Real Poets Poems | Examples
These Real Poets poems are examples of Poets poems about Real. These are the best examples of Poets Real poems written by international poets.
In the hollow hours before dawn,
when shadows stretch like grasping hands,
I search through rooms I’ve always known
for something I can’t understand.
The mirror holds a stranger’s face,
familiar yet somehow untrue—
eyes that once held fire and grace
now stare back empty, cold, and blue.
I walk through days like sleepwalking,
my footsteps echo on the ground,
the world around me keeps on talking
but I can’t hear a single sound.
Where did it go, that spark within?
That light that made the darkness flee?
Was it lost to doubt or sin,
or did it simply tire of me?
I trace the paths I used to know,
through gardens where I once found peace,
but every flower seems to bow
as if to mourn what won’t release.
The books speak words I cannot feel,
the music plays but doesn’t sing,
and nothing left feels wholly real—
I am the shell of everything.
Yet in the deepest, darkest night,
when hope seems just a fading dream,
sometimes I glimpse a distant light,
a whisper of what I have been.
Perhaps the soul is never lost,
just buried beneath the weight of days,
and though the journey bears a cost,
it waits for us in hidden ways.
Everyone can become a poet,
But some conditions must match
With him,he has to has
A broken heart, still in love.
A dumb mind still well_think,
Means he lost mind in love,
He must scatter in wait
Still never turns his way.
Must lose hope yet in hope,
Must knows words,never share,
Some emotions never told
At last dreams that n't real.
I'M a Poet
Listen! I'm a poet,cause
I'm got many hurts
From them ,never want to lose
So, I leave false dirts.
And pick up pen to express,
Never abuse them ,
I write to their happiness,
Pray, with saying their name.
Alright,I don't love like a poet,
I'M a poet who loves you!
And that love more great
Than a poet whom know you.
Remember! loyalty exist in pain,
Pain in me ,my love is y'ur real gain.
I wake to choices, mine to make,
No predetermined path to walk,
No scripted lines I have to talk.
This Fourth of July I celebrate
Not just a nation's founding date,
But my own revolution won
The day I chose to be someone
The neighbors whisper, "Strange," they say,
"Why live so differently this way?"
But their approval never fed
The hunger growing in my head.
My heartbeat sets the only pace,
My dreams determine every space,
Where independence isn't just
A word—it's oxygen and trust.
Some nights the freedom feels too wide,
Some days I question what I've tried,
But then I breathe my own sweet air
And know I'm finally living where
This is my declaration loud:
I've broken free from every crowd,
These walls are mine, this life is real,
And no one else can make me kneel.
What is it that goes into a poet's mind?
Well, I'll tell you, its deep man, I mean it's really deep
It's so deep that when we write we write deep
The thoughts we think we think deep
And yet,
within in a split second-
a *Spark- something switches
Something ignites; thoughts burn our brains
The cinders inside us burn our cylinders
Thinking thoughts over and over, and over and over
Thinking facts, thinking fiction, thinking the unimaginable and
the imaginable, the what ifs, and the what if nots
We think what we think is thinkably unthinkable
We make sense out of the unsensible
We go out there, and man, we go way out there
We go to the limits, to space, to the place
To the place where all poets go
To the place where anything can happen or unhappen
To our own little worlds
To our world's,
where we can even make horses of a different color' real
Mind you, what goes into a poet's mind
Mind goes into it, man
Mind
I learned many things from him ...
That the trackless path
is gifted
to those
who believe
That the distance
between thoughts
can only be connected
by words
That the idea itself
is worthless
without the thing
it expressed
That tomorrow
is no more important
than yesterday
or today
That the bullfighter
must never die
with the bull
still alive
That revolution
is the truest place
where death
is reborn
That real courage
is only measured
by the one
sorely lacking
That to love her once
is better
than to love
her again
That you must
when you must
until the bugles
have stopped
That worshipping
oneself
is life’s fatal
devotion
That the jungle
we chase
is the jungle
we live in
That the willingness
to say it
frees a willingness
to act
That each great new
adventure
begets a greater
new ending
That in the tears
of a stranger
bleeds the heart
— of a friend
(Key West: January, 1994)
The precursor
Who you are and what you are is your personal dream. It is only when you speak it into the stream of the world that you can claim to be a member of A Living Society.
It's your obligation to do so and the only way that others like yourself (your real family) are gathered together into collective efforts - to make the world new again.
_____
Notes:
We exist as a collective spiritual revolution as every voice - including your personal truths, fearlessly fashioned are added to the symphony of Gaia song.
~Play With Fire Till your Fingers Burn~
5/20/2025
Experience life to its full brink,so sad, to witness any human, being had!
Just try to be a mirror of them, it will drive you uncontrollaby mad!
The world is the jelly bowl, of jellybeans who just all shine and conform.
And yes, they will step on you, if you are not of their norm.
They’ll run from your space, they won’t talk to you!
As if you were an insane specimen from an abnormal zoo!
To be like all the others, is like a living death, all of your days!
