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There's a freedom A journey A justice And a joy A release. Tranquillity Hope An escape  
I write to escape the world around me The world I write of is a contrast of one that ours is not. Peace exists while war does not, Love flourishes along with the flowers of the Earth.
The one place I cannot be judged. The only time my emotions feel in touch. Poetry stands by me when I choose not to communicate much. Life is difficult. Life is dark.
To observe everything and everyone Is nothing more than leisurely fun. I keep to myself and say not one thing. This is why I write: for the joy that it brings.   It is amazing how the mind works.
I could write books about your eyes and the way you laugh. I could paint pictures (if I was artistic enough) of your smile and your smooth skin. I could give a lecture on the way you looked at me and held me like fine china,
I want to tell you a story about a girl. This girl was beautiful. She was skinny. She was everything you would want to be. But she wasn't happy. A frown was permanently etched on her face it seemed. This beautiful skinny girl once was happy.
I don't write for them The world is not my audience These lines are not gems Poetry is not a science
Sometimes its hard to know what to say It's hard to say the words the right way But not for me I find the words What's hard for me is knowing how I feel So I write
Writing slam poems Doesn’t mean I’m mad It doesn’t me I’m angry at the world 24/7   Writing slam poems
I grab a rag from the old wooden stand; Society was staying my hand. Begging and screaming to not take it off; But as I stared at myself in the mirror; I was not happy with myself.  
This is why I write   It lets me be free   I can do what I feel   I feel like it understands me   It lets me do what I never dream of doing
Because you must know, I love my work I love my work until I start to read it I start to read and I only frown I only frown for I fear it’s no good Fear it’s no good to other people
I just want to make a name for myself, a passion to support myself. This shy soul has words never spoken before, In my mirror these words are constantly repeated, "You're so much more."
People write to inspire, to change an opinion, to sell a book, to sell a point - but those don’t define my reasons. Asking me why I write is like asking a kid why she sculpted her sand castle the way she did. Because I could.
THE REAL HER UNEDITED!!   Once a pon a time  From as far back as i could remember there was a girl  
Not many will understand and that is ok. I write for me. I write because I have no other outlet. No one knows the pain I have went through. Physically, Mentally, Emotionally, Spiritually.
Black and yellow spots
When my soul aches, When my heart swells,
It hurt.The past hurt.The past did things to me that I may never fully understand.It left cuts on my arms,and burns on my legs;marks on my memory that blurred the lines between perception and reality.
why do I write?? Who do I want to hear me? Who am I crying out in anguish to? My parents.....
Sterling Klein
I speak to say hello. I'm here, and I exist. I'm not here for very long, But I'm here, and I exist.   I paint so I can see The colors swirl around. I draw the motion and emotion
An oxymoron, just for me
My poetry hides In the unsuspecting death Of my sanity Deep within my heart Concealed secrets forbid me From my peace of mind. Desperate am I To discover the meaning Of my constant pain
I write for those who have dreams... Those who have always wanted to accomplish something but do not  have the opportunity... I write for my litte brother who died when he was eight years old.
With a swift brush of the breeze, you are beautiful.  Soaking in your everlasting scent, I can see you. The ability to taste your bountiful lips is euforic, in the sense of purity and love.
I am writing this to you. My love, my ecstacy, the one and only I come to.   You know who you are,
I write because This Puerto Rican on Def Poetry Jam Told me about the county of Kings.
I want to scream I want to shout
Many people do not realize t
Why I write I write to ask questions, bring awareness, and wield thought I write for you I write to organize my mind, to better understand, to relieve the tension, to ignite the flow of creativity I write for me
Music inspires seeds of intellectual concept to sprout from a fresh mind. Weeds find their way into a mix of ideals when the presence of spirit is in question.
The nostalgia sets in as I attempt to remember a time in my life without music:  
  February 5th 2009…6am  Daddy? Daddy where are you? Dad?! The house moaned and whimpers echoed throughout the walls.
I write to be heard To be read and understood I write to be respected To make my point and show my strength I write to tell my story To prevent myself from crumbling  
Wait. You have a problem with the way I dress?  The way I pronounce my words or treat other women with respect?
I've been pulled out to sea, Dragged underwater, Drowning.  But physically, I am smiling and free.
Hello my name is Hallie and I write for me  I write to say what I think and see I write to express what is inside way deep I do not write for you, but rather all for me When I write I feel as though I am free
Morning mist settles silently upon the pond. A chilling dampness curses this horrid ground. Nothing stirs or voices opinion. Once full of life, now desolate, cold. No frogs singing, dragonflies dancing, ducks diving.
In 7th grade, I knew I was gay I didn't think it was normal Not to be straight So I cut up my skin And took a lot of drugs I drank a lot of alcohol And gave lots of boys hugs
If money is the source of all evil, then we must be living in hell Corporate America is in control and I compare it to jail Since we are all victims to it, somebody show me my cell
I search, but never find the key that unlocks my mind. The truth to a lie, a clue to crime. A heart that never dies, a soul that never cry's.
The world IS my classroom, and I will watch the world learn.  
The cants and wonts, wont stop me,  I bring overdue glee, to my forefathers on the fruit fields, when I ace a test or get called the best, their sweat never in vain,
What has this world come? Who says you arent beautiful if your not a size 2? People these days never seem to surprise me,always following the new trend. Well, i say today, today is the day it needs to end.
One Direction! Its like an infection Harry, Niall, Louis, Zayn and Liam Biggest boy band ever, It almost as if they gave me a fever I love them, yes I do.
The white Hills and Valleys, All the Grooves and Notches, Are spread Clear Before Your eye. The same white all Around you.   Then a Brown river
Tell me a story,A story that never ends.
Love me, I a
What be of
What is it like to be her? Never sure of what to do; Unsure of every decision How to describe her? Fickle, Fickle, Fickle   She can never seem to stick to one path
Silence. It crashes upon the shores of noise with the sound of television static. Then it stops. There is nothing but darkness in my ears and stars exploding in my brain.
I write because I'm able to pick up a pen and go To express how I feel as my pen flows I write about my feelings whether I'm happy or sad No matter what happens I write in my pad
A poem a day Keeps the darkness at bay, Extracting my emotions Sets my creativity in motion, My writing is a hiding place Where I can disappear without a trace, I submerge in the waters of passion
Excuse me, can you repeat that?  I'm sorry. I didn't understand what you said. All I hear is mumbling.  Sounds as though the world is a Charlie Brown cartoon.     Seems as if all I say is 
Music is in everything, it is everywhere. From the gravitating pull of rocks avalanching down a mountain, to the sound of my fingers caressing my scaple through my hair.
I don't write because I'm forced to.  I write because I was born to. It's in my blood, it's in my veins. The words overflow because my heart overflows. I don't write to impress.
You're the best thing that has ever happened to me  I would do anything for you You treat me with respect  And you care about my feelings You're the best thing to ever happen to me  And I couldn't be happier
I see people walking byAnd I wonder what it's likeDo they see what I seeWhen they look at you with meThen I think of what I'd sayIf they ever asked why I feel this way
YOLO The words of the naive The words of the reprieve YOLO The words of the hurt, the sick, the blind, the dead. What we want to say, before there are no words left to speak. YOLO
The struggle is real. That is a sentence that is all too familiar. It isn't some joke to me. It's what used to define me. When you grow up in a Christian household, you expect life to be easy.
I am not here to take notes for you, I will not sit in the back seat, I will not grow my hair to wash your feet, I don't care much for your religion, I don't care much for your knights, What I do care for,
Have you ever felt that feeling, Where time flies way too fast? You're only half way through your freshman year, And you're already looking back. Was there ever a moment, When you thought it'd never end?
  Who am I? Am I a hero? Am I a villain? A star, a role model, a mother? Who will I be... When I venture through the darkest of caves  Will I emerge to see the light? Who can I be?
I hear sections of beautiful words inside my head.I even feel the parts that lurk in my heart,But it takes time for me to find the right ones and patch them togetherTo make them presentable and even then,
Conformity is like a box, Your as sly as a fox. You try to sneak in your ways, This is not a game everyone plays. Its so serious, Dont act mysterious. I have my beleifs as you do yours.
Clouds letting loose with cool rain A rhythm of a favorite song vibrating in saddened eardrums Here I sit and ponder If we could have made it work Words unsaid sting my throat
You tried so hard but you never quite were who you wanted to be, feeling so unsure. There were times you wanted to let it all go there were days you wanted to be best in show.
                                       Sorrow   My heart is slowly breaking into two pieces. Nobody can hear my silent screams to my daddy, telling him to take me home.
Curled up shaking no where to hide, cold steel and brass next to my side. Headphones in but hearing the screams, red stained dirt vivid in my dreams. Not you but ME I shoud have died.  
Tapping the pencil against a desk, the scraping of a chair across the hardwood floor,running fingers along the keys of a piano lost in thought,                       what is that intangible, sweet tasting sound I've come to adore? My ears have per
I am a woman I laugh, cry, smile, and frown I never want to let my family down I am a daughter Indescribable and pure like water I am a sister I come from good intentions I am a mother
You see things with envy, through your holy,and pure eyesAnything different, you simply despise“One must live proper, a man and his wife”We’d love to live peacefully, hopeful and true
Writing is my way of saying things I wouldn’t dare say My paper and pen are my way of yelling at myself, the world, and all the sources of pain in the world You can take away my paper and pen
I send my prayers to Jerusalemto hide in cracked walls and under flagstonesalongside supplications for healing and kindness.                              ∞I plaster my poems on the walls of cities
Music reminding me of you, Is the music that's most sweetest. Places that we were, Makes places more beautiful. The words that you spoke, Made words seem so powerful. People that remind me of you,
I leave this realmAnd walk into anotherSoon to find myselfIn the comfort of a motherWho's protective wombIs a shelter like no otherAnd although I knowI must soon leave this cover
Placed Prominently In permanentPerpetually Painful Positions; What is women?  
I wait and watch to hear my name, I wait until to see what tomorrow brings, I wait and I find myself listening, hoping, and dreaming.   Ohio brings what Arizona cannot, Humidity, winter, blazing summers
Hey, Teach! Yeah, you- Coach of that game. I have an A in your class And you don't know my name. Your main focus are those guys, The "populars", the jocks. But I have talent too,
Yeah so we're chilling in history classAnd I'm just thinking can I have a piece of that ass?Then the teacher says get out your textbook But really who the fuck cares  Oh man her ass is thickI know she wants to ride my dick I don't care if she's go
The wheels on the bus go round and round The wheels on the herse go slow and soft Telephone ringing with solemn news, despite the birds chirping  Click. Great-Grandma is dead
Must it be this way The consistent blame of 'media' Why am I not allowed to love me? The constant reminder that I'm still in remedial Perhaps this is meant to be - a shell of what I used to love
Hello. My name is Hunger and, I'm a whore. I think I've seen many of you here before... Allow me to explain.   When the land, kisses the sunlight And, day turns into night,
Doc says I should start writing down my thoughts, Says it might help me to find the root of my problems and in turn, the road to recovery. Well, last night, I let old habits visit me and I woke up,
GEORGIA MUD   I’m from ice cold sweet tea on the hot summers days, little girls selling lemonade on the corner for fifty cents a cup.
