"Sometimes there are No feelings, just words that talk very loud." By Poet
Come let me tell you a story,
about a want to be writer.
A young girl's notebook filled,
filled with her writings.
How a teacher put her and her writings down,
letting the class laugh at her work.
She knew she had something to say,
even if they did not believe in her.
She believed in herself,
even when the world was in doubt.
She used ink as her paints for painting,
on her canvas called paper.
She learned about rhymes and limericks,
along with verse, acrostic and more.
So many styles to choose from,
what was a girl to do?
Just write more for her readers,
telling stories in her poems.
She loved how her magical words,
seemed to go dancing across the paper.
When she found PoetrySoup,
she felt like she had come home.
Other writers to help her learn,
even correcting her from time to time.
Comments to inspire her,
bringing out her creativity and imagination.
A true writer writes from their heart,
never letting anyone stop them.
The moon leans down with silver grin,
correcting me on where I’ve been,
insisting I should roam again~
the moon has far too many views.
It tells me clouds are overrated,
that sunsets leave it underrated,
that stars are show-offs gold-plated~
the moon has far too many views.
It scolds the tides for being late,
debates the wind on matters great,
and lectures night on how to wait~
the moon has far too many views.
Yet still I listen, charmed each night,
to lunar gossip, soft and bright,
because its meddling feels just right~
the moon has far too many views.
spine to medulla and then up to crown
taking God’s blessings till third eye dips down
this grid is a divine implant
in time correcting our stooped slant
whence in a stream of liquid light we drown
It doesn’t happen loudly.
No thunder, no shattered glass—
just the quiet subtraction of you.
First, your edges soften.
You stop correcting them
when they get you wrong.
Then your voice lowers—
not silence yet,
just… less insistence on being heard.
You begin to edit yourself
mid-sentence, mid-thought, mid-feeling,
trimming away anything that might not fit
inside the space they’ve made for you.
Love, you say.
This is love.
But love should not feel
like translating your soul
into a language that has no word for you.
Days pass, then months—
you forget what you sounded like
before you became agreeable.
You forget what you wanted
before wanting became inconvenient.
Even your reflection hesitates now,
as if trying to recall your name.
And still, nothing looks broken.
No bruises, no smoke—
just a life tidied down to nothing.
That’s how it kills you.
Not with endings,
but with edits.
Not by taking your breath,
but by teaching you
not to need it so much.
Until one day,
there’s nothing left to erase—
and no one left
to notice.
The New York Times won’t print the word;
It’s bleeped on every station.
Yet somehow, now, the “leader”
Of this once-respected nation
Can read and post a message
There for everyone to catch,
With a F**K YOU and a B***ARD
Written out in ALL CAPS, natch.
What a shining fine example
For our kids and grands to follow!
Correcting their obscenities
Will come across as hollow.
Yet this is what we’re stuck with,
Every awful trait unfurled.
It’s no wonder we are mocked
In every corner of the world.
Diamond
You are, beautiful love, mine, hmm, why far?
You, loved, the perfect beauty and personality. The Lady
Always, my love is yours—sadness in my life.
Sadness. Yes. My time. The age. Different times
Oh, love. My life is soon passing away. You stay
My young love, hmm, the youth, I am loving you
You are a goal, yes, of my life. Need to give all
My life is not mine, I will die, stay in your heart
I love you, Diamond, my Secret Love, in all times
Hmm. I need your touch, beautiful Hungarian Love
The Only. I want to respect you. That’s my fate
Past. Correcting the past. Sorry for the disappearance
Get my life
For a servant
In home
Of your heart
I needed to talk to you
Always, always
I love you
I love you
My crystal
Diamond
Life
To Rewind or Pause Life
Most people are confused as to which one
Others may want to try it out just for fun
If there's any pain involved either one could hurt
Correcting any mistakes that we want to revert
Who in there right mind wouldn't want to rewind the good times
To meditate on the good things and taking stress off our minds
The pause button would be good for making a decision
The world can be an audience with your life on television
By pressing rewind we would all get a do over
Giving our drunken minds a chance to think sober
Both of these words can't win because its an equal fight
That's why we don't have the option to Pause or Rewind life
But yes, I tell my muse, we will be together until the end
She is relieved, having spent so much time fixing me
Correcting me, inspecting me, subjecting me to her will.
