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Je veux être connu sous un seul nom Comme Dessalines, Christophe et Pétion Comme Pelé, Ali ou un grand champion Comme Edison, Jefferson et Washington.
                                                      I want to be known by one name Like Dessalines, Christophe and Pétion Like Pelé, Ali or a Great Champion
Never, never tell a good Poet what to write Or what to say. The Poet always tries to be right To be on the good and the best side of history
For some poems, you’re punctual: You place your pencil on your notepad, You settle in your seat, You even read the syllabus, The poem introduces itself,
 I have fought with great feebleness for twenty-one days Confusion, suspicion, suffocation, anxiety all were there  I did not see the sky for five hundred and four hours in a row
I craved words that could explain what I was feeling I searched for the comfort that I desperately needed And when I couldn’t find it in any novel, or poem, or song,
I wish I could forget you, And all we have been through. I wish I could free my self from These prison walls around me. Walls you built to torture me Selfishly, in the name of love.
I'm awful sure i never liked that damned book;  i always rushed through chapters so i could read anything else  before the bell rang. But when I open the windows nowadays 
A classic, A man revered by the world Stories stolen from others and passed off as his own, The greatest of all time Convoluted language, a sharpened sword Opressive tool to step on those without
Inspiration has to be courted,  But, like a person infatuated, I lack patience.   I am easily frustrated By the lack of her favor, but  
An old man On a boat Fishing He's caught none in his day But he is not a fisherman Bring America simplicity Strip the pomp From our prose You've done that, Hemingway
Old crusty I think you thought you were Witty Clever old man But I can see you Looking down The slow, Sassy Mississippi Remembering boyhood days And you make me
  Petruchio and Kate, equals in wit; Darcy and Miss Bennet, with surety; Gilbert and Anne, sharing kindred spirits; Marius and Cosette, in purity;  
Petruchio and Kate, who view each other as equals in wit; Gilbert and Anne, bright kindred spirits and beauties; Darcy and Elizabeth, correcting any and all misgivings;
There once was a worlds, where theys, for live, were gone The home you lived in, life mild, or did you think it was Love? Justly so, or where to worlds could be, and life was but that these, were of our people, We.
The God of Small Things in one hand The waist of my world wrapped around, the other We sit in mezzo-silence, My murmuring the words of Roy’s clever, crushing prose,
Years ago, I picked up my first book and immediately I was immersed into a new world Never to be seen again, as I drown in a sea of my own imagination  
dusty covers star crossed lovers   paper cuts open and shut   i go through them so fast know the feeling won’t last  
Poetry taught me how to write Poetry Prose has lots of rules and grammar and punctuation and it’s very cluttered in paragraphs, orderly yet stifling Poetry                                   has less rules
Shelley, Keats, and Byron: The Romantics or the Tyrannts. Colridge, Wordsworth, and Blake: Men of nature or fate. Jane Eyre, Frankenstein, and 1984: When will we be our own?  
Dearest Ophelia I too spend my days wallowing in sorrow Drowning in tears Like you, I've a brother that cares not for me.  Sweet Ophelia, I too am lost For I gave my heart blindly
Dear Authors,   I dream of your literature which keeps me up at night as I pore over each page, deciphering and synthesizing each phrase, detail, and word.  
Dear Authors,   I dream of your literature which keeps me up at night as I pore over each page, deciphering and synthesizing each phrase, detail, and word.  
The breeze flutters the inked pages softly, A reader’s gaze follows every a word.   Nose stuck in a book, in hand a coffee, Far off places and new worlds most unheard.  
This is a tale of a pen warrior in the west Mighty as Zeus but not a kin or next And till death die he will always amuse But his love for Mousai left many bemused
Composed with envy atop his brick wall A gust of wind coursing through his veins   Humpty Dumpty sat and pondered, with tears in his eyes as he studied his broken remains  
My words are a journey in itself, An adventure which defines my identity, Most likely as an individual; From a 'seed' to a 'root' stemming a lineage of an ancient wealth,
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
Copyright © by Nikhil Parekh
When you see me reaching down, With a needful talon in clear distress, Today my talents seem faint, so impotent, From my beak croaks a mournful sound.   In the garden you'll find this raven,
It’s not what wakes me up in the morning it’s what keeps me up at night. Because I wake up and my first words are “I’m going to take a nap later.” Then I get home.