  Little reminders, I find them everywhere. Little reminders of how you used to care. Looking back we had it all, no wonder no one predicted our fall. More days pass and you’re still not around,
these red viscous drops that paints our banner's stars and straps fake smiles and all these props it spreads like chicken pox and it cant be contained or put in a box obvious to the trained mind
Having a family is my life, keeping me from being alone. Having a family is a privilege, I’ll always know someone is there.
The world spins,  my pen twirls. The curved hill becomes a rugged mountain,  and my fingers arch over keys. I get slammed, I get broken, I'm stretched out and hung to dry. 
These words that boil inside you are strong By nature, to hold them imprisoned is wrong Speak raw, speak power, speak truth, speak you, Your poem, your story, your song.   Do it for heart or do it for fun
I drift on a cloud, I float through the air, I feel so light, so free, so lacking in care. My lover waits for me, he holds out his hand, He leads me to the coast, the shores of white sand.
  I will escape factTo indulge in the fictionThat lives in my soul. Free the silent words,Bound by insecurity,Not once voiced aloud.
I write because I am Human/ Because I must bear witness to and for the world./ All of the pain, love, beauty, anger and hope/ My body cannot contain it;/ I must let it go./ Even if I don't, the words will leak out of me/ Touching whatever I touch.
I cannot make flowers growin the parts of myself I don't take enough care oflike my mindand my heart. I cannot repair those who are brokenand I cannot healthose who hurt.
The world stands still I am unable to surpass it Then, I look into the reflection And I write the wonders I seek Fear I would forget I struggle I the sensation of a cold sweat I am unable to
  It begins like a whisper. Something so small clicks, it’s almost missed and yet, shivers wave over your skin like a mist. You sense something emerge An impulse, an urge
I write to express the words I cannot sayI write to release the true words society decides to ignoreI write to stand up for what I believe in, even if I’m judged because of it
Do not tell me why I wrote poetry – that I want to be like you, that the words move through me predictably, clean-cut and watery you haven’t heard my stories, our stories
My Poisonous Words When I’m silent, I do think, Compose my thoughts before I speak, Hide your heart behind a shield,
It’s there, on top of verdant amplitudesof the rich and restricted golf coursewhere the golden moon and city’s lightsdrain into the river’s source.
I write so that you may see me Wrapped so eagerly into this language That can move so swift from my lips that the meaning  Brings nothing But when you see it
With words I sing. Letters are the language of the soul My heart keeping time to the rhythm of my spirit.   With words I am immortal. My anger in the jagged edges,
Write-wash   Why do I write? I write so that my caged thoughts can take flight. So that my lyrical mind can unwind around the spherical bind of reality-- See, with me—I am far from the normality.  
She gets one more bad gradeThe loans are piling up; Never fully paidStarts to look like there's no way out...
To express in prose Is the work of a poet For any fellow may give a rose But few a sonnet   I cannot fathom which I love most, The romance of chasing a muse Or the art of drawing with words
Why do I write? I write to glorify His name.  I write to tell of His mercy and His grace. I write to tell how He loves us so much, That He sent his son to die for our sins, So that we might live again.
When emotions run high, And tears overflow, Where else do I turn? Where else do I go?   When brave fronts falter, When walls weaken, When all good goes, When bad breaches,  
I'm just another curious mind with a pen and an imagination  Trying so hard to be an individual but I'm just another face in this nation Trapped thoughts and unspoken words that need to be heard
A flowing of my finger tips across a blank page my words, my thoughts, inspiration hiding behind a story know one knows the meaning for I am the one who has created it seeking my own memories
I write because The connection from my brain to my hand is Stronger than the one from my brain to my mouth. And when my hand moves across the blank page It pours passion right out of the pen.
On cold winter nights when I feel all alone, I open up my journal. On warm summers eves when I don't want to read, I open up my journal.   When I'm feeling low, lower than ever. My journal is there.
<3 Theres things in life we question and always wonder "why?". We're always lost in confusion, in a maze we call 'life'. But sometimes we need a break, from the disasters in the air.
I write because I never could throw a punch. I never could run fast enough jump high enough or beat you in sports at recess, But I could run circles around your head with unparalleled linguistic prowess. I spoke daggers,
A Poet Mikaila Mack 3.3.12 I write because   I want to be a Poet.   I want to be the spot of fertile soil That you seek out
Emotions overwhelm my soul as I experience life. Over time I store my emotions in a jar, And ever so slowly, I feel the glass starting to crack, Suddenly, the bottle shatters, forcefully pushing my emotions into the open.
One day I’ll liberate my soul; my own mishaps have created the insecurities that soon will fade away into a cloud of dust.
Words are a dance,  performed by the tounge and the heart and the hand,  together they perform- giving passion, and power to my thoughts,  that would otherwise strangle my being. Who dares question, 
I am untouchable Surrounded by the black gates Unsure of which to open “Let the people in!” Cries my heart Yet I am lost… Separated and gone   Write my name in the water
Love must be expressed Pain demands release Sorrow needs an outlet To comunicate these emotions you require a commonality Language, song, voice, written words are the similarity What I communicate?
Poetry. it's more than just random letters being regurgitated on paper. Poetry. it's about a deeper meaning, a deeper purpose.
This crazy , catastrophic heart of mineCan only be mended with words in a line.The turmoil that's always going on in my brain?Words are the only thing that keep me sane.
  When words are not expressed, do they even exist?   If your words stay hidden in thoughts, do they matter?   I write, therefore I am.   But when I speak,
Why do I write? The question is simple, yet the answer is not. I write to be heard over the voices that drown me out, to give a voice to my opinions, to show that even I have ideas that should be sought.
What is this? Am I insane? A rush of blood is streaming through my veins,and I'm so excited I can feel my own heart skip a beat. I have an idea! something new to write about and add to my sentimental timeline.
I write to let you know How I feel How I miss you How I resent what happened I write to let people hear The eloquence of vowels The harshness of consonants
The sound of sorrow by Ima Ríos   Abducting the yowls a meeting of souls confronting the ground with the magestic sound of fighting and freedom while waiting for the Halidom.
  It’s in the words that make me; it’s in the words that break me. It’s behind every comma and every verb; it’s behind each single word. I tell silent stories that have never been told,
When we are young we learn that people who cut are wrong,  are different, maybe even frightening. That depression is uncommon. We do not learn the ways to break free and escape
Why do I write? That's a great question I want to feel like I am a blessing Instead of being treated less than By the woman who brought me into this world
I'm just speaking because I have a voice Writing because its my choice Drawing to tell these illusions, hoping somebody can cure my confusion I can't tell where I'm going things change every second
Confessions themselves cannot be penalized, and kind words cannot be thanked.    If I was asked why I write, I would not tell. I would write about it. Writing itself is immune, immortal--
I wrote because he told me too... Too many times I argued... Argued with my English teacher... Teachers only mean the best... Best is what I learned... Learned to write poetry... Poetry is beautiful...
Do drugs make faces lie? Does liquor deepen the hole? Cut once to fill it.     When mirrors break, glue can only dull shards.
Words change, propel, inspire, Words give, comfort, guide, Words cripple, damage, diminish, but, words connect. Words connect hearts, sentences, and people. And words destroy connections just the same.
    To write, is to express one’s self through words rather than actions.To write, is to speak out loud without really speaking.To write, is to release… everything.  
DECiSIONS   I'm very upset right now... But I'm not gonna let it show through  I feel like I could just cry saying boohoo   I'm stronger than that  The woman I am, can stand, 
My writing's not meant to appease you My writing's to let thoughts through Oh so you don't like how my magical words flow Flow throug my mouth because you have to reap what you sow
I’ve always hated my reflection. It taunted me, Broke me, Nearly killed me.   It chained me up So that way The thoughts couldn’t escape.   Each day I would look
I once was a saint pure and true procting the things closest to me and you but then came a monster filled hate we stared from afar, seperated rusty gates Then before I saw a child
Passion. An object of desire or deep interest. What do you do in the middle of the night when you can’t seem to rest? Do you drink? Do you smoke? Do you watch TV? Do you play a video game? Do you write poetry?
maybe I am not brave enough to say it but I have written it and it is your time to read it. you will learn from the words. written by those who live amongst you and from those who wrote in the past.
Bedtime is here It's time to sleep. "Aww momma! Not now! I cannot keep My dolly waiting for me!"   I'd pout! I'd hide! You name it I tried! I want 5 more minutes to play!  
In a world filled with confusion, A plane of lies and deceit, A realm of double standard and judgement, I write words of truth and justice. I write to recover missing parts of myself,
I know not the message of my soul of its entirety SO I dig I dig through the piles of empty words and their unmatched emotions I DIG I dig for MEANING I dig for PURPOSE I dig for LIFE
I fight with my clockit’s faceplate staring right passed my pupils phasing through defense mechanisms resembling the thick walls of area 51my mind is the U.S. government and what I see as my mind is the U.S. population
There is a special Secret power In words They create heroes Craft new worlds Share adventures Word can be Used by Evil To spread poison Lies Hate They can be
I wanna write about stuff Like, I wanna write how I see others writeHow I used to write I wanna write about the things that only I and everyone else in the world understandAnd make them clap their handsForgot that it's poetry And snap their finger
What’s the point of exhaling, When no one wants you to inhale We are all a bunch of hypocrites, you know? We say we love, but We stab each other in the back We say we heal, but
Her eyes are brown, dimmed with misuse -bloodshot, another sign of the abuse.A small light ignites as she hands me an old journal;pride of the past dubs her almost maternal.
  World! It is I, the by-standing life form you still haven’t noticed; a modestly self-absorbed mixture of carbon, air and water.   If I scream, will you notice me?
  Pen Paper Black on white Flick of the wrist A moment’s goodbye Swimming in my own mind I can get lost in this world Other’s voices, other’s own ways
Ms. Rose I see those clown insects have you down and in doubt, just know it has to rain before the sun comes out.Ms. Rose you’re losing your powerful color…you were sprouted in a poor garden, but you don’t have to believe those other flowers.Ms.
They say when you cry you'reWEAK"Suck it up " they sayUnknowingly they force you to hold back your tearsBut don't hold them back ; crying is nothing more than escaping pain
The story of the mother I shall tell you first                          1 Who, long before the Holy Wars new of the Word’s curse. She understood the treachery and knew of the preacher’s lie;
Expression.A phychological necessity in a human's life.My thoughts are hiddenIn an endorphine-lacking limbic system.When I write, my world is exposed.Beautifully sculpted words,My literal being,
buried in metaphors, the allegory of a door representing the figurative pathway to the highways and byways of my brain- the complexity. as it rains, i'm brainstorming some more
It takes hours but it's worth every second, To see the fruit of your labor grow with the effort you put in, To even give in a minute before your work is legit? When trouble finds you, start spittin all over it.
