Creativity
Learn more about other poetry terms
Imagine a place, worries aside, where vast possibilities abide…
Where we reclaim our power, and truly be free.
A day where guiding light beckons the way, deep in the essence of creation’s core. Birthing all life forevermore.
A child’s crayon
bent, worn down
flakey, smooth
she has used it
for all her notebooks
These dehumanized bureaucracies which compose
everyday life , these system of organs devoid of a soul
Not caring if we have names
or separate goals to pursue
School, work, food pantry
Our bodies one day will be viewed instead of computer screens
like the papyrus of the Egyptians or of Sumer
I don't mean in tattoos or as piercings
Or rouge or like eye shadow
One day people will be funny by being
The Grecian muses are dancing in a picture by my face
as I dust around the frame with a featherduster
I have been an unreceptive vessel for the most part. Something stands between inspiration and myself.
The artist was powerless under Stalin
well I am glad that wasn't me being sent
to the forced labor camps
But though there isn't a dictatorship
in america.
Life fights with me, trying to dry up
Art is the portal to heaven or hell
A colorful perception of bliss or horror
Waiting to be narrated or manifested
Tongues longing for emotions flowing with wind of luxurious eve
Yearning glide from caves of creatively unweave and heave
Now I Have To Confess...
That My Creative Process...
Is Causing Me STRESS... !?!
Because I Cannot Sleep Due To Wordplay That Creeps...
Inside of My Head When I’m Laying In Bed And Am Trying To Rest...
There CLEARLY Are... " TWO Pools " ... !!!
The One Where Artists FUEL Creations That Are COOL... !!!
And The ENTERTAINMENT School Where Art Now Gets ABUSED... !!!!
These Days THESE... " Entertainers "...
BEST OF BAD
When life throws rocks at you catch and make sure you hit and Smith the rocks perhaps you could turn it gold.
I apologize
For making half rhymes
It's a habit I can't break no matter how I tries
Hope you pardon me
When you hear me sing
Like a scratchy vinyl record or a gagging geek
I'm so sorry for
THE FUTURE IS BORN
Bury the past behind, live the life of the current moment.
Love the
moment and
cherish the
present time,
can only
hope' for
tomorrow
but is uncertain.
Variety They SAY Is The... " Spice of Life "... !!!
Well They Could Also Say It INSPIRES My Rhymes...
And Helps Me To Write... My Poetry ... !!!!!
I'm Simply A... “ Writer “...
Who Becomes A Freestyler...
From … Time To Time...
Who Kicks Those Rhymes...
That Have Folks Like...
Now If You’re...NOT A Writer...
Let Me Explain To Y’all...
That It’s True That Our World’s...
A Lil’ DIFFERENT To Yours... !!!
Because We Choose To THINK...
About What Y’all... Ignore... !?!
Qatari rain falls only in the winter...
Hailstorm in Spring!With next of kin
Will make ya thinkDeeperProfound Thoughts more present -Homebound Ain't no more sound
Ya Know ....
I Was With Some Poets When THIS Was Said ...
“When it comes to your poems, what defines success ?“
“Good night you two, I love you.
You can stay up,
Just promise me you’ll stay in your room, okay?”
Father said
Inspiration has no particular source.
It appears in everything that surrounds us,
the little things that make us stop for a moment because
there it is again.
That feeling.
Use It For ... " Your Music " ...
Use It For ... " Your Verse " ...
Use It To EXPRESS What Makes You HURT ... !!!
Use It YES ... To Write Poems ...
But DON'T ABUSE It When You Use Your Pen ... !!!
It's Said That … "Old McDonald Had A Farm " …
But What About The Farm Where Words Are Farmed … ?
Through Songs That Charm And Visuals That … " Chart " …
Beauty And Harm ...
Do You Know The Farm I'm Talking About … ?
To be inspired,
is a beautiful thing.
Some find it in flowers,
others in things unseen.
So as I sit here and write down my feelings,
I ask myself this, well what inspires me.
What lays out there
in the deep of the night
with roaring blazes of life and light
masses so big whose dance is so fine
a sweet sound of nothing
silence divine
I realize I've been staring
Sometimes I Write Right Through The Night ... !!!
Until SUNLIGHT ... Retires My Mind ...
I Guess The Darkness Suits My Rhymes ... ?
And The Times I Like To Write ...
If our bodies are laid beneath the earth, when our spirit transcends.
