Write Poems | Examples of Write Poetry

Speak your melodies and I'll dream of harmonies that will someday be befitting of your artistry Similarly Voice your euphony and I'll dream of poetry that will someday be worthy of your flattery, and lure you into rhapsody - pure ecstasy with each word that breathes between the pages from beneath those eyes that never cease to critique, and a breath that reeks of deceit and deserted...

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One Play Game One play game, one play game Life is a one play game Play only this game No need for any blame One play game, one play game Life is a one play game Life is like a flame Don’t blow out this flame One play game, one play game Don’t forget your aim Stay true, don’t change your game One play game, one play...

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Of imagery in yonder meadow she had much to say from daffodils on rolling hills to ivy covered fences Yet of tragedy she would not write ...

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The moon nestles within a celestial quilt, as the sun sleepily peeks through the indigo sky. Chartreuse canopies sway against a mid-autumn sunrise. Mahogany leaves, scattered upon frost-tipped, ombré blades of grass, crackle under the patter of the feet of does. Canadian geese flock, gliding toward home. The inaugural...

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Dragging my pen along the walls of the well, The ink of meaningful words runs dry, Blind to who you've become, and serving only to dampen empty sockets, The misty drops of moments lost become the meaningless tears I cry, And the blink of the eyeless is, likewise, frivolous nictation, For it was yesterday upon them your image permanently seared, And...

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Sometimes, a first draft of a poem leaves me awed. It is as if it came as gift from God. But then when I start to revise and look at it with more studious eyes, I see all the places were it's irredeemably flawed, and I lose all the joy the poem initially brought. And then, in the trash it goes, like...

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Like a raging river barreling toward an arid basin, sediment collects inside a hardening heart. Weighing heavy, eyelids flutter over drowning maculas; all that can be seen are murky riptides. Vision cuts out. Frantically flaring arms desperately try to skim the surface, dragged deeper into an unknown chasm. ...

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The fountain pen ran off giggling and lost his pants Leaving a string of letters, none of them seemed by chance How dare he think he can write? Said my non-amused muse angry enough to give him some really mean reviews He’s just a pen, a one-trick pony! Blue and plastic, common, bony! The pen came back to hear my thoughts I’ve...

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protoplanet c r o o n s violet virtuoso ~ serenading s t ...

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Present me with different patterns, A person without anxiety within. What I mean is, make me feel you, Within the same body, Unable to extract duality, Be my twin baby. From the inner sense of the events, Look through a telescope from a distant land. Let simplicity be in your latitude, Let there...

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Within every writer's soul is an untold role, rolling along the shadows, secretly, desperately seeking the glow above the darkness that gave it life in the first place...

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I write of love, the kind that never dies That gleams with beauty in a lover's eyes I write of love, the kind that conquers death That while it lives, it perfumes every breath I write of love that grants its loved one peace That opens passion's gate in sweet release I write of love that changes not with time That makes...

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An unearthly fog thickens nocturnal’s peaceful aura. Scents of lamenting petrichor mix with slick, decomposing leaves. A disharmonious death knell calls to me, Untying the red strings of fate from the celestial loom. My heart weighs heavy against a faltering ribcage, Standing in front of the wilderness of mirrors. ...

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Earthquakes of bedlam quell As tectonic plates of emotional instability cease shifting. The tears of a discarded clown, suspended in animation— Numbness overtakes. Masks slip, shattering. Shards scrape, lacerating apathetic flesh, Revealing the painted doll underneath. Remove its colourful costume; Discover marionette strings embedded within a fraying back. ...

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I sat with pen, with page snow-white, to sculpt a verse, to birth some light— but all my thoughts just slipped away like shy young clouds who won’t stay. No poet’s muse knocked at my door, no thunder-voice, no metaphor. My words were socks without their pairs, just stumbling...

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