Poet Poems - Poems about Poet

aloha please, read much write less...

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A poet worth his salt is one that feels each vowel he is tossing in the air; And poetry's the altar where he kneels to thank the Almighty in a fervent prayer. He works as hard as fifty slaves combined to make his poems loved and understood while striving for the worthy and refined, he puts to verse his ever-racing moods. The sleepless...

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Sometimes I have to call myself wrong So that someone s path becomes easy Everyone has the right to speak the truth But sometimes silence also becomes a prayer When someone s peace passes through you Then I have to smile even after breaking myself He has won by understanding that he has won over me And I have to make excuses...

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Gathered courage to put emotions on paper Ink agrees to be visible to anyone that pays attention Pain introduces itself in a miserable situation This time,not about love or infatuation The poet cries with unanswered question This time,I may not write a dark poem Nor solution to my problem Though inspired no one, neither that was the aim The hidden best of me...

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A Poet Road Now that it is hot and the sun has turned from a warm friend to a raging enemy, what did I say to make it so burning hot? I`m up early and drive around, stopping and take pictures of growing plants before the rampant sun makes them lose all colors. Then, before I knew it was ten o’clock time...

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“Poetry is an expression of innate emotions, entrancing the muse with the excitement of dedicated offering”- By Poet I breathe poetry of ebullient emotions, the sensual designer of dulcet dreams, searching for the sense of fervent feelings. As they mingle with the tone of my twilight time, my mind merges with the sentiments of belonging, where...

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Tribute to my Poet Angel ...

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I buried your voice. How? Echoes of my apologies. They hit nothing but the cold stone. So hard the cliff splintered— Killing the cries before they ever...

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In a world without God, with hatred, with wars and darkness, from the POET there are remain only a BODY fighting as an animal for existence… But yet, on the white nights with the moon, from there, from the deep of the soul of the Poet, the LIGHT pours over the world! ...

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Poems are much like cottonwood seeds, Filling the air as they float in the breeze. We hope our efforts find fertile soil And our seeds take root, rewarding our toil. Exposed and vulnerable, they may never land Or they may be clutched in a grateful hand. We send them by faith, our deepest expressions Hoping they land and yield fruitful impressions. Keep sowing...

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Blasphemy, truly— To treat a poem like lab equipment. Smearing souls on damp napkins, scribbling overwrought sorrows. We are sacred, young lady. Vessles for disciplined sociopaths and occasionally, prophets. Not therapy couches for freshly wrecked teens. Yet here you are— dismantling verses with the rollerball pen from middle school and deliberately gothic tragedies. “I’m figuring it out as I go.” The audacity. But fine, if you’d rather, learn...

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Tingling of tongue sent Euripides Questing a tastier kind of cheese. "I found cheddar magical," Said this poet tragical, "Sailing the southern antipodes.”...

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She’s at it again. Wasting my ink staging yet another death. I draft her crimson melodramas with third-hand metaphors as she sips on ‘hope’ like tonic laced with rust and wears ‘moor’ like thrift-store perfume. I thread her June into forced sonnets (poor things), before her gin drowned the meter in proofed regret. Even a pen gets impatient. Sometimes she pauses, as though it might save her— I...

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A night in fragments— Breath reeked mildewed regrets, and static collided behind my eyes. I tasted shattered neon, sipping cheap club gin. Even alcohol can’t silence the poet— I mock her perfumed clichés, but still draft her eulogy in thrifted elegance. “I hate writing blind,” I muttered as gin bled through crooked verses— March 14th, a drunk poet sighed— Her pen staged the week’s second...

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I lounge about, walk about, crocking a hymn of praise or two. Heaven, is heavenly, or is it a fake and fanciful heaven created for fanciful and fake poets? I sit by a sweetly flowing stream' a host of gay vividly colorful flowers speak to me in the high-falutin language of antique songs. It is wonderfully wonderful, yet I am bored, bored with the supranormal and the ethereal nature...

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