Whenever I pick up my pen
I think its blood I’m writing in
What starts off as a random thought
Is meaningless until its caught…
By some past experience
Or something I can barely sense
But somehow it will take a form
On paper that I’m writing on…
My enemies become my friend
As each paragraph will end
What was once misunderstood
Completes the next line as it should…
So every syllable it finds
Come together and combine
Not just so the truth is told
That comes from within our soul…
And as I sit again to write
With some wine by candle light
The shadow from my glass instead
Slowly turns black ink to red…
I've been having problems writing these days,
Nothing is really new all pretty much the same.
~
I hate when I get this way,
Some people say give writing a break.
But all I can say is NO WAY!
So now I am turning to my friends for advice,
What in the devil should I write?
~
Any suggestions would be great
To get this stumped poet back to her feet.
Why Did I Stop Writing?
I feel like I‘ve been away for so long,
Dead and gone like a country song.
Got on a horse and rode out of town,
Disappeared from being around.
Gave up writing to relieve the stress,
Why, you asked? It’s anyone’s guess.
Maybe time was just too short,
Maybe my creative juices just abort.
Either way I chose to leave,
Burned the sucker, didn’t even grieve.
But then one day it occurred to me,
Over a cup of coffee, or was it tea?
That writing helped me feel at peace,
It’s not my entire world, but it’s a piece.
So maybe I’ll juggle my priorities in life,
As long as I don’t neglect my son and wife.
So I’ll write again, well at least I’ll try,
I’d appreciate it if a reader drops by.
I am tired of asking myself if you're ever going to make your way back.
I am tired of using other people as distractions to keep my mind off of you.
I am tired of catching myself when I'm at the bottom.
I am tired of writing the same letter, but never sending it.
I am tired of obsessively checking phone, expecting a missed call from you.
I am tired of pretending to be okay.
I am tired of feeling and appearing so pathetic.
And I am tired of the way I act when you're not around.
As if I am someone to be around.
I am tired of the way the sky looks when you're not here.
I am tired of the way I want him, because you're not here.
I am tired of letting myself go to depressing songs.
I am tired of not being able to focus on my actual life.
I am tired of looking at pictures from a while back and saying to myself, "when things
were good."
I am tired of going back.
I am tired of remembering .
I am tired of wanting something I know I'll never have.
I am tired of coming up with excuses.
And other than that, I am tired of writing this letter to you.
So take this, and run with it.
Because that is what you always do.
My body is no longer beautiful I tortured it for way to long
I'm surprised it hasn't started a riot or went into a coma
Living life to the fullest is what everyone should think of doing
Don't waste your time with all the bull just cut it to the chase
Cause suicide is never the answer it doesn't make anything any easier
So instead of blowing your brains out or jumping off the Brooklyn bridge
Think of all the good times you had and all that are to come
I'm not just writing this poem for myself I'm writing it for all
The people they call depressed or insane
And any othe person who takes the time to read
THE LITTLE KEY
The little key said to the Lock he wanted to be free
the Lock responded Im fear HeHe
it growled and snarled Looked mean
the little Key shook at the scene
the Lock was Big MAde solid
Told the little Key Only the bad Possibilities which would be
sounds came into the little keys ears with endless fears
As Nightmares creeping around in our minds
loney,Low Esteem, All of what you feel at sometime it seems
Another Key came up said be Free
The little Key Said Unlock the lock For me Pleasee
He Said You are Good I know But My shape wont work
Be Strong with Esteem Sure theres bad I know But
Also Good when Found would Overflow
the little Key Shook and Wink; Close His eyes
CliCK CliCk ClinK
Light Appeared
My writing has changed so much since then. I first started writing poetry in about 10th
grade, yet, still I am not even close to the quality of art I want to approach
(Shakespeare, Dante, etc...). My older poems usually tried to teach a moral (lol). Hope
you enjoy reading it.
why
why didnt i use a pencil
why must i use a pen
while writing this story of mine
as i create my life
if only i had the chance to erase
sometimes
i wish my past could be changed
not everything
just the mistakes
but unfortuantly
as the author of my life
i had written in ink
theres no going back
i could try my best
to clear up the smudges
on the pages of my life
only made worse from my tears
or
i could
take my book
with its pages torn and ripped
and begin writing my next chapter
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