My time for me, away from me Away from the white noise and uncertainties of life To be in a world apart from my own A far away land in the comfort of home Like the wizardry of a powerful mage
The pressure to find “The One” was immense, Especially with it being my freshman year of high school and all.   Everyone was beginning to come into their own,
The power of poetry is incredible. To pick up a tool and paper and decide, I will change something, with words... is extremely powerful.   Humans have the ability to communicate,
When I was young I wanted the spotlight. I did whatever I could to have people notice me. Now, not that much. I guess that is what happens When you want to hide from the bullies.
Bring a pen to paper, Hear the scribbling sounds Do it now and never later What you write may be profound.   Constantly erasing,
lit is lit the written word the modern expression lit is lit am i horse or girl misinterpretation despite careful deliberation must get five must get five a juggler
18 You said we'd both be different when we're 18. You said you'd see yourself in a band, Or maybe just going to a nice college. Then you asked me where I thought I'd be And I told you I had no clue,
  Suffocation. Pent up emotions Boiling up inside me, begging For release. But how?? Is there any way to release the pain?   Talking doesn't help, only hurts Ignoring my heart only allows for
She flips page after page, anxiously trying to reach the end; Because there will be an end, And it will be a happy one; Hers? She's not so sure; But no, she won't think of that;
Holden is the catcher in my rye, but who ever caught him? Salinger, I praise him often   The Catcher in the Rye is the one book I need  It kept me up to speed on the 50's
Crippled crying, face like paper,  pen that hinders and defies a vision made by slender taper, appalling to my watery eyes.   Chords that always come out rotten, voice and string both shaking, shrill;
I.  Am. A reader. A starry-eyed dreamer Who holds worlds in her hands on a daily basis Escaping from the hum-drum to a mythical oasis. I'm a devotee of words, a disciple.
How can love be sweet like a summer's day, When it will always leave a bitter taste? Capturing and blinding mystified prey, Defeating mesmerised loves in the chase. It smothers the heart in an icy grip,
Don't panic, our blue planet's a wonderful placeDreamers, we live, we fly, we soar, we singUnlike the desolate rest of outer spaceAlthough all curious wonders always bring.
The smile is a lie, a lonely cryMisunderstood perception of the mindThis moonless night no sorrows' death defyBut twisted and undone for fighting blind.
Everyone needs a helping handFor the heart and soul. I talk, listen, and most of all,I care about you. Don't be afraid, you can tell me,And I promise I won't tell.
Black for her darkness hidden. Blue for her not yet cried tears. Green for her pain that is there but not found. Pink for all her fake smiles. Purple for the laughs that pains her but she tries.
She sits in the room full with her friends. They all laugh and talk. But why cant she seem to smile? She tries but their all fakes. She had plenty of reasons to be happy. She had her friends.
The happiest absolute of life to live, would be to start the work, unnamed, in death, But confused above this harsh world, I'd died a worker with the riches. That everything you wouldn't lose,
Wisdom in each droplet like a sea of broken roads with each forgotten memory to lighten the weight of loads . For every breath forsaken and every tear forgiven
A cloud so unreliableto provide such decent shadethough many stop to watch themthey're perfect, they're God made..They're made of wispy waterso white up in the skycollections of lovely ice
The air currents swirled like water in the ocean, swift and calming. . The air reminded me of fall, though life blossomed like spring, new and refreshing. . A garden green,
A svelte owl, on wing through this dark mooned night, an ego ghost on the prowl, to find what has been for his might. . Elusive moonlight, scattered over frosty grass,
Within, there must be that voice...The one to push you to succeed.For me, it tells me that all is okay,And I need to prepare for what I may see.  
A goddess, leads to shoes, leads to sports Leads to drinks, leads to cars, leads to on and on and on Words and words and words Such wonderfully malicious beasts When released by those who know
Desire thrives best under pressure. Examine, for instance, the fragmented poetry of Sappho: for how many years did those tattered scraps of Papyrus survive?