One word is all it takes to encourage a life that brakes. One word can make all the difference in the life of those suffering with indifference. One word has all power
To bring joy to those who need it And happiness throughout the world I am able to lift sad spirits Through writing my dreams are unfurled   As my pencil glides across my page
If you've ever woken up inside a dream, you already know why I write. If you've ever screamed "feel-words" at the clouds which lie low, you already know why I write
  I approach poetry as a teenager approaching the first date, as a 12th grader approaching the SATs, as a spelling bee-er approaching a word she's never known
The asymmetrical force Devalued the price Of our bond's worth.   Contaminated intentions are masqueraded. Trust travels upon the medium of Time. Time, the fluid of resistance,
He thought He was important for her. However, Horribly tortured by her vigor He longed for her love Ever since he can remember.   Blind to the phantom of her lover,
Throughout elementary school, poetry was just another thing to read. I didn't like it at first, it was a tedious deed. Back then, I was and even still am a shy child. A quiet one, who's imagination was and still is wild.
From day one we learn We see the faces, hear the voices School, as we grow  Lessons, every year One thing we always gather WORDS From the voices From our teachers From our lessons
The Addict..   Call it a “jones”, an “itch” A desire for a quick fix to ease the pricks Call it a hobby, a leisure, a feature pastime A way to wind down, relax and float
With this paper and pen I turn my pain into an artistic expressive manifestation Thoughts strewn across the membrane of each cell That identify as my being  
Why I write   My words aren’t just words That are thrown into a sentence But you must uncover the mystery Of what I have written   I write for those who can’t But want to be heard
to write beautiful free verse a pretentious dream to peel away clunky prose find rhythmic words clean   mechanical pencil, weapon of choice to write and write, uncover a voice
 A poet knows There are one thousand ways to tell a lieAnd only one way to tell the truthA poet knows That sometimes a lie makes a better storyThan any truth ever wouldA poet knows that people speak Sometimes without thought or purposeBut simply b
Simple letters joined together to make words and a mere piece of paper created to record In life there are moments we rather face alone as a time of reflection or moment to console
Music is my heroin. Headphones are my needles. Being able to drown you out is my highI dont tlk about my feelings. I do musical therapy. I feel better without talking.
  One second Love is the key to pure happiness. The next, love is nothing but a devilish villain That poisons all that is real and beautiful. How could something that feels so right be so wrong?
When I left my birth country Cuba, I swore to myself never to look back. I was a child of four and yet I learned two valuable lessons that night that I left Cuba, One: Parents lie, For I was not going to the beach,
Poetry is a language all its own, a refuge, a safe haven, a beautifully rhythmic home. Poetry is a power, a force beyond ourselves,
  It’s like the moments when you stutter and what you want to say simply won’t come out. It has the power to make you shutter or jump for joy or scream and shout.  
as if looking at you were not enough, my heart does skip a beat in time to you. when i beheld you i instantly knew, your love would make me your most treasured buff. for this cannot be love's truest hour, mere impulse is your specialty, my dear.
I Write to escape the rushing world to focus in on all the beauty exchanged to stop the Earth that once whirled
Contain the emotions, We use, For expression, Unravel the meaning,  In every letter, Word, Sentence, Breath as you decode the rhythmic pattern, See the fine printed words among the page,
Who shall I praise in my moment of glory  Who shall I praise in my moment of pity Who shall I praise when I need to be happy Who shall I praise when I cry like a baby Who shall I praise when I don't know who to be
A voice inside a soulThe emotion, the strength, the hidden confidence That sometimes never releases; or is trapped on paper By the pen that squeezes out the voice onto a sheet ...Then another sheet, another sheet!It becomes journal of dreams we wa
I can smile and look at everythingTwisting a strand of hair with my finger,A childish expression i wear to pass the time. Until then I am wasting my time skipping and stepping on broken leaves,My toes growing numb from the water soaking into my sh
Feeling antsy I lay with unease Late at night, My heart truly  b e l i e v e s I am capable of all However, unsure of where to start My lists have piled A large target with one dart
  A single lasting impression, The hinting lack of discretion He poured into each word he never said to me.   I am simply letters from a father, The aching heart of the waters
I write with curiosity and remembrance My mind is always wandering and I tend to follow it It gives me ideas and dreams of what could happen I tend to find myself writing down the thought so I cannot lose it
I used to be sad. I used to feel depressed. I used to think that my life was so much worse than the rest. OCD and anxiety had control of me. The frustration was overwhelming, it was taking over my body.
Heavenly Witness The Lord gave me a mind, a heart, 2 eyes that can see, a pen and a whisper “Child write for me”  To sustain a heavenly gift shrink wrapped and complete with a bow of uncertainty I write
My great grandmother could not read and her daughter could not write. My mother passed me the pen and told me to fly. When I write, I unlock the diaries belonging to the hearts of all my mothers.
Lips I can kiss A heart that is mine A friendship evolved A love so divine Hands I can hold A rush I can feel A connection so bold A bond so unreal Someone I can talk to
Little and unknowing, as a girl I would pick up what I didn't yet understand The meaning so lost to new eyes I want it Time flies, the pen is now in my control, the paper my clay to mold
This paper understands me. It catches the words that bleed from my mouth. Cushions the blow as they fall to my desk. This page is the place where I don't have to hide. My pen is the bike for an open mind ride.
In need of escape. Solace found from black on white. Addict with a pen.
Sometimes there are webs of ideas that cant be explained but through circles and lists slowly a complete thought formulates as random things stumble out of ones mind and on to the paper
I am sand. I am sand on the shore of a beach. 
Darkness leaks into my head, As if Demons were pouring it in, Mumbling silent incantations.    The world, as we know it, is on the move again, And I am often alon in heightened frustration. Why does everything seem to leak into my brain? Where can
I let the ink flow  Freely across the page Intending to paint but Feeling an uncotrollable urge To draw words To make sense of  A worlds that seems so much Like a big inkblot test.   
Being rewarded: to receive something for doing something. It's a great feeling whether it be cash or whatever with we're dealing.  It sort of a mental healing.  To feel accepted and recognized,
To speak for those without voices;To feel as they have felt,and bleed as they have bled;To record the lives of others,their thoughts,feelings,and opinions,so that they might become immortal
I stand as a shadow among millions of face, my voice is silenced by the echoing river of voices a like. "break free from the drowning"; I scream from the inside, then one day from a blank page, the worlds ears became my canvas.
Encircled by a group of guyfriends gathered like scholars circles back in medival times, news about a girl comes up. Instantly, it comes down to the unconscious question: "Is she pretty?"  
  The familiar thwack of shoulder pads colliding filled the air. My heart pounded from the run over. My eyes searched for him on the field. Then I saw the familiar skinny, much too pale limbs,
Ideas, Jumbled in my head, pulsating, spinning, swirling I look at the blank document, white space Music lightly decorating the room Fingertips tingling, a quick impulsive burst of energy thrust onto the screen
HUNGRYBy James Caponera
Writing is my escape; To a different world it takes me. Any character I can personalize, Any event I can create.   Writing is my savior; Changing my bad mood into the happiest.
  I don’t write, I listen. I don’t have the talent, or skill, or natural linguistic ability I don’t converse fluidly with ease of speech I stumble over phrases and ideas though I know in my head exactly what I mean
There are days that I findI do not identify with the me thatreflects in the sight of others.Lost in my subliminal mind,when ink spills and pen is broken,my quiet tongue is the ripple
It’s a deep breath for lungs that struggle to breath, It’s a drink of water for lips that crack and bleed, It’s sight for when all the light is gone and the world is black and horrid,
Words are uniform, Everone has some, Yours could be the same as mine, But without my emotion behind them! I say the first, But then I burst! Unstoppable like a hero!
You taught me expression And how to be free You taught me convition And how to believe Cradling happiness Confining the sad Creating divinity Crushing the bad Write it on paper
I could say multiple reasons as to why I write, But with all these reasons about half of them are lies. I could say I started to be cool, or I started to be great,
I fell in love… By: Deniqua Washington   His face shone with the sweat of a hard days' work. I could see the breath slowly leaving his lips with every movement of his chest.
Habitually Speechless, attacked by my violent mind, my mouth is a blocked exit. Slammed against the glass of revolving doors, turning with no direction,
She comes to me feverishly in the night, relishing in the moonbeams soft as her fingertips, cool to the touch, ever invigorating as the seconds tick on,
Poetry, who knew it could bring so much of an impact in ones life. It saved me from grabbing a knife, and has allowed me to make a strive. Poetry has kept me alive and away from trouble out in the streets.
When words of mouth couldn't explain, I chose a different road. Frustration builds and mountains rise, seems like a heavy load. I went upstairs and stared ahead, Unsure of what to do.
I write this poem is for you,Because you have an honest soul,Because you've cried yourself to sleep at night at least once before.
  My Butterfly As a caterpillar, She is scared, She hears what happens to others, Either you can fall or fly.     In her cocoon, She is scared,
Whenever I am down      when I can no longer take it anymore  bad thoughts goes through my mind   sometimes I want my life to end already but what would that take me  I would only disapear
They ask me why I write. I guess when it keeps me distracted at night It's hard to sleep with all the rhymes in my head Guess it's better than wishing I was dead. Dad won't stop yelling, mom won't stop crying
Why is it that you see me writing, scribbling, scratching,  on pages upon pages of paper?   So I can dance, of course. Dance a waltz with my sadness, Dance a tango with my troubles,
I write for me. I write to keep my soul alive. I write for my mind to strive. I write to share my dreams. I write because it means something to me. I write to preserve my sanity. I write to share my story. I am me and I am a writer.
I write to give life To breathe breath on the page And for you to inhale it as you read I write to revitalize the feebleness withinFor when I lose my ‘me’ In the day-to-day breeze
Words are surrounding me; Rhetorical devices fill the air. I sit solemnly and think Organizing my thoughts into linear patterns
My poems are entries to my invisible diary. they scream secrets I’m too afraid to whisper. relishing in my honesty, they roll inside lost hour glass sand grazing in memories of words I never said.
  Breathe I inhale the toxins of the world They weigh down on me like Atlas tear me up from the inside out I’m suffocating All the things I’ve seen are Nothing compared to living it out
Why do I write? Why does it matter? That the hands fly to keep up with the mind that is faster? It's a racing mind, filled with stories and ryhmes feeling like I'm running out of time,
Poetry It's everything I'm not it's bold and free Everything I want to be  And more I can live out love songs And triumph over evils like superheros
I wouldn’t be me. No, not me completely, If for some reason, I lacked all my writings. Because writing Is twisted, It is ingrained, Into the depths of my soul, And every molecule of  DNA.
I have trouble speaking aloud; it could because of the bullies. Words are easier to write, I don't have to worry. My voice will not shake; my hand is firm, as my pen creates a world out of my own words.
For the words that don’t come easy The emotions that cease thee. I am alone but am I? Because when this pen hits this paper I fly. No one can understand me better, Than the words that flood this paper.