What will I look like in heaven,
when my life ends?
Life is a mystery,
mixed with misunderstood energies,
a fluorescent whirl wind.
Tears of joy start to fade,
As the tears of sorrow overflow for the years I hid you away.
Do You Have ... " Visions " ...
of A ... BETTER Life ...
It takes a hero to live life,A master to love life,And a monster to take life.Ceaselessly pulling myself together, only to have everything unravel,Like twine in a fire,Ashes lost in the wind,Smearing the shore.Carrying my placid regretsThat I hav
Being Creative Helps fuel creative thinkingI am creativeBeing CreativePromotes self-expressionI am creativeBeing CreativeRelieves stressI am creativeBeing CreativeHelps with self-empowermentI am creativeBeing CreativeHelps with the flowI am creati
We’re just enigmas
The stigmas
I don’t understand it
The world, how will I manage
A new generation full of ideas reprimanded
Millennial
Like the brightest of stars
Her hands could create anything
And she chose to unfold
Her beautiful soul
Within spray paints and photographs
you’re staring thoughtfully at the (blank)page in front of you, pencil poised, hovering hesitantlyyour hand still as you consider
·
one sliding foot draws the lines of the melody
the toes curling in passion and fury
the muscles rippling and tensing up the calf
I used to be creative
Then I went to school
I used to play outside
Now the air's too cool
I used to have ambition
Living unrestrained
But now my will's been missing
.
Writer of the present era,
Conceived and raised in the illumination of the gods.
Literary path they showed me,
Never to be them but to seek what they sought.
.
Winter and summer, i lay my lines.
Being in love with you
The poem discovers it’s own words
The art creates new colours
The music plays itself
The dream comes a reality
Every time I look at you
Creativity
Flows from our veins
Whether its art
Whether its poetry
Whatever it might be
It flows through us
In many ways
Whether its bright or dark
There is a place-
A cliff-
That artists tend to go
to explore; to create
And often throw themselves off of
People label it insanity
But wouldn't you, too,
Allow yourself to trip and fall
In the words on Jean Piaget, "The principle goal of education in the schools should be creating men & women who are capable of doing new things, not simply repeating what other generations have done." And for that, our modern-day school system
What do we believe is in the sea?
How can you believe there’s nothing more to see?
A blue so deep no light seeps through
I wish I could see that part too.
Books put together a powerful message
You can find words that make you sound impressive
For me, a book would make my mood happy, or depressing
The book would speak to me in a conveying way
Poetry taught me how to write Poetry
Prose has lots of rules and grammar and punctuation and it’s very cluttered in paragraphs, orderly yet stifling
Poetry has less rules
it’s 2am.
for her
it’s the start of a bottomless pit.
writing
pushes her
into the
deepest recesses of her mind.
The blank page welcomes me,
The pen feeling like home between my fingers.
I savor the moment before the ink begins to flow.
This is the beginning.
Every character I had met,
Why is it that the best muses are love and pain?
Because they are strong.
Why do people feel them so easily?
Poetry, the drug, my glorious escape from the world.
Poetry, the high, my method of free expression.
Poetry, the teacher, how I unearth the mysteries of my complex mind.
Day in and out, we speak of Diversity,
Commend Creativity,
Condemn pure Consistency.
We dream of a world full of Abnormality,
Homosexuality,
When, in Reality,
Dear hands,
Stop shaking stop picking.
I wish you'd be still and
Stop scratching stop flicking.
Listen,
It's easy to paint, they say
It's easy to draw, paint, and sketch without thinking
Thinking about nothing
Nothing that turns into, perhaps
Something?
It's not as easy as you think
Oh, Dear Paper,
Clean as God
Crisp sheet of blinding white
Why must you hurt me, so?
You wink back at me, mockingly
How can an absence of matter provide so much intimidation?
Your pure white eyes glaring at me with utter frustration,
Screaming at me to try, to experiment, to dream
White sheets lay an adventure through my brainCross minded, open sighted lines puncturing while my existence is indicatedWe are the center of our own worldown universeown fight.
Tell me about the time
Where the moon was the only light that earth needed
To guide it’s nocturnal creatures,
Where it’s inhabitants did not rely on the exhausts of human devices
To color the sky;
The sunsets as the night gives birth to the cursed red moon and the ground quakes as the forbidden kingdom awakes.
The river begins to flow with its red glow as we hail the forgotten king.
