Writes Poems - Poems about Writes

butterfights on butterfly'd stopping goodbyes without saying i has a song not in your garden long time you spent washing all the dirts evidence "let miss thang be in control" just as long as she's around "but the old dead tree!" what about it? "it is gonna squish my house" so your not protected? "your right i should use my words" yes i am right that crooked witch uses the whips and...

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in the stillness of the night where shadows weave their tales an envelope drifts weightless through silence ancient parchment frayed by the breath of time it bears no return address only the faint aroma of forgotten dreams and echoes a whisper carried on the back of the wind i unfold the letter my fingers trembling as ink flows like liquid night each word a spectral sigh a whisper traced...

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One Poet Writes Within a quiescent memory enchanted in light could a loving epiphany lie at your side With sympathy and intrusion a love he portrays that in a tranquil moment one love might stay Immersed in silence one poet writes he forges on with loving delight he sips from the river and scoops from...

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The Spirit writes of true life..The temporal world resists In its lines of strife.' Yet the victory is before you and very Clear trust in nothing of the world never fear.' Trust in God Through Jesus name, find in heaven your home and all gain.'...

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The Monster is massive with fangs and with claws all lacquered and sharpened sticking out from its jaws The Monster is ghoulish with deep, sunken eyes it speaks whispers of wicked and paranoid lies The Monster is cruel it sneers and it spits always waiting for something to tear into bits The Monster is hidden from inside its dark lair just plotting and pacing in the...

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needs no introduction nor permission to be anything. He does not request to spread his arms wide and reach the heavens. His words are unmoored. They flow and change, remaking things before the world sees them. His hand— a gesture suspended by Gleti, between slumber...

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I sent Glenn Hughes a letter requesting him to write a song for me and my beloved Will he shadow his grace amongst us and drive the tunes to space I can only imagine the words we would deliver and the beautiful tones of his voice as he sings of our true love What better place is there to be than in the...

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In his cage of thoughts, the captive man writes with wings of ink, surrounded by crumpled parchments like autumn leaves, he dreams, of things seen through his tarnished window, a portal to the world beyond, where the vast ocean whispers its stories with waves of longing. His canvases are giant ships carrying on their decks free souls, with the will...

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The rot of humanity's shadow is not in the ink, but in the darkness that fuels the pen, gruesome daggers, dripping honeyed poison....

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Love writes a song for me, a melody divine, Each note is a heartbeat, pulsing with grace. The rhythm, our footsteps in perfect time, A symphony of moments we embrace. Verses bloom like flowers in spring's warm light, The chorus, a river of shared dreams flows. Harmonies weave through day and night, A tapestry of emotions, ever-growing. In this ballad of life, love...

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The delicate breath of hiraeth, encroaches upon my quill, beyond the water’s edge, abruptly, she tries, to interrupt, to point towards the...

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Roses are red Or some such a hue Maybe you’re beautiful If I could only find you… But then again If I did then what would be left In this world of constant sorrow Where the real journey is without goal. (5/27/24) ...

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Who writes lovely poems extracting buried words from profound feelings, or even deft thoughts? Have mourners listened to an epitaph and cried? Have good mothers read a nursery rhyme to a child? The purpose of a poem is to make us laugh, or hold our breath; it can break boredom! Who writes lovely poems: a drafted soldier who cries and longs for his distant home... singing the national...

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Its fragrance,its aroma may be felt by the windy,hilly, naked rose. ...

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The swallows and falcons are out of their shells. The sky has more wings now. Spring bounds around - the foals' long legs kick up meadow buttercups. If I were younger, if I were stronger, If I were lither, I would roll in the hayfield, and not worry a bit about straw in my hair....

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