Write Up Poems - Poems about Write Up

I’m twisted into submission; admission to true world of imaginary breeze and coconut salt. I’m a seed, slipping into sand, letting go. The wild sea’s crest and trough didn’t swallow me, silence me - my thoughts. Roots, a muse - rest and recreate; drudge baggage ditched at shore. The dunes spoil me with their grit and pink hydrangeas. Sunglasses recover my eyes; sunburn writhes on my skull. Hair in free fall, snarled and damp, like anemones. An assault of coconut...

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annoyingly wordy a palaverous spirit her writing was verbose and boring unliked by many not understood by any especially me...

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Poetry is the one place where people can speak their original human mind. - Allen Ginsberg. .......................... You can get lost sometimes in the mind's obsessions, its need for order, to gather in what spills out from the ruptured sides of certainty, the comfortable surrounds of routine - and so you write poetry. Then there are those moments...

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“Why do you write?” he said. “You sit like a spectator to life. You watch, while I dive into the places that scare you.” Chewing on my pencil, I look up— shadows cast across my face from him. “Why do I write?” I ask. “Let me show you.” I grab his hand and gently pull him in to a land where possibilities are...

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I guess I never grew up. I'm not mature. Anyway, why'd I wanna do that fur? My mom called me smart aleck so many times, I'd be rich if, for each one, I had dimes. Want someone to do something, just say "don't". It may be dumb, but you can't tell me they won't....

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that's interesting the pen from Latin penna ~ the feather or plume ...

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(Google cecil lion murder) Some satanic soul committed awful regicide Of Cecil, prided King of the Jungle And that has left behind his bereaved pride And his offspring in bloody danger For Cecil the royal majesty of the Game reserve Has been the victim of crazy murder! Round the world poaching goes on. To purses of leather one lost its skin One lost its...

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My soles press soft into sidewalks. I leave a trail of graphite steps They etch out my first sentence— a diary in crayon, a novel in margins Time sharpens the graphite steps I stroll through my city growing younger White tiles paved over the dirt path I loved but look: beneath the cracks, faintly traced, ghosts of my graphite steps Size 5 kneels where...

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was it really that big of a deal if we were both just kids our minds snapped shut like lids brainwashed by whats bad and good too scared to come out with the truth nothing ever came smooth these thoughts these anxieties they only get worse i needed someone to soothe me im just a little girl please stop touching me like that i dont like it im...

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In our maniacal world madness cosplay nativity. When sanctuary is cynical take cyanide outside in a synchronized social suicide. Life at your disposal realize life is disposable. Lacking eye warble, below-zero countertop marble. Stumble over the five o'clock Hobble. Humble, Crumpled up macro-cookie crumble. Spade shovel buried down transient mumble. Blood musk parfume; false whale entrails. Innards inward into inferior interior...

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Pen prepares its blood with quiet intent, Flowing with words that embrace no cliche; Its spirit starts to pump the heart's content, Beginning with inner insights to say. The ink's voice shouts with neither sound nor noise, Creating calmness inside the bold mind; The soul's silent scream still seems its best choice, For the right meanings hiding there to find. Shrouded...

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He told me all is fair in war, that he studied all of our wars. That when they take over, everything will belong to them. He told me, when a new culture of government takes over they instill all of their laws and cultures, making all the old ones cancelled. All is fair in war...

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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...

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I'm Kaleidoscopic and so psychotropic. The colours in my brain I never will restrain. Because I could not write without these colours bright....

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The ink returns—not to defend, nor chase the ghosts I used to fend. Not to explain the aching past, but breathe through wounds that couldn’t last. It does not rise with pointed proof, nor beg for silence turned to truth. It flows because the heart now dares to speak in lines what once hid there. Where words once cost too much to say, a...

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