Long hours of night are not meant for dreaming.
They are for dreams to keep you awake -
to fill books with imagination.
Paper constantly gets the award for creative potential
Creating Creations with artistic purity that’s essential
Close your eyes a second, let your mind wander on;
Perhaps you will be surprised of what you stumble upon;
Golden towering trees filled with hearts of glee;
Skin and bones I lay dormant to you Freshly inked on your fleshwith no regretsI expose you.
Sharply defined,the darknessof my ink bleeds Your creative expression.
You chose me.
Once upon a time there lived a girl named Cinderella,
Her story seemingly ends in joy - she married her fella!
And although most know this iconic tale,
The mind has this innate need to make something out of something we can't see
Beauty in the rolls of blue and red
Sounds filling our head
Little Red Riding Hood
walked through the thickened wood,
traveling to her grandma's house
not really thinking about a spouse,
low and behold she caught someone's eye,
but it really wasn't her perfect guy,
I am wonderous, as is that fly in the kitchen.Filled with curiosity, but crushed when not welcomed.
“I need some inspiration!”
Don’t submit to frustration.
“But I feel like I’m falling short.”
You will always have support.
“Really? From whom?”
And for every time we touched, It felt like New York was still and quiet; And Las Vegas had gone dark; Big Ben down in London stopped ticking;And the flow of Fallingwater seized; Venice stopped sinking, And Rom
The following poem was inspired by my work as a volunteer at a local animal shelter and Lola, the three-legged pitbull who was euthanized because the shelter felt she was “unad
I possess a very active mind full of ideas.
All hotter than fresh quesadillas
yet more tasteful than plain tortillas.
Sometimes there are too many for me to even keep.
Occasionally they impair my ability to sleep.
The one thing that ignites the light
Which excites my mind from day to night
Is the delight I feel once I write
All my focus is on the trains of thought
All I notice is what I jot on the spot
Under the weight of college years I doubt even Atlas would be strong.
By the week's end I feel coated in a slime of anxiety and exhaustion.
Cool wet paint mindlessly manipulated by my long fingers across canvas,
Yet a maze of intersecting crossroads lie adjacent on the ground.
Everyone tells you to sieze the day,
but it's harder to do than it is to say.
So if I'm feeling down without motivation,
there's something I rely on that helps me stay strong.
That "something" is creativity;
Musical minds
Border a fine line between delinquent and divine.
Find the time
To flow with the despised,
Realized,
Undefined,
Nature of a different kind.
Connect with the disconnected.
In the grace of the dawn
I rose,
With the sun,
To read a book of prose.
Before the early morning light had gone,
In the grace of the dawn
I rose,
With the sun,
To read a book of prose.
Before the early morning light had gone,
Here's for those nights where your mind wanders wild. The nights where you silently ramble inside. Whether it be pretending to talk to an old friend; or revisiting memories.
I am not a poet.
You are not a poet.
I am a lost soul with an imagination that demands to be seen.
You are a creature looking for words that fill your aching void with a sense of
belonging.
We are alike but different
while we feel insignificant
We all have something to show
but only have creativity alone
A pen of power,
A pencil of promise,
A brush of brilliance,
there is the power of man
and there is the will of God
when the two do not pursue the same method
tragedy is necessary
I am a tragedy;
And she felt a deep longing
A need.
To fill a beautiful world that wasn’t hers with beautiful words that were.
And she was filled with a desire
A need.
Touch the paper with a pencil
Shouting thoughts come alive
My mind is leaking ideas
The words explode on paper
Eventually coming together
To create a world of mine
Thinking becomes out of control
There are
A thousand sentences
Running through my mind,
Painting strokes
Of scenery
And still I cannot find
A single phoneme
That best describes
My never ending thought,
But then it comes
The words flow from my head into the pen.
What my mouth cannot convey, the newly covered paper can.
Emotions and feelings fuel what I write.
I know someone, somewhere can identify with the words I put down.
I could feel my hands gliding through the silk of the sea
Perched on the edge of the sea I longed for the water's clam to rest against my skin
To be caressed by ideas and possibilities of life
Life at times can be very strange
and can make you feel like you don't belong.
There's no colors, only beige
but I know that you are strong.
I wanna make a difference
like no other has.
Please don't seize my colors
Please don't rob my dreams
Please don't censor my words
or murder all my themes.
