outlet
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There is sadness in these bones
Deep in the marrow of the house that is my body
I am a home to grief and anger
You cannot see it in my skin and in my flesh
But I flash my teeth and you finally recognize
The letters fly from my pen creating words I can never say
I cannot draw, or sketch, but I can paint a picture
In the minds of others through the words I string together
Poetry is a short, loaded outlet
Many interpretations for knowledge
Writing poems is so unique
Frost invites my fingertips; it beckons my graspEach flake kisses my lids, and paints my lashes to frostMy palms are graced by the snow, a bliss without costI lift my lids, while each step is answered by the snow’s raspEach eye of ebon sueded is
A world where one sentence can change a life
Is a planet where words whether written down or spoken are concrete
Like the streets we travel from dusk until dawn
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
The world is falling apart around me
People screaming and crying for equality
Yet I still sing
They try to shush me and my tune
Looking at me like I am a loon
Yet I still sing
They say birds of a feather
flock together.
But maybe that’s why I feel under the weather.
With my body tethered to this world I sought a way to be liberated.
He lets me know that I'll be alright, he sees my tears and holds me tight.
eyes wide open yet im sleep, left alone to solemnly weep.
scared of love because he'll probably leave and though its cold I'll plant my seed.
A creative child
Driven wild
By one’s own imagination
Thoughts abound
Running around
Dreaming of creation
No one knows
A story untold
Of one’s pent up emotions
Sometimes
without pencil and white space
I think
my mind would go dizzy
with thought, too much heart
all cluttered in space
ambiguity--
my mind would burst in the mix
nowhere to go
Where do my words begin?
My world lives in a pen
And when I write, it all comes out
And on the paper, my world is sent
But what is my writing all about?
About my life, my love, my friends
Poetry is not just rhyming
It's about the timing
I write when Im happy, lonely and sad
& when things are crazy and bad
It reflects of my different personalities & moods
I love writing poems
it allows me to express myself,
i can write about foam
and make it symbolic for something else
Theres much you can do
when you have imagination,
you can write one too
Crying in my room, overwhelmed by circumstances I can’t control
Confessing my fears as my tears silently roll
Standing before you with nothing to offer,
Only broken pieces to lie at Your altar,
In a quiet little town
I owned a small shop
Inside sat a table
With a vase perched on top
A heart-shaped vase
Shades of red and pink so bright
It sat in the window
Each day and each night
Strum of a guitar
Beat of a drum
Note of a piano
Bar by bar
Melodies flood my mind
My head sways with the rhythm
