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Running running running and running my mind is always running. Yet I stand almost still. Tap tap tap my foot won't stop tapping against the floor. What was my last thought? Where am I?
Figment and The Writer   A young writer looked down With a frown and a sigh than Suddenly with a push and a pull The words leaped up as the main character
The meanest trick I ever knew Was the one you nor I would ever do. I saw a Grugnax try to do it, And there was nothing funny to it.  
With lifted feet, hands still, I am ready to go downhill. Swifter and then more swift, Till my heart with a mighty lift Makes me laugh and then cry,
I was reading a sad poem that a poetess wrote She poetized her moving true to life story very well I had to stop reading in the middle of the poem And I read slowly from the beginning again .
A soul met another soul.. There is a vibe, in mind & body whole.. A bright smile after decades... I begin to come out of the darker shades..,,
Today is frozen in blue and white we live to stall upon a blank page This picture, now a photograph In black and white
The art of writing cannot be done without first mastering the art of reading.   
The art of writing cannot be done without first mastering the art of reading.   
To have readers, one must have been and always be a reader.
To have readers, one must have been and always be a reader.
You want to know my secret power? I am an author.I can make the world laugh, or I can make the world cry.I can bring the world to the edge of its seat, then throw it to its knees.
Weauthors        are like aMagicians.       You see only                 what we put on        the page in frontof you, absorbed in that single 
As my Pen runs out of Ink, I'm forced to stare, to stop and think.    This Pen that flitters, jumps and dances; over page it skitters, prances This Pen that colors, draws, and spells: This Pen, which over wording swells.
When I was little I wanted to work with wordsI wanted my voice to be heard Amidst the noise of all the others in the worldI wanted to construct skyscrapers built of verbs, Towering miles above the earthBut unlike babylon, my goal was never heaven 
Dear Author, Your book brings me joy and this isn't just a ploy. It is by far the best and I am utterly impressed. I would like to thank you for making these characters.
Fresh,a slip of tonguean adolescent impulse.Later he will learn notto say what he means,when he dims to mellow.
He pretended he believed her She did the same Reciprocating impulses push away, then suddenly contract.   When two worlds collide new stars are birthed.   In the ashes of a post explosion
The earth quakes in thunder claps a hapless dressing for a proud sun melting clouds enough for rain.   One is born, another dies a constant neverland of never come again.  
There are no great hills in Kenilworth where grassy girls give fruitful birth born from men of stately girth   I have been to Kenilworth I have been to far worse and back again upon a shore
Last night I saw you in a neon dream all lit up in a throw back scene the streets were wet in reflective haze where the truth is shadowed by the fire's blaze.  
We talked of prized cheese as if cheese was our master in the great disaster of us,   Then mind spent, W(H)INE spent on dreams only a fool would leave behind we passed our own tests on our own
It was as much a hinder as a clatter a soft splatter of broken love delicious  melted caramel on creamy lips of summer fog.   I do not forget her of hers a fine progression of my past;
We were only jokingWhen we sat beneath the weeping willowThe soft hairs of your armsElectrocuting my sensesOur conversation went onIn silence
In the piercing heatof the unfolding daywe set sails for Avalon. Guided by winds wetested our fate, provingit was fragile in thedesperate side-by-sideof our changing lives.
Some came to satisfy their queer attractionto be close to something deadthat draws such loud attention
Her eyes are the color green you can't describe without a viewThey soul speak of December leaning towards August's blue.The girl, the choice, the time, oh it must be forty years.
I crawled deep inside myself sand crabbing my way to a deep security there were no stars to gaze
Last I saw you we were in the north woods guitars in hand searching for that place in the music where harmony resides traveling down the highway of notes and chords from opposite directions 
Her ways that wet the windin cloud drips close to clandestineraindrops hidden in the grays of ghostswhere broken-hearted loversplayed hollow games of what ifor, worse what if NOT?
They quarter-toned their deliveranceagenda based and ill conceivedin a quiet corner there was always eyeslooking at me smilingthe quiet ones were wise.
They are confined in canyons of chaoswriting crayon graffiti in the dark corners of restless mindshither too, and hither from, come hither to a have not,a has been, a has to have, a half a man,always incomplete
We are like cans of soupcollecting dust in a discarded martonce, when the day was sharpour pencils pushed the poembeyond a feeble flight of emotioninto the grand promise of new suns
Tidal changes of this floating heartwhen to stop, when to start?My pulse expands my waking mind.
She was lightheartedlike a feather in soft windsI was playing throw and catchwith girls still growing breasts.
Mathaya,   I, your author, write To encourage you for the Coming days ahead.   My main character Is you; you’ll learn hard lessons. You’ll come through each one.  
Are you down  For some  Of those haters hating Down for  Making thousands of haters That are just disguised as fans Who won't admit they like your shi* They're to busy Wanting to be you
Since I was a little girl, I dreamed of being a ballerina.   And now look at me: Caught up in this twisted dance for fools.   I wished for nothing more than to have stage,
Today I saw you’re the books your favorite author wrote. I still have all those books you gave me sitting in a pile under a small blue table that you helped me build one day when my parents weren’t home.
5 years ago, when I first told people that I was a singer-songwriter, the first phrase they could think of to say was: Oh, so you write poetry.  
it was like clay: a keyboard. molded everything she wanted to say. when she was bored had a desire to record needed a sword or a place to explore poems were that medium.