Please let me keep that idea
I was of thinking yesterday
I don’t get like this often
When it happens, I feel my heart soften
My body shivers with discontent
Not sure of what I am meant
To do, to feel,
In the Right Upper Room, tinted cyan and splattered lavender and bittersweet,
Lives a long man named Meraki.
Growing wild white hair and shedding roses from his glassy eyes,
If there's one thing I need, it'll be my inner creativity.
No deserted island can beat what's within me.
I have the ability to turn the sound of waves to rhythmic beats,
Solitutude on an island
Time appears to be the only thing
I have but what I truly need
is an outlet
a book where I can e x p r e s s
Take Me Away
To somewhere new and familiar
A place without judgment or fear
A place to express the self
Take Me Away
Where I can dance to the beat
Let the notes flow through
I need art, a form of creation
the purest expression
plastered on paper
emotions inked out
in every direction
whether it's with
a pen or brush
I pour out my mind
onto the blank
Crisp, white pages fluttering in the wind
Calling out to me
To write.
I am my words.
My ideas.
And my journal stores them all.
It is my companion,
My ally.
Without it, I would be stranded
I always need to be,
able to use my creativity.
To be able to paint
is to break a constraint,
of societal construction.
What would the world be without creativity
There would be no thrills, no festivity
I’d rather be cut with a knife
Her, it was all her doing.
The memories still fresh and brewing,
Those days where she would say "it will be alright"
Those nights when she would hold me tight
No one could ever feel that unconditional love
when I put my hand to paper
a whole new world appears.
I'm not limited to reality
or by my hopes, my dreams, my fears.
at fifteen the doodles on the pages
were seen as immature
Give MacGyver some glue,
a random scap of nylon or two,
and with a gas canister and metal shed
he made a hot air balloon and fled.
Creativity is a weapon that should be used
Without them, i am
Only shapeless emotions, unable to
Relay my thoughts,
Direct my ideas and
Share my passions.
Writing them collects the
Overflowing ideas, connects them.
All I need is a stick of graphite. Dark and black as the night sky itself, when no stars shine and the moon hides from the horrors besieging the world.
(A dual poem by Bailey Bennett)
Creativity never came without
costs. I never saw a painter free from
pain, or an actor who didn't dabble in
Do I need water and food
Do I need shelter and a roof
I will die for sure without these to consume
if i merely have these is that all to Living
for we've been given minds to expand on whats given
She sits down to write on her laptop.
Her delicate fingers trace over keys as she tries to make
something from the tangled wires in her head.
It’s 7 am and you are already here.
Nice and early, we have no time to waste.
You will rise before the sun does, because nothing about the process is natural, but it is “necessary.”
Restrictions lead to convictions of the mind.
My creativity should not have to do hard time.
Imagination is our only weapon against the battles of reality.
Logic and common sense release a common brutality.
A God:A being beyond comprehension.The greatest possibility and impossibility,an image of parting seas and fire raining from the sky,an embodiment of love and justice,a redeemer and a punisher,
In a world of screens and lights,
Life goes on in days and nights;
But in each and every soul is
None other than purest gold!
While the species manifest, just
One of them stands from the rest;
Unlike any other,
I can not settle with any color,
I can not choose one passion over the other
I think that they complement one another.
Only in
Light
Good vs Evil
Light Vs Dark
Daily Doses of Sin
Always trying to tear my soul apart
This world is too cold hearted
For my warm kinded heart
If death will be my ending
Then why should my life even start
These vertical floors constrain thought;
Internal desires are now fought,
Tides surging splatters all around
The artists mind, no reward found.
Each color streams grey from pallettes:
Pencils are awesome!
I find my collection of pencils to be rather intriguing, while others may not understand the meaning.
From the void it starts
an incessant need
to fill our hearts
our spirits feed
Breaths slow and still
an eye turned to see
a hope to fill
a life to free
A song is there
Crayola, crayon, color. It’s nice, pretty, and one of its own nothing will be like it.
It’s dark, yet I am tempted to turn the flash back on,
Tired of the bright lights, don't increase the exposure,
Dark eyes, dark hair;
The spitting image of Dad.
Grandpa jokingly says,
"Maybe you'll grow out of it."
Just maybe.
But I'll always be a daddy's girl.
Pick a spot
Pick an experiment
This sadness.
I feel my chest being crushed ever so slowly.
Pushing harder and slower. Farther and lower.
My heart throbs like a beating drum before battle.
The inspiration escapes me today.
