I do not scream when it starts.
Just walk barefoot into the forest,
where birch trees bend down to me like elder women,
and the moss knows all of their names.
All of them from my season’s past,
haunting me, scolding me, reminding me of their sacrifices.
Breaking open my flesh, cracking the cavity of my chest,
where all of my rotten fairy tales drip out in despair.
My grief has learned to follow close behind
before it ever learned how to run away.
It lingers behind like steam from a broken kettle,
silent but always seeping through the cracks of my wreckage.
I used to call him father.
Now, he’s just a ghost.
One that carries the reeking of December’s air into my home,
the sound of creaking branches under his lumbering weight.
What holds the echoes of his every scream,
his touch that bruises every soft fruit it touches.
The ghost doesn’t speak.
He caresses my shoulders when I forget him,
pinches my skin when I smile too hard,
leaves my breath in frost every night.
My heart holds all of my firsts.
The first breath of life,
the first cry cracking out of my lungs.
It holds the rupture of a dam my parents tripwired,
so the flood has always won.
The guttural scream of you and sixteen,
a ruthless rise in your grip for the ripest fruit.
I was only trying to hold on.
To hold on to innocence like the sun prying
at time on the horizon just to catch a
glimpse of the moon.
My heart holds all of my firsts,
the shushed cries and soiled flesh
I did not pray or.
God crying in December’s fog
as you abandon me in winter’s thaw.
You are forgetful,
but my heart remembers all.
It is time to write again
to let the pen flow
as the breeze comes through
my open window...
Thoughts arise like buds
strewn across the
the open mind,
then when left agape
they scatter like wild flowers
before settling
on my nape....
Your heart has a yearning
And a burning desire
To share what you’re learning
Like voices of a choir
Small pieces of paper
With the things you have thought
A con or a caper
How the villain was caught
No time is a wrong time
If you wake up at night
With a thought of a rhyme
Then you know you must write
Watching movies with you
Your friends do not enjoy
For you catch every clue
And discern every ploy
And time seems to fly by
When you sit down to write
With that glint in your eye
There is no end in sight
You longed for the teacher
To ask each for a story
You wrote down your feature
Of our flag called, “Old Glory”
Friends with the dictionary
Filled with word after word
To some it seemed scary
When the big words they heard
But not to the writer
You knew you’d become
A reader delighter
You knew you’d please some
So write on forever
As your stories you tell
A writer so clever
Right inside you doth dwell
Writer's Block, just blocked my thoughts again!
Scratched my scratchy head, with Itchy Pen.
But, no cure can cure a Writer's Rash!
Uninspired, sired "Inspiration Crash!"
Do©to® $©®@t©h M@$t€®
A human writer needs,
to think and many times rewrite their work.
We put our heart,
creativity and imagination into each piece we write.
AI has stolen,
the creativity and imagination from writers.
The human writer is the true creator,
creator from their human heart.
AI is the great copier,
because they have No heart to write with.
I write for the reader,
I am a human poet all the way.
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annoyingly wordy
a palaverous spirit
her writing was verbose
and boring
unliked by many
not understood by any
especially me
BLANK PAGE
a blank page whispers,
ink spills like a timid stream—
where have the words gone?
They say I'm a witch, but when I told them I have a spell to make them write poetry, they shout "Free the witch!"
But when I say I'm a writer, they want to hurt me. As soon as I mention my spell to make words touch hearts, they say "Free the writer!"
To me, it doesn't matter if you're for me or against me.
I choose to write. Poetry is my passion.
With poetry, I find my voice and my identity.
I discovered poetry when I was searching for what I'm good at.
If you want to set me free or keep me bound, I'll keep writing. My words will touch hearts, and that's all that matters.
Free the writer, or bind the writer tight,
I'll write my poems, day and night.
My words will shine, my voice will be heard,
Free or bound, my poetry's my word!
Reclusive Writer
Avoid society
Avoiding the light
Always a pen in hand
Footprints in the sand
Ponder the night
Black ink bleeds off the pages
Mind always racing
Reasoning between the lines
A poet is isolated
Solitude in darkness
Just a small candle glaring
My shadow whispers next to me
Focus on my work
A cemetery is planted next door
A reclusive writer
A mystery story teller
Dragging behind on paper
Mind fading at dusk
Empty spaces
Empty thoughts
Sometimes, writer's block
Eyes are blurry
Another cigar burning
Locked up in my room
Pages are crumpled up
A new title
For a new poem
We are writers in the dark
We are chained to the desk
We write on
We met by fate, on a quiet eve,
January winds, a moment to believe.
7:50 it struck, the clock did chime,
A coincidence, yet it changed all time.
Since class eight, a soft hidden flame,
Unspoken feelings, never the same.
But chats grew deeper, laughter would bloom,
In silence and smiles, love found its room.
On 17th December, past midnight's hue,
We confessed in whispers, shy but true.
Not with those three words loud and clear,
But with comfort, warmth, and drawing near.
Exams came fast, we lived in texts,
Moments missed, but hearts perplexed.
Still, love grew stronger, day by day,
Through highs and lows, we found our way.
But life had plans we couldn't defy,
Dreams we dreamed began to lie.
Yet even if this birth won't let us be,
In the next, we’ll write our destiny.
You’ll always be my first, my start,
A name etched deep within my heart.
And though we're far, this truth won't sway—
I loved you then, I love you always.
Hakim,
the journey begins
a step forward
from where you paused.
A challenge to dare
to pour your heart
onto pages
for 200 days
Rise and write
even when thoughts
evaporate
like breath on glass
Rise and write
when the words hide
when your brain go numb
empty like a room after goodbye
Rise and write
not because you feel it
but because you need to
because world
still craves
So pick up the pen
not in readiness
but in willingness
Hakim, rise
Hakim, write
the world craves
for your voice.
My Inside Truth given a living soul of feelings in the inside body in my inside mind in side my spirit soul my body framed the pictures and receipts with words. Speaking the my truth if no one else says so and in my truth all that is written is only my truth for me to study in a book! In the space of time always energy flowing from coast waters rivers flow back to the coast where energy of the soul be at that time a force in love in pleasure a force evermore the kind you get from the Lord heavens what is gifted is given.And the soul breeze the taste of the seasons kisses melting with loving value and force and excitement force galore more and more The aroma of season changes becomes new breeze the energy of life again and again and again the soul till it is felt feel sensations vibrationational energy singing your own song long feelings of the soul all thought and actions are pure and it will come back sometimes ten-fold blessing. One day will write about the difference of soul spirit and flesh! Thank you for listening for to listen to one self is sometimes hard! Thanks! The breeze is waiting for leadership!
"Sometimes I wonder if you could ever know,
about my feelings—emotions that I can’t feel anymore."
"I wonder if you could ever understand,
the words of my poetry—But then again,
poetry isn't about words—It's about all the emotions,
a writer feels—Meanwhile, I'm not even sure if there's any emotion left in me—After you."
— Beloved
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