I never did try to convey my feelings on a page of a diary, It wasn’t my thing, But I thought maybe through a poem, I could spill my inner truths like ink on a blank paper To make me feel better.
I write for beautiful. I write for peace. I write for me.   Sometimes a pen to paper is easier than words to a mouth  
I think it started With a fleeting glance. I had to capture, somehow, This moment in time provoking A fluttering of my heart. Then it became My mode of voice, Of choice.
Every thought I have has always been concealed Confined to my pens rhymes as I strive to keep it real When my pen hits paper, all bets are off Allowing me to walk the tightrope of my thoughts
The true definition of beauty is a definition that can’t be defined. To describe the beauty of one is rather difficult because everything that holds a purpose, holds a meaning which holds beauty.
Living in a world with unopen secrets. Walking around with boxed up feelings. There is no where to escape in the open foreseen world.  To let the unopened box free.
i write because i'm scared. What if no one listens to me when i pour my heart out Using words. Not with a pen and some paper though.  i mean actually SAYING what i'm feeling. What if.....
I wake up from a dream. A dream of walls.                 of restrictions The walls of fear are closing in now. Gasp.     Gasp. Pen.        Paper. My fear has defiled the pure white page.
You touched the deepest part of me You got my heart, my heart its jumping I always dreamed of you even when we are apart I'll give you my heart when you need it I'll be there by your side
When I was little monsters didn't hide under my bed. They screamed at me from inside my head. I dreamt of death and being alone. I was always crying, never finding a home.
People dance while bright hearts are being lost searching for the process where hearts are found your soul may become harmed, bruised, or destroyed you begin to feel like your soul is bound.  
All My life I have lived by the rules. I have done what I have been told. But I have felt a need to feel in control. So I write. For me. To express myself. I can say what I want. There are no rules.
I write to light up my mind, words on black ink turn to colorful images on this Earth we could never find. Something as simple as the sun rise, or the way someone expresses themselves in a reply.
This pen I hold tight in my hand, Will play out till the very end. This paper that is displayed quite so bright. Will hold a life. Just scribbles and lines that I have created,
Writing is a release of tension Chipping away at the block that weighs down on my shoulders Placed there by a father who expects too much for too little Who only knows my face from the distorted view of a bottle.
A question such as this was once asked to me, I simply said it made me free. The questioner said, "Well, so does reading!" to which I respond, "But I have a greater needing."
Why I write Is to breathe Its how I express what's inside of me   Winning a scholarship would call for celebration For my schooling would not be in hestitation... of worrying  
A tremor shakes the vessels in my head tightening around my skull until the water drops from my eyes and a ghost takes host of me.   My brown skin turns to cream my lips too tight,
Smile Ashley! Sit there and look pretty. Only speak when you're spoken to. Show each of them respect, And God knows I did. My heads pounding the more I smile.
Writing is the true answer to any complication It's beauty at it's best The words outline my body Defining who I am and who I can be More then just a hobby It's life
I write because there is a blank page in front of me Calling out to me and waiting to be defined, To be told its own story so that it can pass it on To anyone else willing to listen.  
People feel. They laugh, They cry,The scream. Whose job is it to solidify these feelings?  Who is it that proves their existence at all? It is the Writer. It is the Poet.
We are each called to serve the Lord With many gifts to us He's poured My gift of poetry I pray to use To give light to the world And light its fuse. I am a soldier of the cross
I can never speak, the words come out  twisted and jumbled and ran together as if the sentences I form were hit by a train on its track   When I write everything comes out clearly I can write on for 
My reasons why are much deeper than the past Looking to the future like How the hell do I keep going? My eyes stay blurry I can barely see what I’m writing. How does life change faster than lightning?  
In third grade, going from not knowing how to read or write. Then wanting to do them both every second of everyday. Finding a happy medium, just because I can. Freedom from feeling last place
Endlessly hoping for something, anything... But recieving nothing. That's what my life feels like. Chasing dreams and coming up dry. But it plays the way I want it to, in my imagination. 
In words, there is feeling Love, Lust, and Hate Despise, Passion, Adoration We feel all these things, in association         With Words. When words are released, feelings
They say the eyes are the windows to the soul poetry is the voice for those who feel voiceless its words that come together to fill up the holes its senteces of happiness but also calls of distress.
Why does he write? An question rhetorical in its nature To know why he writes Is to kno the story of the Pen & the Paper One plays the role of his savior the other one plays the role of his creator
Why do I write? Well, that is certaintly a question to be asked. Why do I listen to music? Why do I choose to yell and curse? It's because it is liberating.
  lost child looking for an outlet  searching the world for every possible option one option was helpful, includes a pen and a paper and the most important thing, her beautiful thoughts  
Out of the womb, I wailed to the single Mother.Gums smacking. Fingers grasping; the searching.Father, where are you?Professor. Author. Poet. Working Man.
With nowhere to turn, my life flashes by. Looking around and nowhere to hide. I know all these faces, and they all know mine. The same faces day after day. They get comfortable with not saying hey. Walking around with nowhere to belong.
I feel like I’m being crushed by a beam Because everything isn’t always what it seems I’m in disgust with my life And all of its being I have so much hurt & doubt I don’t know which way is the route
A written poem has so much meaning. A word like love, so broad- A word like baby, so precious. A poem helps you unwind; like stretching before excercising. Writing helps you release,
I love poetry. The smooth rhythm of the words rolling and flowing like a river or stream I love the freedom of expression the beauty of the meaning. And yet, I also love the strict, formulaic,
In this mind full of clutter, this mind they called crazy.  The memories still live, yet the image is now hazy. This paper understands me, it puts my mind at ease. With a deep breath, I write and the voices suddenly cease.
It is my rescuer This written word It helps me create my own other world I just pour my feelings onto the page And everything just seems to go away I conquer the bad And celebrate the good
Simple, little words They are the only sure way To express myself.   My terrific words They hold infinite meaning Portraying my life.   My humble, small words
Poetry.  Nothing more than words on a page.  Or are they?  Words that express so much no one else can fathom.  A diary for the world to hear.  A voice, a guide  to let you know you aren't alone. 
Why do I write? I write because it helps me I write becuase it helps me over come my social anxiety It helps me articulate the words I can't do physically It hepls me share my heart when my mouth won't
It sounds like poetry,Gushing through the windSoaring through existence,Above noise, in quiet. The sound of poetry,Rumbling louder than before,In the heart and mind’s heart,Unleashing power.
Wait for me. I'll be there; Head held strong and arms opened wide, Ready to take the world on. My voice to reach many people, My dance moves to get people jumping, My acting to induce laughter,
A solitary pencil drags itself, forlornly, estatically, and furiously, across a lined page. A page that was  previously devoid of any emotions.   
When I place Paper and Pen in my space My mind begins to pace My heart begins to race.   I'm Free! I'm Free!   Thoughts flow My pen begins to glow With the truth.  
Why, does grass growThe sun rise when it drinks the darkness of the nightA wound mend and scars fade  Why, do people smileThe birds chirp on a bright summer dayA dream take us away
I was so close to nirvana but disaster had to come Trembling, sweating dripping, heart beating like a drum It could be all over in an instant Leaving me crying in my bedroom, seeming senseless
I write to express my deepest thoughts and emotions.  The red anger.  The blue saddness.  The yellow happy that kisses my skin in the soft morning dewiness of the sun in the morning.  The quiet calm of night.  Nothing makes sense with out it.  Wor
You ask why I write I ask why don't you? Poetry is my thoughts Poetry is my feelings My inner self Expressed so vividly Through every stroke Upon each and every sheet Why do I write?
See here's the thing, other's do not understand my poetic spring. Reason Why? They judge me for my Skin. Reason why? They judge me for my Grin.
Through writing I can allow my words to come out freely, the walls that shut me in can come down. I feel the pressure leaving, like a screeching teapot  taken off the flame.  I see what I write,
When I die, dont bury me,With flowers on my grave,Cremate me.Throw my ashes to the wind.So that I am as free as poetry The only thing to make me think,The only reason for me to create through speech.
I write because I can. If I don't, I can feel myself bleeding out There is not a person on this planet, or any other That listens as well as the pen and the paper. Not a soul who won't judge you,
A young girl once harmed; many times for many years. A young girl once harmed; confuse and anguished in utter pain. That young girl turned bad. Seemed as though her innocense was gone.
leaves of gold from last night’s reverie flitter & flake off, an ethereal cocoon, an awakened chrysalis. porcelain cloud, earnest & pure. beacon cast to guide her mind; debuted with a silent yearning.
  Words are power. For if you speak with influential words, intelligent words, confident words, people will listen.
To those who speak with their hands, Listen with their eyes, And know with their hearts.   Their language and customs so foreign in our society, Yet in passing, They can blend in with the ordinary,
 She missed the day he smiled All that it reviled was an innocent child The regrets of the child started to fade Her heart was cut witha blade The blood of a sweet, but soft serenade
  Poems are used to express one’s feelings and emotions. They can be seen as a recess or even as a potion   I write to bring out  all the words that were just lost
I take the kind of pen very seriously. It is an extension of my hand Which is my part body, And on a good day my mind and my body Are one.   And I write because I am compelled to,
Why do I write? Writing has become a part of my life. Through my sinister days, writing was there the day of my wake. Tragedy after tragedy, lost in a deep dark hole, writing was there, and it became my home.
I write to express myself To show that there’s more To what you see on the outside   Inside there is a girl Who has been through hell and back But keeps a smile on her face
is there a word for that painful sort of beauty when the grass is too green? for fog-heavy mornings that shed their skin and slideinto soft black nights?
The children play with the toy soldiers, Battling for candy and toys. They throw around the toy soldiers, Adding their own background noise.
A constant babble fills my ears too many people shouting their word. I cannot listen, nor can I be heard.   I cry out, to the great unknown Whether or not they hear me i don't know.
Ladies, there’s something that I’m seeing and it grieves me to the core. That while we sit in pews and claim all I need is Jesus, we yearn for more. So we turn to novels, love songs, pornography and lust for men.
When someone truly Listens to you They will react both inside and out. A response infused with emotion Showing you that they have been moved by your words.   When someone truly listens to you
Why do I write you say? Why do i scribble the day away? Words are moving, filled with emotion. Writing succesfully requires devotion. It is upon this note, That here this poem is what i wrote.
He wakes at five to brew the first pot of coffee, Fully aware that he will throw half of it out. Pungent sludge that oozes from the mug like molasses, Today-as every day.  
I stay up late thoughts running through my head I try to speak and wait to be heard I look all around me and see unfamiliar faces No one understands my cries I escape into a world where no one knows my name
Why do I write?   Perhaps it is the true expression of inner sentiment, The meeting Pencil upon paper,
Asking me why I write is like asking me why I live Because I was born in a city of gangs, crime, blood I can't expect anything better, If I ever go back to the hood Here's to being different,
When everything you ever wanted is right there in front of you, Yet somehow you let it slip through your fingers; That’s when you know you need to step back, Look through a window; reanalyze your life. 
Passion is the tides rolling in to see you, you can always count on it being there. Passion wakes up with you every morning striving for what it wants, what it needs, softball.
