Writing Poems | Examples of Writing Poetry

It’s so hard to start Brain and pen, poles apart Yet two lines in, the pace quickens Soon you’re writing like the dickens Thoughts stream in and out your head ...

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sun scorched b l ...

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I’m not writing poems anymore. Somewhere along the way, I feel like I lost the poet in me---- the spark, the soul, the words. I’m choosing to start fresh, to rediscover myself beyond verses and rhymes. Thank you for all the appreciation, love, and support you've shown me. I hope you understand this new beginning I’m...

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citrine g l o w basking restless summer fields of wheat o l n r l i ...

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"It was your dress," they replied Was it? The ripped fabric cried The 5-year-old's laughter silenced that day Couldn't even scream, "I'm just a child," and ran away "It was your shorts," they claimed Was it? The torn seams proclaimed The 10-year-old's dreams shattered, flamed Couldn't even cry, "I'm just a girl," with shame "It was your clothes," they blamed Was it? The cloth...

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Standing on a rusted platform, I look towards the looming, tarnished steel clock, Ticking away my final moments of existence. Oceanic eyes swell with liquid salinity As a hollowing whistle booms in the close distance. The scent of petrol mingles with midnight paranoia. Placing a shaking hand upon my vibrating chest, I can detect the trembling of a trepidatious heart, Whilst the monstrous...

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I haven't written anything today: The fridge needed defrosting Bottle of wine 'not going to drink itself' Need to charge phone (minor) TiVo 75% full, must spend time watching/deleting programmes Note to self: define TiVo for future generations Plus, you'll obviously remember all the amazing slash mundane ideas you had today and write them up later on some loosely defined (series of) date(s) And, it's Friday You'll...

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This is not my body. Not the one that used to tell everything to anyone— I mean everything, like I thought it might get me somewhere closer to known. I sat in a circle today, some kind of writing thing— you know the type. Lots of deep breathing and soft lighting. Someone cried reading what they wrote in the first eight minutes and I— well, I flinched. Not because it...

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the thought of you is consuming me even as I consume content on how to communicate with you. I won’t turn on the camera— the perception of being perceived is too much. I’m avoiding you like I do everything: dressed like a street urchin for plausible deniability, streaming lofi beats I had to Google. and if you’re going to know me, I should admit I started...

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Regret has found me knocking at its door again. Shame answered immediately as if it had been waiting for its old friend. Opening its door where the comfy couch is that I turn my thoughts over in exchange for inner peace and solace. There is a spot molded to my body where I take...

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I want to weep at the destruction of poetry that comes now with the use of...

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after “This Is Just To Say,” by William Carlos Williams I have not opened your letter from last fall— it lives in the drawer with the paper snowflake I told you was beautiful. I imagine the ink has bled by now, and that the apology is softer for it. But I like to keep some things unread— as proof I once mattered enough to be written to....

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When angels took my love in dawn's white light, I wallowed in the wake of fate gone wrong; too weak to fight my demons in the night, too numb to know the gift that was her song. Like brittle leaves left dying in a field I longed to rise on autumn's gusty breeze. Without the...

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I sat today, thinking of you. So, I thought selflessly. It was a disgusting day too. The dogs bayed helplessly At the mountain of fog. The tall clouds unburdened Into filthy manholes. It rained and poured a flood. In a quiet mind, there it waits Your poetry, our song. I felt fine, yes, but who dictates Rain's where, when, and how long. Probably Russia, after all, That'll squeeze...

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Truth be told I knew what it was When it was pushed to the back of “that” draw That place where cucumbers of thought turn to mush They once held value, that thought, that cucumber Yet somehow slipped from the consciousness of concern There will be no “oh, poor baby” recollections No prodigal thought reunions No recognition of what they might have...

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