'what poetry means to me'
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Dreams die; some after the dreamer deceases, some before. Perhaps this is because the world, restless and translucent, demands great things from every individual.
What has been taught by poetry? I have learned much about the person called me. I have learned how to express myself creatively. I have learned how to set my thoughts free
The words we say, Cannot be unsaid. The words we read, Cannot be unread.
Poetry is like, A deep understanding of the unknown, Written with pain or love, It all starts the same way, With a pen and paper, With an Idea, Poetry can make or break a person, And poetry has taught me, To unleash my thoughts out on paper, And o
I run from the world I hide, not so old My pen and worn words Young poet, old swords Both shield and offense I count in my tense To fight is a lie But with words I try
I now write Poems to ease the pain All day and All night My thoughts become more tame I've wished death Upon my own brother To take his last breath For stealing my mother
Amongst a crowd of people, I am always the one furthest from reaching the sky. In other words, I am short. Petite. Vertically challenged. Believe me,
I bash my head on the walls until it cracks open I let everything pour out soupy and thick like egg yolks
Put my feelings into words, Teach me lessons I've never heard. How to speak with authority, Help me to better understand me. Describe the world through my eyes, Create something one of a kind.
What's in a poem Words that sound so sweet Bending our perception Where vision and passion meet Words are the beginning They create new realities Bending the shift of our mind
Poetry Is a Dream. Poetry is a dream It begins when you close your eyes and let your unconscious imagination take over. There are no impossibilities, only the possible.
I'm nine years old and what do you know? I got these feelings, how do I show? At the computer I sit and out my fingers, poems flow. One, then two, four, five, ten,
A Modern Woman First I was a Mother. 1 Then I was an Old womb tied up in ropes. Then I was sold to give a Dopamine rush,
My words are my weapons My words are my power They give me strength In my darkest hour When the world seems big And I feel so small
Thoughts in my head ebb and flow as do currents Waves upon waves, wash ashore but my mouth–it rarely opens This pen and paper
To crave action and to think of stars To cry diction and to sing of words To silently speak the happenings Of Carl's good and dead grandmama To eat passion and to write of moons
Saturday morning again, and the bees are wanting to settle into our c-l-a-v-i-c-l-e-s.
. . . so hush, little baby Baby, don't you cry. . . Hey, Hey, now, Mr. Harvey! Lookin' all sharp and sweet, you do, sir! Yes, Sir! O o o h. . .