Would you like to be limitless? How does it feel to be free? No worries, no struggles, no pain that you see in me. Poetry is being limitlimess Everything on the paper is real Writing for no personal gain
                                                The words just seem to appear on the paper Like magic is flowing out of my pen As I escape into a far off land;
I sometimes think that people are put here to be something. But they later find themselves in the odd position of being nothing. Why?
I write because my silence is the loudest voice I have ever heard.   I write when it's 3am and my head is spinning with truths that were afraid to surface in the daytime When my words are so raw it almost scares me
Day in, Day out. Old news, Old games. One hears, One listens, But only some Write.   Still beauty of nature in the cold, The rushing wind in the fast moving city.
Day in, Day out. Old news, Old games. One hears, One listens, But only some Write.   Still beauty of nature in the cold, The rushing wind in the fast moving city.
The truth is often tainted to fit ones perception of what they would like to believe. And whether you believe this or not, here's a few words of advice for you : Dont let you mouth deceive your heart.
Backstairs traipse ever down, slow and fruitless winding Colorless walls with shadows tall are all that I am finding. Trapped within this hidden void, I creep among the black
I write because my silence is the loudest voice I have ever heard. 
It’s the end of summer, 2005A little girl stands amidst a seaof strangers, flowing around her,unobstructed. A thousand voicesmutter around her tiny, ten year-oldform but her voice, no matter how small,
Actions speak louder than words, Unless the words are beautiful Like black ink on a white page. Writing is my action. I want others to read my words, And listen to my thoughts. But if they do not,
I'm standing at the edge of the wood                                                                                                   Birds Lullibies hang in the still air                                                                           
Treassures, our creations.
I write simply because Im messy, I cry and tears land on a white platform, I yell and sound waves move my pen in type of tango, I love and my heart beats rhythm into the words I write,
For my wife, Kathleen Cain.
The girl with the bright, friendly eyes And the smile that masked her tears with a twinge of shyness Could not use brushes or pencils To paint her fears as her father and grandmother could.
It is in the stains of her pale fingers— the bitten nails, the ink that lingers   Stuck in her throat between here and there the obstruction that remains, that haunts her everywhere
When you write, your expressing yourself. Whatever your feeling at the moment. Your words speak out in a tone of hurt, sad,happiness,grateful,thoughtful. 
When you're as quiet as I am, You learn to KEEP quiet. Crazy Ideas and loudest thoughts, Sarcastic statements, Hurtful words and painful lies Will stay within my mind. The silence says it all.  
Writing is about creation And chasing after temptation; It is jumping into the abyss To chance having your soul kissed; Writing is creating friends And harboring foes;
When I put pen to paper there is no hold back on the amountEndless feelings cannot be spilled with in 30 linesAnd an imminent amount of timeAnd sometimes, they're not even sublimeSo you're here, like why waste my time
Everyone dreams of growing up With memories of when you drank from a sippy cup Places you've dreamed of going Expressing yourself because you're already glowing I want to be free   People may say
She opened my eyes to the power of words: A finely turned phrase, An image painted on the canvas of the mind’s eye. In her solitude she found herself, Her pen speaking the truth of her reality.
I write because it is what I know how to do. I write because it express how I feel when I can't speak. Unraveling the deepest parts of my mind, my troubles,  and escaping into a place that I can claim as my own.
The dawn of man is coming to end. The Son of Man is here this is no myth and not a child playing pretend. Mankind is evil from the day that we're born but there is hope as time passes and our skin is withered and worn.
I often stutter so frequently that I can not help but think, That my life would simpler if I could not speak. But with a twiddle of my pen I could erase away the pain,
I write to believe. When I write I feel free. I write to empower those who have no voice. For those who are too afraid of the judgments we speak. Every whisper flows across streets Amongst peers and strangers
Why I Write
I write because I am a citizen who has her rights to speak her mind, To be able to say what spoken words cannot comprehend.  I write to give advice to the teens who don't have someone to confied into,
Why? Reluctantly It expresses The Emotions of the soul   Provides an Outlet to Express Thoughts Running through Your mind
Body. I have a body. and organs. Bones. Muscles. Blood. But where does my soul fit? Where is its dwelling place? Poems. It’s in my poems. I write to let my soul live.
What exactly does poetry mean to me? When I believe it’s a totally different world to see Where you express your deep thoughts in words to please Your wandering mind that must be set at ease.  
My pen is my voice It is used to express what my voice cannot say. My pen is my mind What it writes is what I think, What I know, What I wish for, What I dream of. My pen is my happiness,
I write because it frees the words my heart has hidden. These words hold onto my innocence and contain emotions I can not express otherwise.
Poems capture beauty They describe a living scene They talk about the real world Things everyone can see   If you've ever seen a sunset Splashes of color in the sky Or gazed upon a rainbow,
Words are keys Tiny and powerful They unlock doors The doors of oppression and hate Words free us   Slaves to injustice Words release us They break down walls Unlock doors
i been here far to long...in dis pit n dis is it..my heart is torn im all alone...and my mind is gon i cant carry on...i should be a don...get a job nope..got a betta chance sellin dope...wat can i say crime pays..i seen it all jus by watching zim
Can you blame the Devil for trickery? Then blame God for falling to his whims?   Can you blame the Deceitful for lying? Or the Poet for turning the lie into a beautiful masterpiece?  
The words I write Are my blood as it's spilled across a page Take a pen to paper Or a blade to my skin Makes no difference to me Except what I let the other people see Maybe if I didn't
  I write to persuade. I write to change minds. I write to give praise. I write to save lives. I write for my freedom. I write for my faith. I write for the mistakes
This is your love insurance plan, from a man feeling this grand in your comppasion, here I stand in the   sand, as your ocean waves, amaze, got me in a daze as I gaze into your Haze, brown crystal balls of  
baby take off your cool lay it across the bed fold it tightly and tuck it neatly away because there is no room for egos here no space for boastin' and braggin' no air
Lesser than a book. More than a word, Able to create life. Through poetry I create myself, Through poetry I create my world, Through poetry I speak to you,  
Writing is liberation, it's freedom, it's experssion, it's talent.  Writing is confidence, intelligence, it's inspiration, it's power. Writing is a mask, an outlet, a safe place, it's scary. 
Never what I am, always looking for Me, life follows no plan, we're tossed in a stormy sea. We walk on trial, walk down death row, while accusations pile,
There it is: nowhere, the idea has left Like a lightning bolt striking the air, and as deft As a mouse escaping beneath the stair- Where it has gone to I never shall know Nor am I intent on finding out anymore- 
I write for comfort, closure, exposure, to keep my composure less to impress, but to decompress when in distress. I write for insight and to enlighten. When I’m lost I write to find myself again in the midst of all the adversity.
  I write because the ink bleeds   Even when I don’t   They tell me to speak my mind   But childhood taught me that I am to be seen   And not heard  
He was just a punk just a boy who was never satisfied with who i was or wanted to be he just wanted pain he wanted that pride   That road of memories sending pain through my soul
This is the beginning of a new day. You have been given this day to use as you will. You can waste it or use it for good. What you do today is important because you are exchanging a day of your life for it.
Wow...i try keeping this four letter word from erupting from my soul. The word i promised myself i wouldnt use so much, the one that i told myself that if i did use it...
Many years have passed with you aroundYou were the only friend that could be foundLittle did i know you would grow up so fastI should have known it wouldnt lastThe fighting and aruging where there used to be
I forgot how much i miss seeing your face,and how you could never make me mad.I forgot how much i miss that voice,that brings laughter and keeps me from being sad.I forgot how much i miss that smile, 
I forgot how much i miss seeing your face,and how you could never make me mad.I forgot how much i miss that voice,that brings laughter and keeps me from being sad.I forgot how much i miss that smile, 
His star,my sunshine, his smile, my laughter, his wink, my blush, his hand, my heart, his voice, my eyes, his look, my face, his touchMy heartbeat, 
I know i am not the perfect girlMessy hair and no make-up onIn my simple clothes i twirlGoing, nope! my mind is gone :)Hair ties, sneakers, jeans, a t-shirtThings that i put on every day
Without you baby i think i might drownDrown in the love i have for only youPlease, baby smile i hate it when you frownIts the very LAST thing i want you to doAnd, to me, you are the world, the sky
You can lookOr you can seeYou can standOr you can fleeYou can hideOr you can protectYou can thinkOr you can reflectYou can buildOr you can teachYou can sigh*Or you can reach
As I stumble alone, I help myself up. With a pencil or pen I write "don't give up".   It's my escape, my passion, that's why I write.  In the arena of Life, my pen wins the fight. 
Sometimes I wonder why the government wants to take away our rights I wonder why I have to fight every single day of my life  Sometimes i wonder what is this hunger we have for more knowledge 
Poetry Not just words on a line, Random stanzas composed of poetic language, It is a way of expression It constitutes the unspoken word with eloquence and emotion Touching ever corner, every inch of the heart
The life that I live is the poem I write. The breath that I breathe; the day and the night.   I live.
I write for the ones Who cannot speak for themselves For they are not given voices But left dusty on the shelves They make our country stand In a spot so unreachably tough Yet as hard as they try
  A young romantic I was As delicate as a lily with weight of morning dew. The love I sought did not show through my mouth, Only through my pen. Letter after letter, I wrote Page after page
Poetry expresses hidden feelings. They make words sound appealing. They tell stories, Out of the words in your inventories. Sometimes it's hard to describe how you're feeling,
Everyday we walk through the Air. We hear things, See things, in a way that others don't.   Everyday we walk through this Hell. We feel things, taste things in a way that others don't
He makes me sad He makes me love him He makes me feel love for life, music  Stirring up something so gentle Feeling grace is a blessing. I long to make  Fearless, Gentle, Lively, Powerful
Yet another sleepless night, to toss, to turn, and put up a fight against the war that goes raging inside of my head - the war that I quietly fight from my bed. The war between things that I think but can’t say,
 “A Lifetime of Pain”   I remember it was raining.  
 On a grey day filled with rain that never stopsAs my heart screams but can't be heard, time continues to clockI have news--good, bad, happy, and sadYet I have no one around to tell them as they're too busy musedWith their pleasures and ecstasy, y
Why do I write?A questioned that's plagued me since puberty. Why do I write? I'm not very good. My woulds aren't flowing or detailed.
:There was a small, scared girl who was trapped in her own world, frantically searching how to escape.   In a desperate day her life changed. She grabbed a pencil and paper and began to write.  
Have you ever seen a baby?  Have you seen the way it's newborn skin scrunches up at a funny smell? The child's immediate reaction is to make a fuss. It needs it's mother to hush it back to sweeter smells, sweeter times.