Robbed of throne and robbed of crown robbed of family and of dignity robbed of school but not of worth appers a father's ghost.  Killed or murdered has been answered but the question of revenge has not. 
Some may say that this is powerful stuff But the general consensus is that it's not different enough You have to be the next Green, the Rowell of this generation But all this standard lends to is my general consternation
 A thousand heroes Standing tall, A thousand heroes Together fall.  From beneath the dusty, Yellowed pages Charge these warriors Of varying ages.  United they stood,
For Auria:    Momma always told me not to judge a book by its cover,
I stand in an empty room But I am not alone. Big Brother is watching you. I think in my own head But everyone knows my thoughts Big Brother is watching you. I whisper to myself But everyone can hear me Big Brother is watching you.
It feels rather cold tonight
Type. Just type. My fingers dangle above the keyboard, Splashing each word, verb, sentence- That comes to mind.  The words are like snow to me: Soft, Delicate, And pure. 
White as snow. The dead trees With no leaves. Animals hibernating In a deep sleep. The night is silent. The water flows Calmly. Woosh! Woosh! The wind blows in, Giving the night
Before: I have never so alone I will let it get to me And I will never stay in the past But I will always be smiling
After saving a quarter for the runs,
The ocean mirrors midnight sky, barely brushing our toes. I whisper words I want to write beneath your skin, my violent delight.   I lay by you on the moistened sand,
It's a lonesome life,but with a flame that entices the soul To attract others and fight the good fight, in our hearts, you know you're right. But what happens when someone takes the keys,
"I've Learned" by Nicholas Jones.In my 18 years of life,I've yearned for happiness,And I've yearned for strife,I've learned of death,And I've learned of life,
Candy is delightful, destructive, including soothing.  I relish Reese because, I endure the peanut butter that is cradled in the chocolate. It accumulates mass, however its great to lounge with.
I find that as a writer I'm not very good At using colorful language Or creating vivid imagery In a person's mind With only words. I'm really good at black and white Cut and dry and to the point
I've learned many things In the eighteen years of my life, Many of them being rather disconcerting. Perhaps to you, But not so much to me.
We learn what we are taught. We use crayons to draw up a life that’s already been planned in permanent ink. But we still try.
Wandering amongst the maze of shelves, I hear their whispers of stories yearning to be heard from a multicolored sea,
Who grows up like their parents expect Now-a-days? Divorce when I was three Marriage when I was four Divorce when I was eight. Maybe I didn’t grow up in the slums Bad as it could be
When I was five years old,I heard that boys stood when they peed.Angry and jealous,I dragged my princess panties down to my ankles,Held my skirt above my belly button,
I had never noticed as a child, but she was always there. Veronica clasped me close, and held me in her stare. Her fragile reflection pursued  me to the broken footsteps of my home. 
She is beauty, she is grace.
Your lips open to unfold foolish words, vulgar and distasteful.
If I could take a pen, And make the world understand, I would, Paint a picture of peace, Clarity among the people. I would make them all read, Open their minds and see,
If you find something you love; then you'll never work a day of your life. I was told this as a child. I was told this as a teen and now im just understanding the concept of how it can effect my life.
Tired, to even when the pen scratches paper, an uneven blank etched scrawl, It mirrors the state of mind, a crease present now and for all the pages to come, Over lines and crossing through spaces,
Literature is as necessary to the mind as oxygen to the body, Reading helps the brain develop and imagination soar. Ranging from an ironic drama to a jocular comedy, Literature has several shapes, sizes and form.  
You’ll never know how many times I’ve been opened
Folds of purple satin cloth, Swallow me. The lancet from out of darkness, Taunts me. Creaking stairs choke on themselves, begging for attention, I cannot give.  
Colorful cotton candy is grasped firmly in children’s hands. And their parents watch as they go ‘round and ‘round. Some may never have the chance to see these fun-filled lands
  Crystal clear water dances effortlessly amongst the reefs. The crest of waves fall upon the sand like gentle giants. Seashells abundant in every direction are vivid in the morning light.
Close to my head a monster lurks. Although she seems tranquil, her sounds  I fear.  She's dangerous, but delicate. There's a music to her roar, a gentleness. 
