Writers Poems - Poems about Writers

Writers and poets are a different breed They live and breathe phrases and concepts Awash with all manner of clever speech At engaging the reader, they're adept They invite viewers on travels to distant lands To discover strange customs and beliefs To experience a whole new world apart The Rain Forests, The Great Barrier Reef Through the eyes of these intrepid travellers We witness...

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True writers write from their heart ~ AI does Not have a heart to write with....

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We Are Writers No one understands us. Ink to blood. Empty pages. Mind always racing. Thyself obscure. Boundless pen traveler. Melody through smoke. Sober story teller. Dark writer. Candles radiant burn. Mechanical thinker. Obsessive writing disorder. Lonely for a reason. Disconnected through seasons. Type away open fields. Weare writers. Poets on fire....

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Loss for thought and words Where do I start? My thoughts become a depart Memory usually serves me But not today No one seems to understand I am trying to compose But no suppose It seems Alpha Letters have no idea I am thinking fear No idea in how to preserver Trouble near Writers Block woes For the first time I need to relax and reserve my energy Later think For...

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I search through leafs of carefree past In scribbled lines left half undone For wisdoms sage to point the path Back to where it first begun My one last chance to grip the quill And spin the trials of venture bold A gift to those that follow still By spinning folly into gold...

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This blessing goes out to all the writers out there… who don’t know where to start. Who have words that want to be released floating in your heart. Who feel like you’re on a beach… and as you look out from where you stand so many of your words spread out in front of you like tiny grains of sand. May you...

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writers block. Stare at the clock. like the rest of the flock. writers block. ...

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Writer’s block is a horrible thing. Like cabinets slamming shut. So the writer’s block begins. Day one of writer’s block. Nothing except single words. And then single letters scattered. Sitting on the couch. Sighing slightly. Nothing is fun anymore. I could cook a slice of toast. Or simply order pizza. Nothing comes to mind. Except the...

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If hearts were sold in the market, People would stand in queue Fighting for buying the good one Without realising that the best in the world is inside them. -Thaqiya/lazybirdnest ...

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As i write here.' I hold freedom most dear.' I value; all other writers too! love me or hate me? Even debate me? I will still be; even handed.. So over to youse.' ...

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journalist hours visit policy budget for all night viability of crime the next debate was done uncovering secrets of privacy violations is a job violating pricacy of secret places we don't no well enough is a policy writers wrong for not being elsewhere or otherwise employed at the moment all sorts of want ads are always awaiting the newspaper reader for...

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Pull back the covers and experience, Just how fresh and crisp it is inside, Discover a poet who once lived among us, And built community, Out of encouragement, fun and wondering Like you, he pondered the mysteries of foreign flagged ships, That leaked rust out of every orifice. Listened intently to “The Ship Report” on KMUN Radio Wondered about the crew stuck on...

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Looking at a white blank page As if it has something to say Word wizard won’t you rescue me Lot lizard don’t please for free Muse is confused she needs prayer I’m bored and blue without her care Watching blood moon peeking cloud Pen saint or sin but write it down Writer’s use pen like a needle Now and then pulse is...

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Gone Missing As the new day awaits its morning sun, the blank page for my poem also waits. In stillness I listen for an inner voice, only to hear a deep silence in my soul. Ends end from where beginnings begin, but before I can end it I have to begin it. All I need is that one elusive key word to...

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Daughter of the Sandman War-story woman stands astride the country now, book-store tour bleary now, author hands aching from signing the $20.99 paperback professing her father’s Marne Corps Desert Storm glory now. Book-tour daughter lays inside the hotel room now, calling her shattered dad across the gulf, calling the shaking-hands dad man “Geppetto” because, when she calls, he is always in the workshop...

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