Out of my way Out of my skin Fire flows through my brain Let me go back to my time The time I went to fly Fly higher than the sky Where I met strangers  They were neither red nor black
I feel my soul running free with the windChill down my spineGoosebumps on my skinI am free, feeling alive as if everything I lived for was never a lieSo I cry feeling no doubt about to flyFly sky high
I have always helfd A pen in my hand Weaving tales I am never sure Which ones were already there And which ones will become Mine I feel that one day I might wake up  And be a part 
my passions and dreams are what leads me today, it's my dear mother that makes me stay. her nagging and doubts pains me to keep, but my heart burns a fire that comes in deep. my passion to dance and sing and act,
Seems like all I do is fail Life is just one big mess It isn't my fault, I swear I'm just hopeless I guess These were thoughts that I had Sometimes they weren't all bad
'tis a wonderous thing to be a Poet To dream, to write, to be as yet we have known it. The sensual pleasure of that last letter that was written, O ye I've been smitten.
I sat in a crowded room, lonely inside Sinking into the background, trying to hide All at once people threw opinions around Yet I sat in the corner quiet, resound   Sure - I had thoughts
WARNING, I am about to share with you  the views of an escapist, Escaping a brutal reality. Freeze. This is no tale of a civilian in a zone known for gang war. Ya see, this
Middle school Back in the day Wishing I was someone else Built another way Pen and paper In my hand Creating a new place My own land Being so suprised
I ride the express way because it is the only way I know. I sit on a bench full of euphoric hearsay's. All the while holding on to the steel pole that is my heart
Poetry is useful. It's for the rich man and the poor man. For the man who cannot see,  and the man who cannot hear.   It's for the man who has no voice, and for the man with plenty of one.  
Step right up, step right up! To the most scariest, craziest, dangerous Rollercoaster you've ever experienced: LIFE! What makes it so scary? NO SAFETY BELTS! But wait, there's more!
The TV told me I was inadequate, So I am. My phone told me to share my thoughts, So I did. My computer told me to stay inside, So here I sit. My music told me that rebelling was fun, So I tried.
I write to prove wrong those who doubt my intellectual abilities without having to use my physical     voice. In the end there are some words that should be left unsaid.
My hands can belt out all the words I wouldn't even dare whisper stanza upon stanza filled with feelings, allowing emotions to gasp for breath after being under so long beneath the tongue, beneath the skin
So these words messy messy words get combobbled in my head. Screwed around with tossing and turning like they're on a high seas adventure of epic porportions.  And some can't hold on 
                                                                      I write because I write. It’s who I am. I have loved rhymes and words since I was born.
My eye see critics all around me. So, I stay hidden safe in my notebook where eyes can not see me. My words are safely  locked away, the words I wish I could say. Anxiety... A curse to your life. Fear of the outside looking inside.
They wonder what goes on, can't see, even with glasses, thoughts of what I can and can't be, preach to be free from the masses.
You asked me why I write-- poems Why I write poems. Poems are free                                             unbound
I'm rocking in my rocking chair. I'm rocking here and there,I'm looking out my window wondering what is out there.Oh my, it’s my ex-boyfriend; he got another girlfriend,
It is hard to say with my voice,  putting pen to paper just makes my feelings easier, easier to understand,  easier to communicate with others if they read what I have written. Words that show how happy I am,
I write in this old composition notebook... pouring heart and mind into the pages Letting the pen do the talking that I can't bring myself to say Freeing the spirits trapped inside me, weighing me down
I write to express how I feel to let what is in my mind and heart out
  At first glance, one might question, “Why bother keeping such a book?” I’ll tell you why- This book is special.   From its leather bound cage, That still holds the scent-
I write to convey feelings, of many different kinds.To expose the world and all it's wonder, to all of the curious minds.                                                                                                                              
Oh, the day, the day today  Let my worries wash away Let us write about another day Without the stress of yesterday
A tree.           A rock. A laugh.            A smile. So ordinary, and yet so charged With meaning, breathing depth and life and pain. I look.          I gaze. I blink.
Why do I write poetry? To express myself.   It's an escape, an adventure, a looking glass into my life.   I never truly knew who I was... until I picked up a pencil and paper..  
  My mouth padlocked by the expectations of the world But my hands running care free When I talk, not a sound came out Yet I could scream so loud onto paper Why was it that I couldn’t speak?
I write because I can, I write because in the consitituion it states, "Congress shall make no law abridging the freedom of speech", I write because the most powerful inborn tool is speech, your words.
I am me, untamed; am I untranslatable? No, not yet;anyone who has come to go or has yet to, why then question our differences too,then leave it be or take it otherwise!
I write for the troubled young boys and girls With shattered dreams And broken homes   Those who depend on the streets to raise them Guns to train them And Friends to tame them  
Standing on the edge Looking down into the swirling abyss below That could be my watery grave Just a quick step forward And it would all be over Leaning forward Thoughts flooding in
Sadness drowning me into the depths of the ocean as the sun glistens above me. The white clouds peacefully floating in the air while the Blue Jays dance with them. Now I grasp pain and misery. If I could learn to fly I would never return here.
I never thought much of my poems The silly little things I would scribble in my notebook during class While my Calc teacher would give me numbers to ponder My mind would always stray to words
I write to speak the words that my mouth won't let me say I write to reveal the goddess hiding in my soul today I write to release the hurt caused to me by those around I write so I don't cry
When or why did it start? I cannot say. The words have always flowed so naturally From pencil to paper so much smoother Than from mind to mouth and so it is That I write. It is not a choice.
A writer thinks differently. Sometimes we think so loud, our brains are like thunderous, dark, and heavy clouds. Sometimes we think so quiet, we think of silence. A writer must always think,
  How can one not create When devastation lies In the heart The mind When one’s thoughts are ravaged By oneself Inconsolable If it is to be an endless stream Is it not best to
A poem is food for the soul, on paper or spoken. It can make you smile,  mend a heart that's broken. Some poems rhyme, some poems do not. This particular poem is a lesson taught.
The pale bud dances in the dark  Swaying to the beat of the wind
Stories take you places. Everyone knows that. I learned it so early that Time-Outs became playtime.   Bits and pieces fall together. Stick onto each other A glob of ideas
                                                                Shall I Compare Thee   Shall I compare thee to a bright star. Thou art more beautiful and more bright.
Not writing is like not being able to be heard. Not writing is never being listened to. Not writing is trying to scream underwater. Not writing is standing on a stage but being invisible.
Can we write a story That started at birth Can we carry a notebook While crossing the earth   Can we tell tales that stir us With wonder and laughter And erase the tears
                                         Poetry has been my outlet , my first love, and my sense of expression
Sometimes when I’m alone, I like to pretend poetry is still one- dimensional The all-inclusive “thou art” and “twas” statements of poetry Are still neatly folded in the pages of hearts around those who write Not write Live for the relief and relea
I write to breathe better And to see more clearly. I write in the hope that Someone is gonna hear me.   My hand just yearns to move Across an untouched page, Like a bird wishes to
I’ve been listening to a lot ofSpoken word, lately.Been losing myself in the heartbeatsOf fellow writers, much stronger than me.Who hoist themselves up, in frontOf a crowd full of people and spill
  Private thoughts turn to expression Releasing opinion of a bystander Making a connection between this world and yourself Standing anonymously. You think of what you see and Rush to put it on paper
Writing, Isn't just simply putting something on a piece of paper, it's a power that everyone is given. The power to be able to express yourself, in your own way.
My ink flows like the surface of our ocean-front views,I make waves when my mind surfs but will this make the news?My aim is at our built-up walls of sanity.We mask the truths of this world but I welcome us to reality.
Every time I look around I see you and me Standing tall and proud This Country the land of the free and home of the brave Soldiers fight day and night, so we can be free Where else where you rather be
I wallow in my room What looks to be quite mere Like a rose my mind blooms And an audience appears People I would like to meet And all who I adore All applauding for me Behind my closed door
The complexities of chemistry,  seeing Spanish in written form, music falling into a beautiful structure- all are engaging but none of them compare to the beauty found in the English language.
  Sometimes i Press an ear to the ceiling and listen for a voice; the voice. No one speaks. Nothing changes. I remain un-phased. solitary in a room of one's own,
I write for the sake of expression. To put myself at peace. Because while I write, my pen, it dances out my speech. Such elegance is rare in ordinary words. I like creating beauty for the rest of the world. I write for future reference.
I am a poet this is true this is why i write this little poem for you. I write for the freedom for my mind can escape and create a new world in very few words. I write to realese so that when im in pain my heart can be at ease.
To any given person the black or blue ballpoint pen, varying in color with my mercurial temperament, hidden within my backpack might seem insignificant, amateur even, but not through my eyes.
I write, therefore I am free free to be me i live in a country  with freedom of expression and  I choose to use it. I need no therapy sessions,  write my own questions
-I live a new life now, its with Christ now, no matter how my background went down, my intent now is to live alright now, the wrongs that i write down, insight to fight the wrong so they live right now, im talking right now, im talking bout the ki
in second grade my librarian wrapped vines of fingers to grow over my shoulder and lead me to a section designated for fifth grade and up     glittering titles
Growing up with a father,Blinded by his own pain,I became the parent;His shelter from constant rain.Dried up his tears,Floods only became clouds.I couldn't help him like I wanted.I let him down.
The world is constantly changingalways unstable.
My mind contains a world of its own.   I live among things natural, familiar and known Yet yearn for those lands of magic that I must leave With those gateways to fairies, witches, and miracles
Poetry is the plug  to my outlet. It completes my circuit. Energy whirrs within me,  Waiting to have release.   Between us, there is tension, this spark.
What brought me here? To this blank page where words come to life.   You ask me why I write, why my mind is drawn to type about what makes me turn a question
Sometimes, things are bad for me, age has nothing to do emotions are real, very real. strong enough to guide me to the bathroom where I sit contemplating the very nerve of my exsistance. I don't need to live.
I write for you. I write for me. I write for everyone.  Hundreds of thoughts run through my mind, Some bad some kind, But I write both down to save my peace of mind. I write to remeber the good times,
  Writing is the calm after the storm  The rant after the fight  The memories after the moment  The shoulder that I cry on    It's an escape from reality 
I write,  To hear the crashing of the stormy sea Against a rocky shore To capture the sound and the power Of nature's majestic, defeaning roar  I write, To feel the ecstasy Of moments with loved ones shared To joyful times I give these lines Of ha
(poems go here) I write to inform you as the world comforms you they flaunt the flashy cars and diamond rings but they dont tell you what they do to get these things used to sell the American Dream
Creation. The Simple  Joy In creating  something of  your  very own. Mine.  My words,  What I say, flows across the page. Like blood from  wounds
My pen to paper is beautiful As lines turn to curves, and brings beautiful life To simple words For me they tell a myriad of stories From troubling circumstance To some of glory  
Facing Life's problems through my paper and pen. Overcoming the obstacles that I produce from within. Once being a lonely soul, making friends with my words. Life's a journey; I'm on a quest to find my pot of gold.
The people who are reading this might be wondering why I write People don’t see me as a poet, But I still like to try.   I’ve written quite a few silly poems at the amusement of my friends.
Childhood dreams from the soul before p.t.s.d had swallowed me whole, going to save the world from itself, but now I can't even save me myself. After 'he' had robbed me of my life,
Slowly fading, soaking into the dark dim wall That once held the ingredients to aid mankind. You realize: everything was for nothing. No time. It’s all an illusion.