I love reading. I really do. When I was a kid, I used to curl up on my bed with a three hundred page book. And then I'd wake up in the morning and the book would be gone, finished.
Difference is separated in a community Where it's hard to find another To break away from negativity Just to be together. Sometimes belonging never really feels equally connected
They have almost finished their journey,
A gift card was given to me, It was alive not with spending power but with literature, The concept was familiar but I would have to spend the last cent, in order to understand it’s true worth, or its lack their of.
Probably for the best. Some would not be responsible and burn the building down.
Word Jamming. Those were the first two words that popped into my head. Hmph.
  Sitting at a desk in front of a screen with a blinking line My fingers don’t touch any keys, But rather they trace the edges of a box,
An adventure all to myselfI once again escape into my own realmA kingdom that has been lost to all but IA land that has been enveloped by my imagination
Tales like foxtails pepper my mind And I find that naked the wind hurts But clothed not so much.
I am from out-of-the-notebook poetry, happy and sad. From broken Luna ukuleles and loud music. I am from the constant but happy silences, echoing into the night.
Worlds grow, Budding behind unfiltered eyes,                 Breaking from tradition. Christened creativity, In actuality,                 Unrealized forms of magic. The potential,
You can't talk back to me I don't talk back to you But the words you speak to me I listen through and through I can't look into a person's eyes I studder when I speak But the words you speak to me
  The art is never visual to the eye. It’s not always painted and framed on walls, Nor has it always consisted of paints.
Repititious summers drive denial home for one more night.An indestructible contradiction prays past sarcasm
Life is poetry. The delivery and how you read it Changes its meaning and how it’s interpreted. How you deliver yourself and how you read your mind Changes people’s feelings and how they’re influenced.
Inside I can see, I can feel Everything is beautiful, everything is perfect I revisit the outside The fear, the worry, the insecurity I hate it I dread it Let me back inside forever,
This house is full of the sort of warmth that comes from good conversations and good books. A welcoming place that won’t change you, but will help you change if you want it.
For the "I Am... Scholarship Slam."   We write, we hide, we live our lives in coffee shops, sippin' tea from little mugs, stains on our teeth, contemplating the meaning of life.  
Why I write? I write because it’s right and its fundamental value can compensate for what I’m feeling. I write to tell the story of my life, what I’ve done, where I’ve been, what’s my meaning?
Our life is Fragile, our life is short So when life took you I didn't know where to go I found myself visiting the places we’d been Reminiscing of the times you stood next to me The more I remembered the more I cried
Expression is a lethal weapon, Locked in my own judgments, Don’t understand why I’ve been chosen to fill the shoes of an unholy person
Coal black attacks like razor knives, And grips and rips your dreams good-bye. It calls your name—oh countless lives Have no known clue what myst’ries lie.
(poems go here)
Give me your pain every ounce of it Drop every single drop into my mouth Let me taste it swallow it, consume it When your pain is in me, you are in me I am you, but you are not me.
Once I was a legend, Of getting all Cs straight. Teachers laughed, so did friends, Then came sister and mom. No spur I was down Of shame and jealousy Of stupidity and folly Abhorrent how I was.
I feel in a chapel the same way I feel in a bathtub Old with iron feet and spindle faucets, Or in a treehouse made of pirates and magic And simpler days. I look up at the speckled ceiling Or painted chapel
A poem is A poet's ways Of portraying life Precisely as it is With a twist, Betwixt a reality And no sense of rationality (Rationally-speaking, of course). A poem can
A woman's assumption made wrong Betraying her husband who's gone Caught by the town, a baby was found Distressed, she confessed, by her sins she is bound Extracted from prison, she stands on the scaffold
Twenty six letters composing a phrase, Letters that have the power to break chains, Whether they exist in books or essays, Penetrate my heart, running through my veins.
In a remote European kingdom Lived two feuding families: the Montagues and the Capulets. Romeo, a Montague, met Juliet, a Capulet, at a party one night.
I smile when I read this line of Shakespeare And I nod to myself And think That never have I been so satisfied With a few words typed on paper.
There are certain precautions one must take when stalking the aisles of a book store. It isn’t so simple as a stroll in the park or a saunter along some moonlit path. No. This is war. You’ve entered the most
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