Felt it from the initial line,
the joy of the writing process.
Poetry wins when it’s a mess,
old words crumble into fine wine.
Four stanzas and a form align,
every word foraged plays a part.
This is the birth of written art.
Potent smell of ink’s oxygen.
A poet discovers her pen,
an affair ripening slowly.
Scattered thoughts
from different places,
the attempt,
fill empty spaces.
Words arranged
and organized,
if thinking stops,
you're paralyzed.
Convey your meaning
with good intention,
readers choice for comprehension.
Final stage, is to be,
post the poem,
for all to see.
On some days I don’t write any,
On others I write plenty.
It depends on my day,
I have to process it and put it away.
This writer needs to write all the time,
I don’t know if it’s a flaw or by design.
I write here and I write there,
When the words come to me, it doesn’t matter where.
I have to write to get them out,
And like a seedling, a poem sprouts.
poems cannot be rushed
imposing ideas fails
trusting the process
My Poetic Writing Process!
Imma scribbling these scrambled lines
piecing them together as unfitting puzzle
pieces
hoping and coping with whatever message
they convey to my readers
hoping and coping they aren't mere babble
hoping and coping they aren't mere rubble
among the rabble
hoping and coping they have some merit to
my readers
even though they were sporadically made up
even though they could be complete
nonsense
even though no one may or may not
understand them!
Initiators; news, experience, rumors all combined…
The pen bleeds the writers’ emotions and thoughts, onto the page.
Story information, born from mind-womb; the writing process.
Due to a lack of inspiration,
even this weary pen won't flow...
thoughts freeze and allow confusion...
when stillness seems a wind that doesn't blow.
By letting the mind rest, will it restore itself to wholesomeness
and usefulness? Isn't it like our body that refuses to perform well,
when it's exhausted and needs to escape from unbearable tiredness?
Tomorrow awakening, we'll take that challenge by promising a story to tell!
If idleness perseveres, all the honorable glories
we've accumulated will be lost to remoteness and time,
our ideals will fall into oblivion and entirely forgotten by others...
then should we let the mind rest, to stop the writing process in its prime?
I suggest perseverance over needless deprivation;
expressing oneself freely and honestly is effective and worth pursuing,
it provides against profound silence and dull stagnation...
will we let the mind rest and not discover something worth seeing?
In a sense of victory
I hold up what is mine
All these years I worked on
My own life and times
Putting ink to paper
In a leather cover fine
Hoping that someone would read
My life, love, and rhymes
The days in sun
And when snow whined
In the time where love won
And souls were kind
I converted this life
To a physical type
And amidst loss, love, and strife
I have tears to wipe
What of this book
That no one will read
It was a tree cut, and shook
It had memories
A young woman
Once sat at its base
Peeled and ate apples
With memorable grace
A young man
Brought by a date
Joined the young woman's hand
Under a tree of fate
An age later
Men have came
And these traitors
Gave this ancient, pain
In a sense of sadness
I take down what is mine
This item is madness
Murder redefined
I recycle my work
And tell of the tree
And all it was worth
Came with words from me
Looking for the formal definition, structure, and history of this poetry form? Visit the Poetry Dictionary entry below. Then return to explore how PoetrySoup members bring the form to life through their own poems.