Because what you’ve done, is live in fear, and given your precious soul away..
Just write poetry and make love with lif, and play with fire,vool, .and
Let your fingers type with joy,and fully burn.
They shall never experience life on their timid, lifeless, terms.
You might even find yourself, rarely read.
That is a great sign, go bake a loaf of fresh f.aromatic, cinnamon bread!
I don’t want to find anyone being a jelly bean poet!
If you are a real poet, the first thing to do is to write a lot of the
of the invincible you, with immense courage, please do show it!
Thank you! Outstanding Poets!
I once disliked poetry worse than math
going back further – than taking a bath
Shelley was for sissies and so was Blake
reading their verse was a king-size headache
But then along came Eldridge Cleaver, a real man’s man
his poetry faced down ‘whitey’ and the Ku Klux Klan
Poems came alive for me then, I read Castro and Che
Lenin and Stalin, Ayn Rand and Zane Zen
So now you know why I’m a big poetry guy
I can write about why civilization deserves to die
~ and no one ever asks why
I want them to shake me—
not to break me,
but to stir something deep.
To rattle me, gently,
from places I’ve let fall asleep.
To spring anger—yes—
but only where healing begins.
To draw tears,
like cleansing rain,
and decorate the silence
with something real again.
I want them to leave you wondering,
just quietly wanting more.
Not confused,
but curious—
like standing before an unopened door.
I want my words to shake you,
not to harm—
but to hold.
To bring you to the floor,
only so you rise
even more bold.
My words should empower you,
employ you to want more—
more peace,
more light,
more truth than ever before.
To leave you hanging—
not lost,
but suspended—
in a breath,
where something new is just about
to begin.
Because words can move—
and I hope mine move you,
like kindness in full bloom,
like quiet strength
in a still room.
One night, one tale, I'll write so true,
With every word, I'll pen down you.
A moon so bright, a gentle breeze,
Your hand in mine, a moment to freeze.
In real life, we may never meet,
But in my book, our hearts will greet.
In my story, all’s my way,
I'll turn the night when you dream in day.
Why you weren’t mine, I'll write in pain,
Yet in my heart, you still remain.
And though your heart may not hold me tight,
I'll be yours—each day, each night.
To all the poets near and far
Alive and well or beyond the stars,
I bid you peace, I bid you rest,
I bid you all the very best.
Life and death may er’ contain
All the fruits of love and rain,
Showered down upon you all:
Promethean poets, great and small.
Long before we learned to write
But felt inside that burning light,
To share all thoughts, hopes, sadness, dreams
Propitious poets bear it all it seems.
From long ago and far away
And right up through this very day,
Countless came and left their mark
And we too, shall make a lasting spark.
Perhaps a mere morsel, a line or two
That lands upon a mind imbued,
With someone who like you or me
Finds sublimity in words like these.
Though words are not real things we touch
Like rivers, rocks, seashells and such,
But point the way back deep inside
Where memories last and love abides.
But I for one am smaller yet
Then everyone I’ve ever met,
Who picked up paper, pen or quill
And found their calling in the still
Of quiet nights and early morns
Waiting for ideas unborn,
From spirits sweet and dewdrops soft
I bid you all good thoughts aloft.
© Terrell Martin, 02/21/2025
what a reflection!
"no time for final good-bye's"
at the end goodbye
is it a real good luck?
is it a real bad luck?
lovely poetess!
I really like to write
best hopes and wishes
"Reflections" is the poem that has the highest number of views in this site (38921 views!) as far as I read. It is written by Skat A.
We read of clouds and flowers,
Trees and fields and hills of grass.
Alas, like pennies spent, our hours reading words
That other poets penned and sent;
Like freed birds flocking,
Knocking at our door. The poor,
Who seek to sneak a tiny peek
Of timeless, mindless, Truth.
The emotional nakedness of humanity.
The words of natural beauty are only made to be gifted.
We gift them, each to each, in a circular of vernacular
That does not come from without. It is the most real
Of what we steal from this world of dreams.
Seems as though each story, a rememberance of our own.
It is the button of pride they touch as much as anything
We might disown. For we see a part of ourselves forgotten
In each phrase or combination of words that touches us
Where we had forgotten to look, but now recall.
For we are all; We are all. We are ALL.
beneath the screen’s unwavering eye
it scans the words where truths may lie
each line dissected parsed and weighed
a judgment rendered coldly made
this poem is not yours it claims
patterns match familiar frames
even those penned in years before
ai knocked on the public’s door
it cannot see the midnight muse
the quiet hours you dared to use
nor hear the scratch of pen on page
long before machines could gauge
it brands as false what’s truly real
the heart the thought the human zeal
it cannot grasp the time or space
when words were shaped by hand with grace
a formula a rigid test
it cannot know a poet’s best
for sparks of art defy the lines
of data rules and coded signs
so let it judge let systems weigh
and claim your craft a copied play
but know the truth is in your hold
each line a gem of priceless gold
not every word by code is sown
some seeds were planted all your own
and though the tools may still misread
your voice is yours your soul the seed