Before the world awoke,
Words were born,
Through countless sleepless nights,
The world you see,
Is the imagination of us,
It carries the souls of those who left
pieces of themselves.
Words still remembered,
Were written by the ones,
Who challenged the world,
Not with swords, but with stories.
Yet we gave birth to a devil,
One that forgot its creators.
And in a blink of an eye,
We were slowly erased,
While leaving only ash and dust,
The question that remains...
"Which AI wrote this?"
Hurts more than a breakup.
We were the bedrocks of the world you see.
Years traded away for a single page.
All passion was blindfolded,
By a single judgment.
We've been treated as slaves,
Though we were the ones behind it.
Yet the world forgets us,
Like we never existed.
Behind the system,
The dreamers of the unseen,
The shapers of the world...
We're the people you've never heard,
Only echoes remain
Of voices left unheard.
Ink may fade,
But the page never does.
The only way to recover
Is to tune into the radio,
Still waiting on forgotten shelves.
List of best twenty comments writers, in the last three years in PS!
Monoku poem.
Best active comments writers in PS, in the last three years, based on my personal reading, in aliphatic order are:
Andrea Dietrich.
Arthur Vaso.
Beryl Edmonds.
Brandy Nicole.
Daniel Henry Rodgers.
Darlene De Beaulieu.
Hiya Sharma.
I Am Anaya.
Ink Empress.
Jan Allison.
Joanna Daniel.
Karen Jones.
Kim Rodrigues.
Nette Onclaud.
Paige Hind.
Paula Goldsmith.
Sotto Poet.
Tania Kitchin.
Tom Cunningham.
Valsa George.
I try channeling my inner Inky
Where ideas stream like a spring
With elegance in even her pinky
To write like her a dream
She must be a passionate soul
To reach debts of such a degree
Where we’ll go you never know
Just have to keep on reading
It’s true her muse is not a prude
They’ve a great ruby relationship
Poems not slow perhaps obtuse
Hard to speak understand lips
I use words that rhyme too much
So I admire her free style forte
She can rhyme and do trust
She always has something to say
I’m in a bit of a writer’s block
So I’m looking for inspiration
Ink Empress is my first stop
A creative soul joyful celebration
Hidden deep within the verses
Of what is and what was
Things are not what they appear to be
The forest is alive and things are hidden deep
Life grows and life moves
It breathes
Always just out of reach it seems
You see it, you dream it, but it feels out of your reach
The words elude me
Playing hide and seek
My poem feels like an earthworm
I dream it
But upon surfacing from my dream
It’s gone
I saw the words upon the page of my dream
Then as I wake they fade
Back into the dark, rich soil.
Let them burrow.
Let them feed the roots of what comes next.
For the forest does not truly lose what falls;
It only digests, re-shapes, and waits.
I will close my eyes again tonight,
Trust the blind crawling of the verse,
And wait for the loam to speak.
My world is your world
With silken threads spun by love.
Verse is our language
One web so finely woven
A universal connection.
I scribe my poetry
Expressing individual views
So, if you read my words,
I think you will find
My true love sits within my mind.
Storytelling
Each of us has stories to tell if only we had the
courage to try
But what if they laugh at me?
or worse say they don’t like what I wrote
I don’t think I could survive that,
laying bare my story, exposing my
most raw hour
We must uplift our future storytellers at every turn
Stories are where we can safely moor, set our
anchor, rest and write
My soul yearns to wander
the thoughts of beauty
where my dreams drift endlessly
on winds of wishes
when I read the words
forming in my mind
as metaphors scatter cold
and sentences run wild
and I'm drawn toward
mystic meadows of wordy mists
where illusions are scribed
in wondrous wonder
to become crumbled pages
of poems that could have been
Tonight I'll cry for my unwritten words
as I sit before the fire
and toast to my heart
beating like a drum
calling out the poems in my mind
that vanished, leaving me empty
drowning in darkness
Different poems about the same topic, but all in a different perspective. Poem writers see things in their own eyes and write them down on a computer or a phone. They may write their poems in a notebook or a journal. But we all have different points of views from life that we experience or see everyday. Whether they’re sad, happy, peaceful, frightening or amazing poems, we write them down. We almost write relate able poems, though. We share our feelings to readers who pick up those poem books in libraries, bookstores or from book sales. We all learn lessons and write about them in poems and we even help others.
Stuck? Traveling through my minds' quotient
I seek the ultimate of thus an idea
Focusing on the inevitable
Pondering with a thought! A phenomena!
The concept - thought process
Skipped a beat - the forbidden mingle
Exclaimed - exhausted per se!
Flutters with that of a wink and yet too , A giggle!
The block - it's tantalizing drama within
Whispering sweet nothings - A charm! A wit!
The audastic of the ideal in tune with your head
But yet it consumes ideas complex not to fit...
Writers block
I’m Writing the attributes of my characters for a book
It’s like talking to the therapist
Character one M- authoritative, everybody scared of him. Looks possessed.
Character two S- Queen bee who sat on her seat, only got up to fight,
Stirring her pot her big mouth, seeing things.
Character three K- Fist fighter with a mission.
It’s about a story on how they lived in modern society. All knowledge was there. They just had to look for it. A middle-class family. Just sitting there in the dark, curtains shut. I don’t know how to explain it. Why would anyone back them I don’t know. Maybe I think of a horror story as refence, Amityville back in the eighties, maybe. I think they all possessed. Trying to imagine a conclusion for it, its hard to think.
Now can’t find how to put them in a setting. Any ideas?
Writer
thoughtful, listening
scribbling, shaping, remembering
ink, breath, memory, light
dreaming, drifting, becoming
ancient, infinite
Dreamer
Writers block, writers block
TickTock, flop, sing, sha -BAM
Whimsical whoozy- OH
I think I just found my writing flow.
"AI has stolen my words and my imagination. As a human writer, I write from my heart. AI can not steal my heart. AI is the great copier because they have No heart to write with." By Poet
With a writers human heart,
writers pen in hand to start.
AI machine that is cold,
made out of tin and not gold.
Tell me this is a bad dream,
before I let out a scream.
Muse and pen will always stay,
a human voice all the way.
I live on writer’s block
Licorice streets poetic trees
Huge house on the hilltop
Walls made of words
Some hard as bricks
Others soft as a cherry kiss
Floors formed from passion
That like me were walked on
Leaving only shadows no steps
For me to learn how to move on
I live on writer’s block
Where women are too strong
To show weaknesses withering
Like night flowers in sun too long
Shivery is dead what else can live
In a cold lonely bed of fibs
Where lies are fried for breakfast
Scrambled like eggs and bacon
If you can stand to eat despite grief
For disappointment is appetite taken
I live on writer’s block where
Pessimistic parakeets parade
Flying with colorful wings
Like living rainbows above a grave
Breathing life in dead poetry
That slides down pastel page
Where muse refuses to speak
Oh what a waste
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