London Bridge is falling down I speak fire from my bones I bleed hot ice from my eyes   The bridge is dead I am alive I bleed blue ink   From my eyes I see From my ears I hear
The "Once Upon a Time"s and "the Last Week I"s never really seemed like much When such a better way existed To tell a story.   And when I took into account all that I knew about 
The hood will be the death of you. teens trying to be top man on the block but not trying to be to man of the class. See I'm really trying to do good and get an education, but all these gun shots and drugs are disrupting my concentration .
Dissipate my yellowed face, Flood the scathing valleys underneath, Take away this scab. Can you scrub promise into this skin? With my eyes sealed, I’ve decided to inhale spring water.
  You sicken me that time in my past, when you played with me like I was a puppet a show for all of hell
Hush this innocent sleeping voice, as mother rocks u to the sweet and calming timber of her song. A teddy bear sleeping in a corner will dance the light in the room, give u a plump little kiss.
Don't do it because I need to Don't do it because I suppose to I do it because I want to Writing is a passion; No type of skill; No type of fashion Its a style; A style to speak truth A reality check for some of our youth It drives us kind of craz
A jumble of confusion, dreams, and people. Thrown into my world as I repeatingly starve for words.   I toss these words bleached with emotion into heavy waters.  
A poem is very much like a person. A poem can express happiness or it can express sadness. A poem can be quick or it can be slow. But however you look at it, each person can relate in their own way.
I sing because He gave me strings. I breathe because He gave me wind. I wish it was Him when the telephone rings. He is real, He's not just a facebook trend. He is always there even when you can't feel Him.
I write for the sake of a generation lost in their own wandering. I write for the purpose of humoring my own pondering. What am I? Why am I here? Where is my voice?
Should something so truthful need fail? Does one live with prospect and ambition? As the immortal sun should burn bright, and as the moon should light my way. These feelings, these fears I have.
Writing is about the fluidity you have as a writer, as a storyteller. You have to pick and choose the words you use. Craft them to your will. Make them paint a picture.    Poetry is a very pure form of 
It is dawn and the blistering and bright sun has yet to grace me with its presence…. Which will remind me of all of the things I still have yet to accomplish today.
In times of trouble the river flows beside me Comforts me, soothes me Leads me to exicting places   The river carries words and fits them together in little crevices by the rocks
Writing is like love with words. It is how an orchestra speaks. Writing can pierce the heart like swords. Or it can pierce the ears like infants shrieks. Writing is many things all in one. You can give someone joy or make them cry.
Don't write to impress, write to understand. Write by what you feel, not by what you want others to think when it's placed in their hand. Your heart, your soul, you being should be your words in writing,
Inside my soul it cries and wails, I keep it trapped, for the key is mine. Until the cage, from my own hands, at long last falls and fails. Nobody can comprehend that museful flower,
How wonderous an entity you are. I only wish to share you with the world and proclaim my undying affections.   Your powers are infinite. Your purpose is true. I am but an instrument to you,
She lies awake at night The ceiling her best friend Her thoughts race in fright At no point do they end She's never sure about what she sees Always wondering if her head is playing tricks
We all do it for a reason, This little thing people call writing, Some for buisness, Others for social, Some just want to be recognized, Others just want money, But we all have our reasons,
I was introduced to poetry at a young age it seemed to soothe me when I was in a rage it helped me get through those tough days it helps me explain rather than sorrow in pain
The dagger thatyou jolted into my heart is not going to be stuck inside your ice cold soul Every last drop of love left rains down with the blood dripping from the wound
Why do I write?It is really simplePoetry is my lightIn this dark world we call existence Hardships plague me everydayIt's so hard to bearBut when I writeIt all goes away
The world we live in today is like a big game of follow the leader Everyone wants to portray the things that they seeon T.V. Me?  Well I just want to be me Just because the rapper in the video has money an cars
Poetry is a release of stress, an outlet of self expression.  It gives a voice to the soft spoken, and teaches wise lessons. Those who are lost and feel abandoned take shelter in its arms.
What poetry means to me? That’s what you ask? Tis a question I can’t answer so fast To respond, my thoughts have to go way back It starts in 7th grade, a time and place I felt misunderstood
Before ink spat from my pen... It was like a life with no love,a heartbeat with no blood,yet it came to me slapping!Yelling!Beating!Tearing my ears open with suchfreedom.
  I bypass clichés and utilize trite statements sing out verbs and describe adjectives  this is my method amidst the madness with a world of everything I refuse to feel like nothing
In my vivid imagination I see nothing left but black, The colors and bright lights I saw have faded out at last Like every heart broken girl, I've lost what I had loved,
What am Iwithout poetry?~~~~A leafbeen loosedfrom it's branch?Flowing freelyand never ableto return home.~~~~A riverclogged upby a dam?Struggling hard
The wild outburst of love Led me to times where I endlessly write It was an urge to bring out the emotions That I continuously chose to fight L-o-v-e, a blessing or heartbreak, we all may not retain
When I was in the first grade,   I learned how to spell   I got 2nd place in the class spelling bee   Everyone thought I did really well     When I was in the 2nd grade,  
I see the world through black and white, Like newspapers that now seem to age. Technology slowly dims the average book light, And most forget the first stage, from where it all came.
Poetry, defines me, Literary work in which special intensity, Is given to the expression of feelings and ideaology, Who knew the Poets Me, Poetry, defines me, A way to see clearly,
A voice that echoes infinitely  A few words to conquer the worlds emotional conundrum An image to paint without movement A story to tell with no words spoken Ad infinitum of possibilities 
Poetry is the new way of life And culture is now the virtue It speaks for those who cannot speak Hypothetically But typically It targets the ones who perfom to a specific beat. Poetry is love
I was born of poetry The daughter of Metaphor and Simile God fashioned Each valve, each vein, each artery as a string in my fabric--poetic artistry. Weaving through my body leading to my heart
I was lost But now I am found I was weak But now I am strong I never knew who "me" was Until I found "me" written all over my notebooks Written all over me.
Roaming down the dark halls, Searching for something, For someone. Their thoughts intertwined with my own, I have to find them. I need to find them.   My pulse is racing, my breath is catching,
The reason I do things is just because. The reason the ink stains are on my cover are because... Some things just cant be explained. Yet my poems can. I write because it's what loves me.
Poetry is a gatewayThe cliché strikes againBut why is a break in a wall what poetry has becomeHumans are not wallsWe are living, breathing soulsWith the ability for loveFor heartbreakAnd for repair
Smash the typewriter over your head:the advice I'd give you in pre-computer times,which neither of us were alive foranyway.
I write poetry.  Poetry is emotion. Poetry is honest. Poetry is simple. A place i can be myself.   I write poetry to be free. To express myself in ways talking can't.
I write to express, I've never truly cared about impression. I write to not dissappoint, Too many have already invested in my personal success and, I owe it to them to at least try to do unlike the rest,
Why do i write? To let people know the pain that swirls in my heart Because my enemies  like to be mean, the reason for my pain, my start Why do i write? Because no one ever hears my voice in a crowded space
Ever had a night terror that festers your mind, captivates your thoughts and completely blows your mind?  I write to relinquish these dreams.  As a slave to suffering, pain and sorrow, I write to forget, until tomorrow. 
Poetry is a most wonderful way to express   the thoughts that build inside of me.  I need to get them off my chest!   The release of all my feelings will surely flow   in beautiful melodious words.
Poetry is my everything, It is the air I breath, It is the blood that flows through my viens, Without it, My heart wont beat, My brain would over heat, It keeps my stable,
Let me tell you about an unrequited love in me It is everything but quiet     it is demanding and begs for my time, day and night Sometimes we are sleepless, dancing in between sheets of
To express a mind, a mind unspoken, in words and thoughts combined as poems. To realize, to understand as I write in emotions,  To show words have meaning to the soul it's devotion,
Gather the pen and paper.   Reminisce for a bit.   Jot down what’s on your mind-   Write down everything you’d like to admit.      
Poetry is the water that keeps us alive that nurtures and ecourages us To say what need to say And to see the beauty in world that we are blessed to live in But not all beauty is the same
The Words drip. . . onto the page like Candle Wax effortlessly flowing from an endlessly burning wick. The flame of a soul too full to keep all inside and so it drips. drips. drips. . .
A quiet child with nothing to say As Mommy and Daddy were going in separate ways. Caught in between with her big sister. A child a little too young to have a stony heart.
When I was younger, I recieved a guitar for christmas. It sat in my room for a while collectig dust.  One day I felt inclined to pick it and strum those particles away. 
Walking through life, Dealing with people with up-turned noses, With their pants too low, With their attitudes hanging lower than their earrings, and their riches hanging from their finger tips.
Poetry is a river that calms the soul. Poetry is rhyme told and told. It moves me when I am down, to places upon higher grounds. "Poetry" the name, even has a soothing sound, like a river, it calms me down.
Poetry is no hobby.It is no leisure; no pastime.For these would implythat the choice was mineto thread with such absurd carethese words which are laidupon my metered heart.
Eat my words you beast of paper, clawing for truth and lies Soak up my tears and my smiles, my heartache and my giggles A half-formed poem a finespun respite for
I write, Because my hands are spider webs of words That need to be weaved on paper Like an artists’ paint Needs to be swirled around the canvas. I write because someone Out there Needs to know
To Flirt, Lust And To Bliss Can Start with One Exotic kiss A Jump Start To A Love Of Forever Charges Your Heart To Power Up Together Holding Hands And Never Letting Go
Why I write A question only few can answer I write to be free I write to express I write to unleash Not just words on a paper But a story to be told Why I write Simply because I'm me
When words become too hard to speak for others to hear, to understand, I write my thoughts into a book to lessen the weight that drives my hand I write in that book which no one sees to comprehend and to record
Upon my junior year, then was my life first moved by words which taught there's more to hear within than I had ever known. So clear had they become that I could feel the strife
A poem for the lack of self assurance A poem for the girl who doesn’t always have it together A poem for the hard times, filled with words we all need to hear A form of expression for the girl with the quiet voice.
Why does the sun rise in the early morning while on the other side sets at the end of the day? Why does one man chose to take a road while the other goes the other way?
You ask me why I write. Well, I don’t have a complex answer. I never experienced any real trauma or disaster That inspires me to put it on paper. Or type it out in Microsoft Word, whichever I prefer
A pen to paper. That's all it takes for the words to flow. That pen, as it hits the paper, brings a sigh of relief.
I sit, And bit, The tip, Of my pen, I feel rushed, Its exciting, here it comes again, I think, And link, The sync, Of my words, I feel the rhythm, Its melodic, It has to be heard, I write, And cite, The fight, Of my mind, I feel empowered its clev
Alone, sheltered, shut in My days grew long and tired Until solace found in brand new worlds And freedom When I write the words take shape They sprout from me like wings I discover new ways to travel
(poems go here) Why do I write? My writing is who I am, who I was and who I am to be. All of my writing no matter what it reflects, Reveals a real, true and inner piece of me. People know my name, not my story,
I can describe a world with dictionary, which encompass an island of words that are very far away yet so real as they appear, On the paper I see in front.
