Best Writting Poems
Writing In simple English
Guess silver spoon,
Was far on the day of my birth,
Born in west Africa,
In a town called,
Onitsha,
Growing up speaking Igbo,
and Yoruba,
two deferent language's,
out of three major tribes,
Traveling around Africa,
I learned to speak,
five defferent languages,
Traveling out of Africa,
I learned to speak,
two more defferent,
international lauguage's ,
All together,
I basically speak ten lauguage's,
Including English,
I could write only six,
Others I just speak,
I was thought to speak,
and write English in the school,
Right in west Africa Nigeria,
English is never,
my native language,
Yet! since is one language,
that more people in the world,
now share the most,
I guess,
I must not be left out,
in communication,
Like Doe,
I understand gramma,
Yet I write simple English,
I don't write like a prof! (Professor)
I see sence to writte,
a in simple form of English,
Which everyone,
with a high or low level of education,
Could understand clearly,
The sence in every poem,
is the message,
No matter who is the writer,
I don't write poems,
to teach grammar,
I don't read poems,
To learn high letters,
from a professional writer,
All I do is write from the soul,
All I do is read yours,
and get the message,
Pardon my simple English,
If is too simple to your class,
Then is ovious am not the right one,
For your kind of writer,
To be a writer is not to be gramma tic,
If there is no vission,
of creativity,
to a positive sence of humour,
in your writting,
Then let it go!
The world have passed a time of fantasy,
Where knowledge is dig like a hole,
Wisdom so rare more than a diamond,
The reality of today,
I guess explains better,
To an answer to a call of nature,
I write words in simple English
With my blue pen,
pardon my Simple English
For i am not a British
It is , what it is
Writting in simple English
In our family circus
children old enough to be left alone
without a babysitter.
Can find lots of interesting ways
to have fun.
And this makes for a happy house hold.
But when parents return home,
They can't help noticing something is different.
It’s to quiet
and the kids didn't meet them at the door.
Act one starts like this.
All right! All of you get in here right now!
Who did this?
No matter how many kids you have.
You’ll always have one extra,
the one you can't see.
The one kids always blame
and he answers to the name of
(Not Me!)
Your kids make it plain as the crayon
writing on the living room wall.
the house is a mess,
the refrigerator is wide open,
the pudding and Popsicle are gone.
The dog is covered in shaving cream.
Kids being kids can get in trouble
In every conceivable way.
As your kids stand in front of you,
you can count the halos in the room.
And so, you repeat the question
I said who did this?
They sound like angels.
One at a time you hear
your children innocently say not me.
But as usual the first kid to speak up,
knows who did it.
You pull your little tattletale to the side,
and pay no attention as they start to cry.
Ratting out the little kid that you can't see.
The one kids blame
who answers to the name
(Not Me!)
Come on, place bets and roll the dice, the gambler.
A near win is twice the size, the gambler.
They say what goes around comes around.
The wheel of fate rotates, rates rise, the gambler.
You feel tonight like lady luck is smiling
on you but it does not suffice the gambler.
You want it all! The gambling house, the dealer,
the weel of fortune and the dice. The gambler’s
schemes how to be a Master of the Gambling
for a long time ago entice you, gambler…
The Master of the Gambling shrugs his shoulders:
at last, he is as well a nice old gambler,
who just has cracked the way to end this poem.
Welcome to a fool’s paradise, the gambler.
Don't stop the pen from writting
Don't take away my words.
This is my art, how I choose to express,
These are all the lessons I'v learned.
I might not be a painter,
Or invented a great big machine,
But I like to use my imagination-
I can go anywhere if I just dream.
I can go to a lost island
Undiscovered by mankind.
I can swim deep beneathe the ocean
With fish of every kind.
I can search deep down inside
and pull out all my fears and pains.
I can write them down and figure out
Just how my words can make them go away.
I can express my life to you ,
When my thoughts are written down.
I can live life twice if I want,
Because my words and poetry are all around.
I can dream up fantasy places,
I can go where ever I want.
But if you take away my pen,
You'll be taking away my art.
Writting is what makes me ME,
Writtng is who I am.
So if you want to know more about me,
Sit back and let me grab my pen.
Solitude is now a trained trait
It’s easier than teaching the selfish to cooperate
Past the lights of yesterday
I see tomorrow fade away
Mundane voices talk with ease
Explaining why we go to sleep
Hieroglyphics carved in walls
Lead the way into our stalls
Different tones above our skies
Give our gods an alibi
Friendless souls still stomp around
Deciding if they own our town
Pristine people right and true
Can be bribed to work four you
Forced in to a governmental sacrifice
Seems to decrease our economical price
My minds been monopolized
Taken hostage by a pack of lies
Our love smothers, we destroy with hate
Emotional providences we can’t regulate
Poison from a broken heart
Can be used to dip a dart
Men have fought on foreign land
War has always been freedoms demand
Fallen comrades buried deep
Buried with the maps we seek
Thoughts not directly from my mind
Take refuge in my memory at times
Strong and educated we are immense
Unable though to choose sides of defense
A stagnate society lies in wait
Watching to see what our children create
Promises made of true satisfaction
Redeemed By investing in political action
The flag though torn still it waves
Granting our freedom, although were not enslaved
We have the choice or so they claim
To play like them or lose the game
Our elders, our teachers, to us they now run
Grappling at their justice; for answers, to us come.
I'm born again! I am disgusted with
myself, with an imperishable pith
of me, a sort of enmity akin
to xenophobia: the human being
I see in mirrors is a guest from far,
a very far off world. How dare you are
embezzling me - the soul, the mind, the name!
Well, name is yours but what about the same
old fountain pen I thought I left behind?
Oh, sweet oblivion I failed to find!
The death is cheating... On the other hand,
perhaps, it's not so bad for us, my friend.
To die, to be embodied and again
to fill the dearest old fountain pen.
You're writing on pieces of paper
Your left arm, not your right
You were right-handed
But sadly, not tonight
Your hair shivers and itches
Every moment you breathe
You shake and you wrangle
Trying hard to see.
But your bubbling vision fades
With great pain, and haste
Slowly they tumble out
Free from your wake
But you push them aside
And they fall just like pleasure
The game isn’t fun
And you have to take measures
Then there’s itching,
Again,
You grimace painfully
Your hollow skull is now itching manically
But your hand can’t stop writing
The last thing that you lost
You’ve seen a slice of heaven
Now witnessing its cost
Trembling pain rips through your body
It heats,
and you shake enough,
to leave scratches on your page
But you have to continue,
Cold bone slices through gummy meat
Every crevice from brain to soul
Is warming up, and growing teeth
Molars, wisdom, sharp and dull
Are ripping teething as they grow
And pain is taking root and hold
Words escape your hollow mouth
Your skull, its jaws are hollow, shut
And your right hand
Makes a ripping sound
And blood pours on your neck
As it raises,
Your toothy smile looks at you
With humming eyes
That clatter with pain
And you can’t open your eyes in fright
For your last thought is fear
Fear you didn’t write enough
Fear what's left is teeth and blood
Not paper,
Or pen,
Or a name,
Or memory,
Of what was written.
But a broken pile of teeth and mud
Watched by eyes from heaven above
Laying on the floor,
Rotting like pleasure.