Between me fathoming my thoughts,
And what I could dream of,
And what I could think of,
The effort escapes me.
And I do not feel the purpose.
Advancing through a life of change and struggle,
feeling as if your adheering to society's perfect image.
Then one day the discovery for yourself stops.
You've found it within someone else's words.
I see the greater meaning in what exists,
I have such powerful empathy I feel what other's are feeling and sense the emotions of the all things on this planet,
Passion: Noun.
Intense driving, or overmastering conviction.
Yes! I Am Triumphant.
I have discovered the depths of the blurry image
Of what the crystal ball kept trying to show me.
Passion: Noun.
Intense driving, or overmastering conviction.
Yes! I Am Triumphant.
I have discovered the depths of the blurry image
Of what the crystal ball kept trying to show me.
Demons go up to me suddenly talking nonsense,i am like God is this real?He nods and says revelation apocalypse, so i kneel and ask for strength to hold on to the throne because i know when people hear this demons won't leave me alone.Heaven is my
Within this uncompromising maze,
the faceless men in white suits
force you to stumble along
the path from point A to B.
Tall white walls confiscate creativity
and slowly strangle the unsuspecting
Empty room, bleak, white walls.Standing still, shrouded in a cloak of black.Poised, porcelain face, perfect to those who
Afraid to ask for counselAfraid of what they'll sayAfraid of being torn againAfraid of being away
Steady is not my emotionsSteady is not my heartSteady like the wind which isSteady not from the start
Let me mix my colors
with yours
it’s the human triumph and universal theme
to get the better of your wounds
and turn them to scars
Let me blend mine with yours.
Glance upon this mirror,
Right in front of you.
This mirror, the one you tiredly gaze into every which way.
You try to ensure you look tidy and polished,
My brain pounds with such intensity that I can feel no other pain inside my body, the meticulous beat of my own heart has become my enemy. Each thump signifying a wave of cruel pulses throughout the synapsis of my own brain.
Are we really meant to move ahead
All the things holding us back, sometimes I just lay in bed
The war, the debt, the things we can't change
I'd speak about it but get labeled insane
It's the gaurana, the crickets,
the dust bunnies gaurding curtains, gates to a kingdom of ants on a windowsill.
It's the tangled, ragged ropes, once daisy chains
with wide, flattened faces
I want to be successful, make a change in this world.
I want to be successful not just for the diamonds and pearls.
I want to be successful for my family.
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Standing before you,
An endangered soul.
Mold with gold and once embodying the whole given.
And now
My Frail and lanky stature, stands before you
piercing every eye.
To design or not to design - that is the question
Whether 'tis better to follow dreams
And risk not having enough money,
Or not take that leap of faith,
And, by engineering, playing it safe.
Creativity is daring to enter all parts of your mind
The parts you usually acknowledge are kind
But what you may find
The rhythm that moves you,
The words that persuade,
The feelings and emotions
That make you afraid.
Let them all go,
They have nowhere to hide,
They might as well flow,
Our art has no real meaning behind it
And if you ask us, we’ll say
“I made what I wanted, you tell me why”
Then we’ll leave it with you for a collection of dimes
So carry it off, this piece of culture emulated
The best part of art lies in the subconscious,
Not within the scrutiny of a scholar’s essay,
Not within the thoughts that the artist speaks to herself,
But within the very muscles of the hand,
Shall I dedicate myself to a beautiful insanity
Or shall I suppress my curiosity, creativity?
You can only go so far within syntax
Poetry, I discovered, forgot it long ago
It’s kind of funny how the first things you’re taught are the last things that matter.
In first grade I was taught that I could do absolutely anything with my life, even if I wanted to be super girl.
Forgetting the formats
The guide-lines,
The rules,
And knowing that
They can't teach it in schools
Learning to break from the norm,
And be free
Exploring the boundless world
Can anyone hear me? No you can'tI'm confined in a bubbleGet ready for the rant
I want to writeI want to createI want to make people laughI know that's my fate
Working diligently...
Alone...
(humming loudly to myself)
POUNDING LOUDLY AT THE PIANO!
I leave my solitude for a moment to get some water.
(All the while, symphonies compose themselves in my head,
Through sufferance let your body yearn for commitment to abolish any obstacles that may have bolted your doors to succ
My sanity hangs in the balance as I write.
I fill the page with a world born of darkness and light.
Of a universe centered at the very tips of my fingers.