You can’t make people be the composition notebooks or fast food napkins for you to ink with your tribulations, triumphs, and tittering.
My voice is little but wants to be loud It screams from the stage but expects to be drowned. The sea is too massive for my voice to sail. My voice sighs when it’s yearning to wail.
Rhythm, beat, meter, rules. Why are poems dictated by schools? If it is my expression, why am I graded? It is, as if, my mind was raided.
Today I am feeling heartbeats in the earth beneath me, raising rubble with each thump. Pressing thumbs against against against the lips of liars only spreads suppression through their veins.
I always let myself down Always stop myself from getting what I want or what I need Maybe it's a lack of self-confidence There is always doubt in the back of my mind about what I am capable of Don’t know where it comes from, it’s been by my side
Why I write when, how, what, and to whom do I write To write what some may consider wrong or right I live to write day and night to lift my spirits and feel alright
My heart over whelmed with emotions, My mind flooded with thoughts. I didn't know how to voice them, So behind my lips words were constantly fought. Tried to voice these emotions in so many ways,
What whisper though the field lily and lilac hush twixt Spring and Summer am I to listen to? And will it hear me too?
Bursting at the seams with soul Limitless, feverish in its cage The carnal, vigorous life untold Impossible to assuage.
My energy is real For it is all that I can feel And The desire to attract the perfect words Fills the gaps that may lack The ability to B r e a t h e …Deep within me…
My energy is real For it is all that I can feel And The desire to attract the perfect words Fills the gaps that may lack The ability to B r e a t h e …Deep within me…
Why I Write: I write because words can’t be unwritten. I write because behind the words I write I see a picture, a world; the world from which they came.
A place to fall apart, Poetry allows for self-expression. A prayer for a mended heart, Poetry can save someone from depression. A person to rely on, Poetry is a best friend.
I write for recognition, Then throw anonymous behind it. I write for expression, Then edit the words that I really mean. I write to stop thinking, Then mumble about word choice. I write to feel better,
To write down a word gives me such a rush and when read aloud makes the audience hush I write for pleasure for the release of my pain what I write is treasure under my own name
Words are art Art is meaning Cold and gloomy outside doesn't matter when you have words at your finger tips The expression of a lifetime filled in just a few stanzas
Roses are red And violets are blue Dammit though, I ain’t got a clue why I sit here in class And I listen to Teach as my hand keeps itching And my mind keeps reach- Ing for words
I Write I write to feel. I write to know. I write because I have somewhere to go. I write because I have something to say. I write to make my demons go away. I write to know that I am alive.
I have always had a love for singing And no I do not sing because I can sing Because honestly I cannot.. Yet I sing anyways Because deep down inside of me There is a part of me that comes alive when I sing
I write to slay the monsters Or the monster of a blank page. I write to keep the fear away To kill the loneliness, time, boredom. I write to free my soul, to pour my heart out
Sometimes people ask why I write' Well, through ink i can give sight Sight to what lives inside my mind They can see intentions true and kind The pen becomes my voice Its as if i have no choice
You may believe everything is perfect To me its just another smile to put on One struggle to the next is happening fast And it all started when I was eight.
Fingers shaking, Lips quivering, Pulse racing, Feet tapping, Thoughts pounding: begging to be set free. But I don’t know how. How do I let such thoughts, such ideas, that I have stuck in my head out?
I write because nothing listens to me like a blank, white page. I write because nothing says what I have always need to say Like each curvature and smooth line of a candid black pen.
I was always confuse....lost....naïve.....dumb. I was always the girl to get it last. Looking back, I was blinded by love. I reached for the stars& hold onto the broken ones.
Standing there alone with no one I can speak to. Standing there alone, with nowhere to receive any advices. They think I'm strong as God and smart as Frankenstein, but whoa they are wrong.
Life is tumbling, spinning, whirling out of control like my thoughts are a tornado spun by someone else’s hands and it is put on display so others can replay the awesome tragedy for their own awful pleasure
“Why do I write?” A question, many times, I’ve asked myself But I could never find the words to explain So the Question went back on the shelf
It's like the rain that falls, The summer that calls. The wind in my hair, Caring about this the most. To do so is an honor, a privilege, a right. I write to breath, to live, to fight.
Writing, my life Helps me concentrate, Helps me find my way. Writing stories, it’s what I do Fiction, non, horror, sci-fi It came easy. My escape. My own personal hell.
I recall being in grade school sitting at my desk while my teacher read these words to me, they were cool flowing and piecing together so well, certainly not a mess
As a dancer, my dance teacher created this motto of some sorts On the back of our dance t-shirts it read "Why do I dance? Why do you breath?"
I don’t wanna write but I feel something burning within me More like a need to write but as my fingers prance around keyboard nothing comes to mind. I should let my fingers do what my mind cant figure to say but
Why I write, I'm sitting here trying to think why I write and less and less keeps coming to my mind as I type, But see one thing I know for sure is that poetry is somewhat of a cure
Uncommon career path. More passion than anything else. Doubts and questions disappear when the pen meets the paper. Endless thoughts never ending ideas. Limitless passion.
Why do I write? I write to think. I have all these thought going through my mind At 100 miles an hour. When I write, I can't write fast enough When I write, I write to feel.
I'm busy. But the words are begging to be free. I'm tired, But the emotions won't leave me. I know I must give vent somehow. I sit. The writing begins, now.
What once was three-fifths is now one whole. What was once whipped and chained lives in my soul. I write because I can.
They never saw it coming, there was just the quiet before the storm. A call was made to their home, their mother answered the phone. Then the emotional storm started.
When the sky is blue or gloomy or see through I see through to the truth and the moon when I zoom Eyes big like an owl as I'm prowling about With my pen in my hand I am never without
(poems go here) My pen sculpts a future Potential to work and to enjoy with one job My pen sculpts a dream Hope of proving my father wrong that writing is dead
GIVE ME A BREAK! I’m kinda new to this, But I see how great your love truly is. I also see a crazy mess, And it’s bringing me distress. Kindness obsolete; And sometimes kept descrete,
Chains Chains Chains Chains Call for a need of change Born free Every child learns how to wear the manacles How to chain their minds to someone else's paradigm How to live with bent backs
why do I write? well its not for the money me with out writings like a bee without honey I write for my heart I write to stay sane I write to show my feelings and capture my pain.
You ask me why I like to write. The answer isn't always black or white.
Who am I? Because I'm struggling in a way that I don't understand, And I'm living in a world that relationships So easily become a misconception of a wholesome bond. I have this fleeting heart making me incapable.
I write to forget all those memories from yesterday that tie me down today. Like the time I fell from my bicycle, foolishly believing that the ground will rise to catch me.
A soul crushed beneath the weight of life Wings heavy with burdens Beating frustrations within a cage of flesh With labored breath and nowhere to turn Life a gaping hole, spilling across time The blood seeping
There was nothing more between us But some pleasant conversation Though when you looked right at me My heart had palpitations My heart had opened up For love (to come from you)
I write because I feel it Because I need it Because is me I try to express my opinion in a better way I write because is the only way to scream my thoughts out loud and be heard
I Belong to the wind I belong to the edges I belong to nobody and still I am trapped in his most deepest thoughts in his most pure sighs, in each of his heartbeats without wanting to get out.
When i speak the words that ignite a fire in my head a tidal wave a tsunami a hurricane a rumbling earth quake of what i feel must be heard just dont come out correctly stuttering and tripping
On a mid day in April, you have made a decision, A decision to leave your country for my education. Tearful goodbyes and hopefully minds, Soon to be shaken by the terrible kinds Of difficulties and obstacles
How bizarre is it for one To sit on their hardwood bedroom floor, black ink bleeding from their pen onto lined college ruled paper? She never liked words, she never liked reading, and books were her ennui.
(poems go here) I write because I must, it is my outlet of choice. Pen to paper I vent, writing has become my voice.
There is something in the words. Something that changes minds, That can unite different kinds. Something that creates gods.
I started writing Because words are the channels of my emotions Happy, sad Both can be written down equally
I can't say when But I started to write poetry To me poetry starts as a feeling To me it’s important It gives me a safe way to express myself Even if I can’t say it out loud I can write it
so many voyaged and traveled, in search of immortality i beat Ponce de Leon and the rest, by discovering my hobby. when i write i leave ink on a paper and a mark on the world
(poems go here) When you are writing, you are painting a picture Making the words in your head more than a whisper Putting a scene in someone's head Saying things formerly left unsaid
As a young girl I had always felt That something was seriously missing From this place I lived called "The Bible Belt." The people spoke, hissing; And some insult was always dealt
It's a nonstop journey Through the mind When pen touches paper Limitless thoughts
I write to get away From the stress of my life everyday When the anxiety gets to be too much Pen and paper become my crutch
I write for the brain flow the flow of emotions as they tumble out wanting to be contained like a rain cloud condensation but it has to rain it's my savior my liqiud sunshine
I hold the thunderheads in my palms like secrets, and squeeze the rain through my fingers like flowing tears. The world- motion and darkness and the rising sun- it screams around my heart,
Why do I write?  Because words are so easily expressed without further explanation, yes some words can stand alone.  See, words can be enlightened to the soul; words can also easily curse someone’s life.
I write out of sadness and loss of self. Nose running, eyes overflowing, heart pounding; An overwhelming feeling of despair; A room full of treasured, old memories; Good times fading, head spinning;
I come alive when I write A pen in hand a universe to create Characters wait in frozen time I give them life with each new page A boy A girl A meet cute waiting for me to write them in to existence
When I was a kid I would constantly dream About how I wanted my life to be But I was afraid that I might lose my life to mediocrity I feared not being able sustain my concentration
Without pen and paper And an ongoing flow of words, I am nothing. To find beauty in plain words, Syllables that turn ordinary thought into beauty Is something extraordinary.
why do I write? well, why do birds fly? why do fish swim? not just because it's an essential method of transportation. because its an escape an escape from the deadly locks of their predators
If it weren't for this pen you probably wouldn't even know my name. It's saved my life so many times When I thought no one was listening On those days when I felt like the world was bearing down on my shoulders
I write because I feel it deep in my bones I write because there's a spirit that nobody knows I write to help the helpless I write because my stomach becomes less tense
Shall I compare these tears to a wet day Or use my quiet words, and loud thoughts, to speak In tongues and rot Ambiguity and Entertainment Living in the Moment Send a message to the public
Composition and a ball point pen The mind is an AK-47. 40 eight. Forty-nine. Depends on the lines And if one wants to rhyme You don’t have to, but… Wait… Off topic Thoughts locked. Loaded. Ready
I write for inspiration I write for a better future I write for hope I write for the souls who can't see a better tomorrow for themselves Like I once was
Why I write is the question that’s been asked, Which I shall answer like poets in the past There are so many reasons I don’t know where to begin Other than I love the felling og the pen
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