All i write i write for me
not for you, whoever you may be
i write to please but only my soul
i write to ease my heart of cold
you all may tell me what to
write,when to write
but for you i will never write
for i only write for me
i write what i want and i only show a
few
because i do not write for you
there are peices that only i have
ever seen
peices i write for me
these peices are the ones that
mend me
they help me heal after i've been
hurt
these writings they are my own
as are all my writings
because unlike you may think
i will never write for you, whoever
you may be
because i'm to busy writing for me
Lately folks been asking bout
This license that I got
That lets me wax poetic
And I do wax a lot
It’s given out to writers
Who write other than prose
Like limericks and Cherihews
And rhyming things like those
Who don’t care if a particle
Is dangling or not
Or if a subject follows verb
Or calls a pan a pot
This license allows us writers
A distortion of the facts
Or alteration of good grammar
Though some folks call us hacks
We write at our discretion
And hope you tolerate our view
We use it to fill in the gaps
Leave the meanings up to you
We add non-existing details
And exaggerate the truth
At times we write with tongue in cheek
And come across uncouth
This license lets us say things
We wouldn’t say out loud
Or maybe things we don’t believe
We are truly not highbrowed
It lets us be offensive
When offence makes you think
It lets us do most ANYTHING
Till we run out of ink
It’s the rhythm of the writing
Iambic pentameter
That separates the licensed
From the lowly amateur
But don’t go down to City Hall
This license is inbred
It comes when you just open up
The thoughts within your head
Mdailey
2nd place in contest
I want to write a pleasant sonnet
But the words became a nonnet
I Put on a flouncy bonnet
And walked across a comet
Tomorrow I will try again if I'm not a nurse
To write a pleasant flowing verse
I'll try REAL hard with morals high and n'er a curse
Pen to this paper think, think, think until they call the hearse
Give me more creative times, time infinity
Hard life and hard times will roll on by; giving clarity
Pen not heads will roll across the paper with fluidity
Life times and unexpected tuck and rolls are fodder for creativity
I want to write a silly sonnet....
With fancy pen strokes on it
WHERE POEMS COME FROM
When you write you ‘give’ yourself away
And people then sometimes say -
From where does your inspiration arise?
From the world around you surprise, surprise!
Even the roots of an imagined scene
Grow from where you’ve really been.
If you are a sea-lubber :
You write stories of fish and blubber.
In deserts: sand, camels and scarabs,
Or even groups of Arabs.
You have a small herd of dogs or hens?
You write about those with your pens.
But some are pretenders
Not really ‘givers’ but lenders.
Poems by writers masked
Answer questions nobody asked.
Honesty please, or stay your pen,
And never pick it up again.
Ragged jeans are rich-guy style: that’s what it means;
But poor folk don’t choose: they just wear ragged jeans.
I feel my poems are portraits
I try to create a scene
I use my words in a fashion
To let people know what I mean
I try not to bluster or blather
I try not to write things inane
I want to make the mind smile
Or cause the heart to feel pain
I like to write about nature
I love to speak about love
I point out the hells here on Earth
And the hopes from Heaven above
Aromas and colors excite me
They both make me close my eyes
I lay back and savor their flavor
Then grab my pen when I rise
Thoughts are constantly spinning
Around inside of my brain
I try my best just to sort them
And put them down in refrain
I could go on about feelings
But this poem must come to an end
So I hope those reading my writing
Will be my poetry friends
Rockman :-)
by Ralph Taylor
Contest: Inspired
When I want to write and the urge is there,
there's one place I go, so I can prepare.
It's a spot I know
that makes the words flow
I just go sit, in my reclining chair.
I don't really know why, it happens that way.
Why it's easy to think, what I have to say.
To write something new,
all I have to do
is mount my recliner and write away!
I give voice to thoughts hidden from sight
expressing my inner self and soul.
Paper and pen do not judge what I write
though my secrets take their toll.
Expressing my inner self and soul
I write so I can hear my heart.
Though my secrets take their toll
an inward journey I did start.
I write so I can hear my heart
others can listen as they choose.
An inward journey I did start
myself to decipher I muse.
Others can listen as they choose
in inspirations shadow I write.
Myself to decipher I muse
learning to treasure what's brought to light.
In inspirations shadow I write
unlock my cage of hopes and dreams.
Learning to treasure what's brought to light
with my fears in full view it seems.
Unlock my cage of hopes and dreams.
Paper and pen do not judge what I write.
With my fears in full view it seems
I give voice to thoughts hidden from sight.