It flows from my mind in smooth streams of conciousness
like the flower, so blooms inspiration.
roses only grow from fertile clay...
thoughts, from a fecund imagination.
insights spring from fruitful contemplation
while new buds grow with the sun's warm rays.
Let me describe them to you
They are sticky sweet like mango juice
And tangy tart like my favorite pineapple
They drip sugary goodness all over my lips and fingers
Like when you bite into a summertime watermelon
I’ve realized something about myself,
I’ve realized fear……
I swim because I’m afraid to drown,
Climb the tallest mountains because I’m afraid of the height,
Skydive because I’m afraid of the fall,
Im sitting here, with my pen limply in my hand
they are words,
someone elses words that teach me someone elses thoughts
but admist this tunnel of darkness as i drown in thoughtless learning
a firefly
Life seems to be an endless ocean
Rocking my life boat in a churning fashion.
One moment I can feel the wave
Lift me up, higher than I have yet
To be, then, the next of the brave:
Creativity. Creativity. Creativity.
The sole thought rattles my brain day in and day out,
each paycheck of mine is soiled with notes and words and
organic molecules. every stolen envelope, in
my mind, resonates
a time of vast
I call that change come to us,
by us,
for us,
change of the the eyes that don't trust,
and misjudge,
and sum up,
without a single word spoken.
Gone do i want the wall that,
board up,
All of a sudden you’re hit
You think of an idea with wit
Stare at the screen
Don’t make a scene
But silently say “Yes, that’s it!”
You write and act and edit
You upload and then wait a bit
Little ant in the hole,
Go dig like a mole,
Little ant in the hole,
Don’t go explore.
For you do not know what is out there,
The unknown is forbidden, and that is why it is evil.
If I could change the world,I'd make creativity powerful.I'd make it so I would look outside with a smile,Not an unwillingness to face the coming day.
Cars, and toys, and rug burns
I am a boy. I am a boy.
Basketball, hip-hop, down the block.
I am black. I am black.
I have two hands and a brush
And a silver palette filled
With many colors lush
That I swirl and I swill.
My brush I drag across and down.
Black drips into white
Creativity Can’t Stop
When’s the last time you created something?
Anything—a drawing, song, recipe, story?
Words march across the page
endlessendlessendlessstream of circular creativity
madness? or art?
the wind that sweeps
I will it to sweep me away
A masterpiece was promised,
A carving out of words,
To stand, eloquent, elegant
Child of talent, effort, ripped-up sheets,
The first of many,
Essay-sculpture,
And I, Author-carver.
Memorizing data to spit back out verbatim
That’s not learning
Banking our self-worth on a letter
That’s not learning
Staying up so late that the book get’s blurry and our brain gets fuzzy
That’s not learning
Free
Free country, they say.
But really?
To conform
To think the same
To act the same
Based on a "correct system"...
But really?
Where's the freedom
To be an individual?
I am at a lost
Striving to be creative
After being taught to filter
After having my mistakes stigmatized
My originality unsuitable for the classroom
My voice silenced in my own education
I am bored.
My life is nothing
But school work
And people.
The people only serve to make me feel lost in a sea of faces.
I am erased.
The color in my soul dulled
Math, Science, Technology.
Hard sciences.
We’re pushed from day one,
And told what we’re to become.
The dancer in you longs to be free.
Your voice aches to be heard.
The writer inside
I can’t stand it.
Everyone thinks that they know better,
But they don’t.
The classroom is my dungeon
Cold, stark, and bleak.
The desk is my cage
Restraining my mind’s reach.
I’m drawn away from creativity
Herded by the group
Who are too slow to move on
Reputations
and Representations of such
Are getting hard to keep up
You want to fit in
To be in "the norm"
Yet you want to be an individual
You are Trapped
We have ceased the pursuit of knowledge
In turn clipping the wings of imagination
And violently stunting the growth of creativity
We have given in to the monotonous drawl
Children swallowing pills Is more than a modern day trendIt's a death sentenceAlways the beginning to an end
They cover their dreams and aspirationsWith half-hearted expectations
I like to let my imagination
run wilder with every
darker shade of the night sky,
as the sunset melts away
onto the other side of the world,
like sherbet ice-cream
left on the counter for too long.