I am seventy-three as of yesterday, so I know she was worried.
Wondering if I was done; I am not seasoned, I am old.
I refuse to admit this, dying my hair burgundy, wearing go-go boots.
Poetry is my fourth hobby, but it is a part of my soul now.
My self-inflicted goal is ten poems a day.
I have been able to meet this goal for five years now.
But yes, I say to my muse. No worries.
You will be with me until my hands and head no longer move
And my brain figures out where we go after this earth life.
I thought of you today when I heard a song –
A pop star using “ima” like you used to do.
The memories flooding my mind were strong,
Despite it all I put on a smile and sang along.
Reminders of correcting your English for you.
I thought of you today when I heard a song.
A rap star’s lyrics that are never wrong.
Words so perfect they will see me through.
The memories flooding my mind were strong.
A diva’s voice helps put you where you belong
Forever young wearing your halo in skies so blue
I thought of you today when I heard a song.
A song about a love lasting many years long.
For a thousand years I will love you.
The memories flooding my mind were strong.
Too many songs about losing someone so young.
Too many songs that are perfect and true.
I thought of you today when I heard a song.
The memories flooding my mind were strong.
We are all born for such a time as this today
Everyone had enough of the worlds fighting
How long will this selfish greed carry on for?
Are we any different from all our ancestors
Viewing the world for what's it has to hold
Eventually, we became consumers of greed
Anger only hurts those showing the anger
Children's we got to learn from each other
Hope we can learn to overcome our failure
Of learning from our own holding of our past
Inside every one of us is that willingness to
Correcting that what was wrong within us all
Even now, we can learn to share as one voice
Never spoke
About the things
I can do or would do
Always told you
About what I've done
Some right and some wrong.
I never let my flaws
Weigh me down
Right from birth
Right from my mother's womb
I've been striving for authenticity not perfection
Not letting my imperfections take over me.
Like my mother
Never neglected me
Amidst my imperfections
She knows my battles
Always correcting my wrongs
Sometimes by war or with love.
palms and feet radiate magnetic heat
with the supple spine, a divine implant,
making us feel from head to toe complete,
the cosmic prayer, our breath by breath chant,
correcting the stance of our ego’s slant
that thus as we so become the bliss flame,
our vaporised Self is left with no aim
There once was a girl from the south
Who had a hard time with her mouth
Boy with same issue said, (S)"poon!"
She said, "Not poon! We say, "poon!"
Correcting his speech without doubt.
To thin girl we constantly had to say,
"Pull up your pants, the moon shines not in day!"
She noticed my shirt, cut low...
"Mrs.Crystol! Your buttcrack shows!"
Sure enough, too much cleavage on display!
We keep,
Working on ourselves
Trying to know
Our dark sides
Correcting
Each other's flaws without discrimination.
Sometimes
We fight
When she's hurt
I am too
She's angry
I am as well
But we always find serenity
Within us after every fight, bring the light.
This kind love
Keeps be alive
My mother,
A one of a kind
A blessing from above
Never to be traded for anything
Now I'm being selfish with her
Because I wanna own her forever.
Years ago, in Budapest,
I bought ceramic mugs
As presents for my son and wife;
They thanked me and gave hugs.
The pottery was quite unique;
I bought some for myself,
Which sits there in my kitchen
On a front-and-center shelf.
I couldn’t carry too much home
But always did regret
I didn’t buy myself a mug
(Or two, to make a set).
Yet since that time, my son has bought
Ceramics of his own.
His coffee cup collection
Has considerably grown.
The gift mugs are no longer used;
They’re stored way out of sight.
I knew if they were on display,
They’d bring me great delight.
Could I possibly reclaim them?
It’s a practice that’s taboo
(Which I’m well-aware my title,
Very not P.C., is, too).
But my son was very gracious –
Wrapped them so they wouldn’t break
And they’re hanging in my kitchen now,
Correcting my mistake.
I won’t do this again
Though I am glad I had the nerve
To speak up, for these two mugs
Bring out my smiles on reserve.
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