I'm prisoner in my own home
Have no place to go
Feel as if the world turned on it's back
As if the water went away
As if I starved day after day
Places that they speak upon
Are the ones I wish will come
I can no longer be heard
Stuck here.. Locked in a cage of fear
It's dark in here, but light flows out of me
As to you I speak
I'm hungary.. Not fed a crumb
What's wrong with them.
Can they not see me?
I write to you cause I'm not heard
What so ever
I write because you listen
As I whisper into your ear
Don't be scared
I'm not here to scare you
Just need your help
I'm prisoner in my home
Underground is where I've been
Can you hear me?
Would you be my friend?
We write of love, we
write of glory, we
develop heroes for
our story.
Heroines, damsels fill
our dreams, desire and
passion write in reams.
We are consorts of the
meek and the bold, in
truth and honesty our
words are sold.
The ink we spill can
tell no lies, injustice
and hatred the pen
openly defies.
Sadness and joy two
amenable friends, as
memories and feelings
flow from our pens.
Admirers of beauty
haters of waste, the
stalwarts of nature we
readily paste.
Affairs of the heart we
draw from our own,
the kiss on the page is
ever to roam.
Born of the earth yet
live in the stars, the
fulfilment of dreams
these sentences of
ours.
Invisible voices calling my name
From a place that I know not
Their darkness surrounds my very being
And I cannot make them stop
Pretty white forms keep beckoning
"Won't you come out and play"
"What place is this,?" I ask them
They reply, "We're told not to say"
The voices continue their torment
"Why can't they just leave me alone?"
"There's much you have to answer for,
And now you will have to atone"
"Make them stop," I scream. "Make them stop"
"I know not of these things you speak"
The pretty white forms continue to beckon
Then, Silence! that rendered me weak
The wicked sound of their monotonous cries
Has scarred my soul with their pain
Freedom has all but abandoned my mind
A torment, I cannot explain
What place is this I cannot escape?
I write of the things that I see
Remember my name, Edgar Allan Poe
As I write of my insanity
She scribbles her lines as fast as she can
Hoping that someone will read
She writes of love and broken hearts
Til her fingers begin to bleed
She empties her soul from the inside out
To show there's nothing to hide
She wipes away the stains on the paper
From all of the tears she's cried
She leaves a poem in the corner booth
As she moves to the table nearby
She watches in silence as the waitress reads
And a tear falls from her eye
She leaves the cafe for another destination
Once again to write with her soul
She begins to write of a far away place
That her mind alone can go
She watches the people as they read her words
And their emotions as they show it
The words on the paper was written in red
And signed, the invisible poet
What if Amadeus Mozart had a gameboy?
Would his concerto have come to mind?
What if Ludwig van Beethoven had a PS3?
Would his ears be okay and his eyes gone blind?
What if Vincent van Gogh had a digital camera?
Would he have been a great photographer?
What if Claude Monet had an PSP?
Would his vision have still start to blur?
What if Shakespeare had a computer?
Would he write more plays with Word?
What if Emily Dickinson had a Laptop?
Would more than 7 poems have been heard?
What if T. C. Cannon had Adobe Photoshop?
Would he still create native history?
What if I lived in their times?
Would I still write my poetry?