Creativity lost
Students in seats
The same hours everyday
Expression kept inside
Same rubrics
No variation
No freedom
No escape
No outlet
Just a cold room
grey hallways,
close us in,
trapping our imagination ,
trained to fight, trained to win,
similar to prison,
I wish it weren't true,
wondering about what awaits for me in the big wide blue,
Accepted. “In the loop”.
Everyone wants to feel that way
That’s why people look at their phones 34 times a day
They never put their headphones away
It feels so nice to have something to say
That’s why . . .
Running through the motions
Each day, In and Out
Hard to remain focused
When hustling about
"Come in sit down take out your books!"
Can't you see the way it looks?
My peers and I are not the same
Creativity of one is not hard to come by
But it always seems so hard to keep alive
because people are being bullied
for being original
for being themselves
for liking different things
Fingertips illuminated
I am wielding weapons
Capable of painting the sky
I see nooses tighten
Tightly around our necks
I paint the world with brand new eyes
There is hatred in the student
Who does not like to learn
Yet the teacher does the teaching
To make the hatred burn
Setting fires ablaze with lecture
Creative thoughts are lost
We are not men and women
though we like to believe we are.
We are children stuffed into the bodies of
"further evolved humans"
Full of preconcieved ideas
but robbed of curisity.
Pigeons told to fly
Red and green bows
Puffy, flared skirts
Ballerinas,
An instructor standing in the middle of the hall
All attention focused on him
With his long staff in hand
And then I see them
The girls,
What do you see in front of you—
A white wall, or maybe even off-white plaster?
Or should I paraphrase, and repeat myself
In a matter so that you would understand more clearly
Can I put my trust in you?My future?My dreams?
Can I share with you my biggest fears?My worries?My tears?
No. I cannot.You do not teach me trust.You do not teach my compassion.
Each word clung
to paper thin pages with some particular tenacity
the teachers teeth
cut against soft palpable ears
The floors knew these lessons
had heard more words
could tell them more
Surrounded by lies,
Told once, no twice,
Be creative,
I let the pencil tip touch the page,
No stop,
That is not right,
You must be creative,
Stop,
You must use these colours,
Sleeping within waves
Her thoughts drift by-
The sea encompasses her
A soothing blue blanket
Calm, content, secure.
With each ebb and flow she sways
The place where creativity and strength meet, that’s somewhere I long to be. To write is to regurgitate raw emotion on a page But raw emotion tends to come from a dark and frigid place from the deepest deeps of depression Raw emotion come from th
The scratches on the papers are nonsensical to me.
If there's only one set answer, you see,
With that, you could fail indefinitely.
Math..numbers, they never cease to inspire me.
The words that I will say
They all must sound cliché
But they do not lose truth
or ever become passé
My words they do convey
A message that's been delayed
For spoken word still leaves a whole
Individuality has become a competition
Behavior is tailored to receive recognition
If everybody’s eyes were closed
How different would you be clothed?
If your classmates didn’t surround your seat
I breathe, inhaling and exhaling
Listening to the kids at the end of the block play
One was wearing red
One was wearing white
And one in black standing in the corner
I breathe, observing and watching
Remember when we ruled the world
and our world was all we knew.
I ruled over Imagination
You ruled over creativity
and together we created the universe.
Where is the help?
Money is the focus,
The goverment may cause money to disappear like hocus pocus
While the children are left helpless, hopeless
No arm, leg nor brain to grow,
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.
The Nigerian Hierarchy
If I drove a Lexus instead of a Honda
Would you agree?
Would it be vice versa if
my skirt landed above the knee...
My Catharsis
I write,
To release my pain.
My catharsis,
Carries secrets:
Loves lost.
Loves gained.
Strained by defeat,
My soul softens.
They say birds of a feather
flock together.
But maybe that’s why I feel under the weather.
With my body tethered to this world I sought a way to be liberated.
A creative child
Driven wild
By one’s own imagination
Thoughts abound
Running around
Dreaming of creation
No one knows
A story untold
Of one’s pent up emotions
I dream of aspiring into a successful person, I dream of helping many people with the talent I hold within, I yearn to prove to my fellow companions that change is possible, that we shouldn't be tied down to the same traditional ways, we have the
my mind— is as b l a n k as this page—i am unmotivated, talking to the wallsuninspired— because the walls never talk back to me
I fear that as I grow older,I am not so much getting wiser,But rather, imaginativeIn hiding my lack of knowledge.
I have so much to say, but I cannot find the words.
Give me a topic; I can spit out heart-wrenching stanzas about love, loss, desperation.
