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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.
Keep your eyes closed. Don't peek. We're almost there don't go to sleep. 
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
We are warm-blooded 
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?”
Robotics is more than robots. It inspires creativity.
Robotics is more than robots. It inspires creativity.
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
Today, Socrates rolled over in his grave.  
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.  
Fully Alive   It's when a quart mason jar is filled to the brim, with black coffee and
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
Poetic thoughts form onto my blank page
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.
Comfort we all seek; Yet deep down... Supressed.
Green is magnificient, No color is ugly; But clear is perfect.
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.
Drawings The drawings of one’s mind They are the creativity The spark
She is alive
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,
Truth be told Sometimes I have no idea
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
There's an itch that needs a scratchJust like an egg that needs to hatch
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.
He hurries and he rushes
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  
I am Celestial - Celestial Star.
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.
You don’t know the rea
      BBBbbjjkaa  Body   vbhhnhjBoBB Bsaadd    Bbia     bbkihiog bBODJAJJKSDAhhggJNGHGbbbbbbb:s{:p"kb<<pBBBBbbbBbbbbbbbbbbbbvvvbbbfsssfffgg  Body Image, Body Image, Why is there all this damage. 
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 
I write because This Puerto Rican on Def Poetry Jam Told me about the county of Kings.
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
Creativity causes people to think for themselves Which instills fear in his eyes,
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,
The horses run free and the chaotic winds twirl  As the pyramids collapse and crumble Beneath our very hands
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
between the lines across my forehead
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.  
My insomnia colors flowing through my veins I must release it
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.
Entranced It`s light, so bright I can see it on this night In pain, not yet
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
I’m so tired 
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
Creation unlike reality, expressing for lunar eyes.
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?
Imagine, Feel, Create Saturn sets on the horizon a View, such a view Does it exist?
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)
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