldn't be an object of envy
of those written in the dreadful eras of restricted liberty;
one must bring more realism to questionable stories!
What new thoughts will be expressed by this mind,
not to imitate or infringe upon those writers' works lauded by society;
and give them proper credentials for their creativity...
one can't help being inspired and transformed by their originality,
great writers or composers wouldn't excel without the precedent!
How can I speak of fairness, if I don't practice it myself?
My human side should be compassionate;
take on that unprejudiced and forgiving look...
I,too, I'm subject to faults and replete with regret;
when my conscience isn't reminded of death!
What can I create from those eight notes
that await the awakening of inspiration from me?
For hours and hours my fingers will pound tirelessly...
on this piano, to write that unforgettable melody
that somebody will hear and play many times!
How can I change what has already been changed?
I'll risk it all by revealing my unfortunate events...
contesting their wills and connoting their faults!
Copyright 2008 by Andrew Crisci
Often I wonder,
What compels me to write,
For whatever I put down,
Has only a slight chance of being read,
And then a slimmer chance of being remembered,
Until now I could not come up with a suitable reason,
But alas, i have discovered the truth as only I can see it.
I do not write so others can read,
I do not write so I will be remembered,
I do not write to put the educated in their place,
Nor to educate the unfortunate,
I write for myself,
I write to free my mind,
I write because if i didn't then the uncollected thoughts would be lost,
And thoughts never told are thoughts that have been thought in vain.
I write from here where I am kept.
I write from here where I have slept.
However, shake not your head and wonder.
For being here was not a blunder.
I’ve walked the world with my head held high.
Thus it will be the day I die.
Freedom granted, freedom given.
Some man trying to do my live’n.
Yes, a joke for them who so see.
For freedom lives inside of me.
Not a gift for them to give.
But mine to claim by how I live.
Prison is your thoughts and life.
Not four walls and senseless strife.
Those who write are a special band,
a close knit community, who most times stick together
However, though we are banded by either,
a special gift, or chosen profession
we kind of all ride the stormy weather,
Reading works from Shakespeare, Keats, Poe, Hemingway
Koontz, King, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle
just to name a few,
I wonder just how closely we really are linked,
Lets face it, being a writer, we must have
quite an imagination.
Being a Poet, I have often wondered just how close,
my imagination could be construe as to being
temporary insanity, as I write to my congregation
And I also wonder, how or if anyone who reads,
my war poems, realizes that the imagery I write
is as though I am there and the image is new,
We all have written, at one time or another
about the highs and lows in our lives,
and have been consoled by others,
Some by friends, some by casual readers,yet
some have not shown consolation, but instead
scorns, Some even from their Mothers,
Yet, I am sure there are some such as Hemingway who,
have had issues, buried very deep, so deep
that the only way out was clear,
Perhaps all writers, Perhaps those who specifically write,
about darkness and despair, through most of their works
do so out of need,
Poets, In this writers opinion, are much deeper than the
average writer, for their writings, more so than not come quickly indeed,
Though I am not Sigmund Freud, That kind of quickness of thought,
Should be examined not necessarily consoled, to aid to heal
the darkness and despair, once and for all..........
I am not sure what type of write this is ,but it does have a rhyme scheme
aabccb- aabccb -
The best I have to offer
Will never be enough
And though I do the best I can
This writing thing's too tough
I question my convictions
Each time the paper meets my pen
I search for inspiration
Not knowing where to begin
Though rhyming is my forte
I play with other styles
I try to get reactions
Some tears and sometimes smiles
I've never been a poet
But that's okay with me
I just write to brighten someones day
Whoever that person might be
I don't write for fame and fortune
And I do not write for pride
I just offer a piece of me
The piece I carry inside
Though I'll never be a poet
Writing brings me peace of mind
And the world that we're now living in
That peace is hard to find
around and around and around it all spins
this vortex of you that tries to suck me in
I think that I've managed some damage control
yesterday's paper rocks all that I know
I think that its gone and buried real deep
then here and now it's at the top of the heap
I start to falter and so does my faith
I realize I'm slipping and in dire straights
I write with anger trying to get it all out
over five hundred days of dissension and doubt
you do not read me and no longer subscribe
nothing is sacred and none of it jives
I won't speak the words I wanted you to say
I scrawl them in crimson the same ole cliche
West rises the sun and bleeds red across my sky
and sleepless I write in the dead of the night
poets write with metaphors to protect their feelings
letting others read into it--pulling their own meaning
sometimes it hits close, no matter how vague we pen
obtuseness only goes so far when you see yourself in it
we write of unread books and things left out in the rain
of dances left unfinished and songs that we once sang
we write about opening windows and about closing doors
of dense, white fog and shadows, shrouds and birds that soar
we write of finding happiness, of thunder and skies of blue
of footprints in sand, the ocean tides and of the crescent moon
a metaphor does many things, it's left to interpretation
every singular moment, every singular situation
we pen these poems as lyrics or tag them spiritual
hoping others read them and pull from them what they will
If you, are against rules,
It isn’t necessarily a sign of immaturity.
Rather, disregard
for lessons learned, left
by ancients to posterity.
Poetry is a living balm,
with immense power.
Changing by the hour.
It is what you make of it, being one of many,
expressing freely your form,
thought, or deed
worth remembering.
Do you like Haiku, then write Haiku.
But write to preserve
heritage and soul.
Not to intentionally weave your mind
and fingers into it’s history
not yet birthed.
Change will come in its own time.
Each contemplation
of the most tiny morsel
ekes change and morph, degree by degree.
Stay within the norm. Cross your t’s
and dot the eyes. Soon enough!
That time will come when no matter how
hard you try, you can’t make your point
from within the box.
You will have to go outside your bounds
and when you do hands will clap
and thunder roll in admiration.
We can’t stop it, nor should we want it
ever to be the same tomorrow.
Rotting stagnant with bygone
meaning and innuendo,
gathering moss on words no
longer germane,
now not living.
© Jun 15 2010 Charles Henderson
I wrote about love
I wrote about pain
poured it out
for all to read
I wrote about passion
I wrote about warmth
on moonless nights
when I was cold
I wrote about mountains
I wrote about the sea
the monsoon rain
and lightning storms
I write it all
I write what I feel
in haiku and prose
a blogger's lament
I write my feelings
I write my thoughts
I write to project
I write to express
I write to relax
I write to withdraw
I write to entertain
I write to think
I write to laugh
I write to cry
I write to unwind
I write my soul
I write my spirit
I write my love
I write