P.D's 'Anything Goes' Contest
9th place
(04/03/2005)
I can write what I want
I can write what I think
I can write what I know
I did, write what I saw
I just can’t,
Can’t write what I see…
You!
A poets mind is never at rest.
It spins with every thought.
The lines that you have a need to write down,
And the chains of images that hold you captive.
while your dreams run wild and free.
I know that there is no stopping me.
These ideas have to come out.
So, I get my pen and write them down.
My intention is to write some prose
Why it comes out poems, nobody knows
I struggle, wiggle, leave me alone
As I sit happily writing a poem
Words are created and suddenly rhyme
I hardly revise them – I’ve not the time
Give up the idea of writing a book?
I feel I’m caught by a crook and a hook
Following rules as the semester unfolds
Smothers my brain; puts creating on hold
When I find a second that isn’t filled
I’ll write a poem, ‘cause I’m strongly self-willed!
I became a poet
in March of two thousand ten,
not knowing it then
and even later didn’t know it.
Now some tell me so,
and in so doing, reveal
as surely as church bells peal
as far as the sound shall go.
With pen in hand,
bent to heartily confess,
I write with no thought of stress,
laying down verbal contraband.
Some true, some false
but most, purely make believe.
I write for myself to please,
my pleasure above all else.
If one line outlive my life
pray I with every lasting breath.
one may read and smile, and I in death
entreat my timely gift to suffice.
Charles
I write poems to express myself. I write poems because I really need to be heard from.
When writing poetry, it makes me want to talk about favorite TV shows, music, world
crisis, whatever. I don't need anyone to ever tell me what I can and can't write about.
They're my words and I have the right to my real opinions. When I'm writing my own poems,
I don't hold anything back. If I want to write love poems, emotional poems, and/or
whatever, I'll do that. I'm expressing myself throughout my writings and I want to share
my poems with everyone around the nation. And if any of those nay-Sayers have a problem
with the way I write my own poetry, that's their problem; not mine. I hope everyone gets
the message.
"Give me more", my hunger rages, 8
Write the rhymes and rip the pages. 8
Leave the rhythm, change the rhyme, 7
But wait, a syl-label was lost. 8
I think the comma helped this time. 8
And hyphens are a petty cost. 8
Now change the rhythm, but keep with the rhyme. 10
The line was sped, so not much lost. 8
I'll have to bring it back this time; 8
It seems the rhythm's shown its cost. 8
Worth was the word that I wanted to use. 10
I forced the rhyme, went back to ten. 8
Then broke my knees to beg the muse, 8
And made it back to eight again. 8
Oh muse, thou hast forsaken me, 8
Resorting to archaic words. 8
Perhaps cliche will set me free; 8
I'll write of love and trees and birds. 8
Or maybe I should write of death, 8
A noble knight that bravely fell. 8
Put wisdom in his final breath, 8
Like pennies in a wishing well. 8
I'm trapped inside this paper cell, 8
My self-created poet's hell. 8
I’m supposed to write something really creative.
Class is tonight and my mind is vegetative.
Oh Lord will I be the only one,
who can’t think of anything crazy and fun?
Thinking, thinking, why won’t my mind go there?
Maybe I’ll write about the smells at the fair.
I got it! I know! How about the pretzels at the mall?
So many ideas but I can’t write about them all.
So instead I sit and stress,
Oh my mind is such a mess!
Popping popcorn at the movie theater, yes that’s it!
Now my stomach is hungry, thinking as I sit.
Oh why, oh why do I smell that cake baking?
I am really not good at decision making.
I know, I’ll just write about something other than food.
But maybe my heart is really not in the mood.
Nope, food, food, food is where it is.
Oh gosh this is harder than a surprise pop quiz.
O.k just let it go , that’s what I’ll do.
But why can’t I stop thinking about that cheese fondue?
I love to write on facebook.
Friends on there know I do.
I skip gaming distractions.
I chat with folks like you!
We post our pretty pictures.
And write our poems below.
Sometimes some friendly lectures
Can make our thinking grow.
No matter where a heart may lead,
Or where imagination travels,
Someone is there to share, indeed!
And trim our flaws and ravels.
A poet friend is a special friend.
His soul delves very deep.
Kindly words he will always lend.
Without complaint or peep!
God bless my friends around the world.
Each one brings me great joy.
It is with friends and love unfurled
That imagination whirls…oh boy!
So, thank you for your friendship.
Real world folks visit cyberspace.
Shining kindness without one blip!
Sharing their soul and their face.
© February 8, 2011
Dane Smith-Johnsen
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