Who are you?
A lover? A fighter?
Or the common individual aiming to succeed?
Whoever you are, you have a set of skills
Skills that allow you to take you anywhere in life
Poetry is a form of expression.
Creativity using only words.
Poetry is the way words are arranged,
And the passion behind those words.
Poetry is art.
These are nights with weary eyes.
Nights that allow my brain to construct more elaborate lies to feed myself.
But these are nights that mix colors with my hands instead of behind my eyelids.
(poems go here) Life’s bumpy roads and harsh realities
Are what brought me to the refuge of poetry.
A world where you have little money,
Where the lady on the news talks about a new murder every night
Where do my words begin?
My world lives in a pen
And when I write, it all comes out
And on the paper, my world is sent
But what is my writing all about?
About my life, my love, my friends
My mind is spontaneous; at times I want to scream.
But that is too extreme.
Sometimes, I can't say what I mean to say.
Oral words are sculpted for the outside's way.
When I was young words would jump at me, and land on the pages I turned.
With each "swish" of the page new words gave birth on the thin white sheets.
Spectators marveled at my unraveled gift.
I wrote a letter of uncertainty
I scribed in sweet remembrance
I scripted dialogue to make me laugh, when I hurt myself
My words are drenched, in sorrows that I wrote about
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
I love writing poems
it allows me to express myself,
i can write about foam
and make it symbolic for something else
Theres much you can do
when you have imagination,
you can write one too
Creation is unstable, a question in the dark
What am I supposed to say?
With hands that lack talent
With a mind with too many possibilities;
All surrounds the topic
The topic we see in few
Nothing can fell the rush of the experience
The imagery, symbolism, description
Feeling the mind at a staggering embrace
With word nor picture able to describe
In random thought
I sit and dream
To the grass,
How does a worm seem?
I wonder "how"s
I wonder "why"s
How does the rain feel
When it falls from the sky?
Does the wind feel fear?
Your people claim their free, but is empty of leaders with faith. None can draw a single sword from their diminutive pocket.
Have you ever been what I been through?
Lied to by your loved one,
Stabbed your chest,
And people fear for your life soon,
You say what's the pressure in being me?
Many have failed her love,
The love that I pursue,
Chance she given,
Now chances no more,
Her love that was played,
Her love that was fooled,
Her love that was lost,
Deep beneath her heart,
Blue as the sky, my heart pumps anxious beats of alkaline.
Furrowed brow, hardened eyes, tapping of the fingers.
I stand adjacent to the wealth of the future.
Right hand out, reaching, grasping at the sunlight.
There is a river running through your soul,
and it’s just begging you to drown.
Not die.
Just abandon yourself to its ebbs and flows,
crest waves of the non-lingual,
plumb depths you never knew you never knew.
We each have a well inside of us,
filled with exhilaration and craze.
It is our driving force.
It is the host of every moral and desire we once entertained.
It is the common truth that connects us all,
Thoughts roll
Seasons change
Sun rays blind eyes
Hearts beat
Minds wonder
Gone is yesterday
Pen to paper, head in clouds
just put your mind to work
spread all of your wildest dreams across the cluttered desk
the desk full of things which keep you alive
Beware of Artists for they mix with all classes of society and are therefore the most dangerous.
They study and socialize with any and all people.
They are unafraid of what is different, strange, or new.
Paint falls to canvas
carrying with it the
imagination of time.
Landscapes,
made of strokes
miniscule and
bold.
Buildings,
made of the sun’s shades,
struggle not to melt in darkness.
Children raised to rape and plunder
Fallen from grace, and it's no wonder
We've brought about a mighty thunder
Created a beast to take us under
I like to listen to music.
The kind that blares and shakes the lights while you reach for the ceiling like it's the stars.
You seduced me.
Drew me in
played me for the fool
and I bit
took the bait
tried to dart away
only driving the hook
in deeper
In my lifetime, I was born to a virgin mother an angel told her I’ll be like no other man on earth on land which is cursed born free of sin, now you see what I’m worth. I’m the son of GOD, haven’t you heard?
Art is a dream that I cannot escape,
It’s more than just colors and paper and shapes,
Appearing in sights I see every day,
I get lost in the beauty that’s on display,
The gears in my mind spin with furious haste,
Fortune tellers have never appealed to me
Last resort to find your bicycle
It's more that materialistic drama
I can not seem to find a piece (peace)