Everyone needs a helping handFor the heart and soul. I talk, listen, and most of all,I care about you. Don't be afraid, you can tell me,And I promise I won't tell.
Wisdom in each droplet like a sea of broken roads with each forgotten memory to lighten the weight of loads . For every breath forsaken and every tear forgiven
A cloud so unreliableto provide such decent shadethough many stop to watch themthey're perfect, they're God made..They're made of wispy waterso white up in the skycollections of lovely ice
The air currents swirled like water in the ocean, swift and calming. . The air reminded me of fall, though life blossomed like spring, new and refreshing. . A garden green,
I choose to be meIn a world where others disguise who they truly areLiving a facade to hide any imperfections or scarsPressured to live their life just like everyone else
I have many universes in my hands They go beyond the limitations of this concrete world My hands instead hold countless worlds crafted by graphite and sweat
I’m seated in a comfy chair, he’s running his fingers through my hair, I’m thinking aloud as I write,
The page screams out A  faintly blinking blank screen in front Of the pale face of the writer.     She stares with list Disappointment at her failure to subsist on the great words of those
Cry your final tears now,don't hold it in For tomorrow holds another chance to live again Keep your head held high in confidence and pride Just let go, relax, enjoy the ride Things will pan out in the end
#NoFilter Scholarship Slam
  Now starting back from when I was a young child, I endure
My hair, long and brown My face, straight and concentrated My body, short and ordinary None of it matters I can get through Whatever life throws at me My strength My desire My dedication
I'm Flawless Not because my skin is clear or my body is perfect  Cause I'm Far from both ..  But  because I love.. I love hard ..  I'm flawless cause my loyalty runs deep 
What is beauty? Everyone has different opinions about beauty. But what is beauty? Beauty can be big, Beauty can be little. Beauty can be light, Beauty can be dark.
#Hi. I'm trying to act like I'm invisible because I know that you can see that I'm not #perfect. But I know that if you could see the real me that is not my blotchy skin or curvy frame, you would be #shocked.
I'm not the best of sons, and it's hard to miss my family when everyday they're part of war. I live with scars that just won't seem to end,  but you know what?  They're my medals and best friend. 
i write and i write but how can i describe the feelings that i have yet to experience with words i can't even begin to know the meaning of?
I can rhyme words without a rhythmbut as soon as I try, I lose the feeling.So I’ve learned to let them flow,let ‘em rolloff my tongue - or in this case my pen -
One day you are going to wake up and notice that you should've tried. You are worth the fight. Stop the Negative as well as start the positive. Vast things happen when you distance yourself from the negative.
when I am feeling down, but not feeling music I get my radio then I tune it,  I throw my hands in the air and wave like I just dont really care.
I anxiously await the day My novel is confirmed to play To invade your minds With my tantalizing words For my characters to wound To uplift, to hurt. For the hours I've spent In silence to toil
I dream of having a voice traveling the world to see the ways of people in other countries live to write about what I come across and the observations I have made  
Words The power to harm and to lift and console.  The wisdom in combining
i am the firstborn cub to my mother and father born to complete what they lost in their own life cycles as a reincarnation sent to redeem the regrets nagging behind their sleeping eyelids.
Writing Just to make a world Writing Even if it doesn't work Writing I want to make it my life Writing No matter what the price But what will happen if this is my job?
I can’ t paint with a brush  that well, But I know how to paint with a pen and an ink well. My words form pictures that pictures themselves couldn’t describe. Your photograph may be worth 1000 words.
As child I was always asked "when you grow up, what do you want to be?" and without a doubt I just knew I wanted to teach english to be exact reading stories excited me
I’m the girl who is always lost in her thoughts The girl who created entire civilizations in her head
To write. To build people word by word, On a piece of paper, Scribbled sentences that form from the mind, To erase pain. To call upon instances in which you have lived life. To give others a chance.
Rooms filled to the brim A child per five sits grim Sitting patiently, waiting for the day The lights will finally dim   The books you read provide no gray No inspiration, only gym
they say talk is cheap, but a hardback novel sells at fourteen ninety-five, so words are worth something.   my bookshelves are weighed down with these words,
A writer dines not on food, but on paper. A writer drinks not wine, but ink. Everyone can become a writer should they have a taste. Words will tumble from their lips and form
What will be when I am gone? I think this question, thinking I’ll go on But for all I know, I could die tomorrow Then, would my loved ones grieve in sorrow?
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
Oh James   I've read your biography Our lives have similarities I am you-you are Me Religion played a role in our lives Namely Christianity At some point we were involved
I was introduced to poetry 7th grade. I started to understand the concept: releasing. I write because it is an outlet for my frustration.
I am bound in new white pages, I am read throughout the ages. I am old and I am new, I am false and I am true. I am past, present, and future, I am modern and old culture. I am the hero and the villain,
So this guy had a problem. More specifically, he had a problem with me and was asking questions about my mentality, trying to make me realize that it's no use being a writer
How doth the little moth Fly high up in the sky? Flitting gently from light to light It seems to find pleasure and delight. How does he fly with so llittle care? Clumsy and such, but STILL doesn't care
I don't want white washed walls or plastered smiles or taking tips or broken dishes crashing my falls I want to be sleep deprived my editor calling me time and time again asking where the next chapter is
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