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I am a writer, and I put my hands to writing. I train my hands in the ways of warriors. When enemies come looking for a fight, I give them a war.   I train my hands in the ways of farmers.
I am a writer, and I put my hands to writing. I train my hands in the ways of warriors. When enemies come looking for a fight, I give them a war.   I train my hands in the ways of farmers.
I have never done anything wrong I was a good daughter. I never lashed out.
You deserve better. You both deserve better. You deserve better than this or that.
5 months, trading kisses in my carYour hands tracing hearts around my armsOur lives, we knew would never be the sameOh why’d you have to go and change4 weeks, that’s all it took for me to fallYour smile I wish I could forget it allYour laugh’s for
Lover, you were a hurricane A tornado The typhoon to explain why some sailors never made it home And I used to call you mine And I used to call you after work   And I used to hold your hand
It had been over a month And I hadn’t written anything Nothing substantial Or meaningful Or otherwise legible   No love poems Or hate poems Or poems about my brokenness  
Quality children's books were what this man was bound to produce.He was a writer who died 30 years ago and his name was Dr. Seuss.He died in September of 1991 and was born in March of 1904.
I could never write love poems til I met you. Could never describe how it felt to love To love as deeply as I do As I have I could never write love poems without them becoming tear drops on the paper
  Many believe in afterlife,  may it be heaven or hell.  Some believe reincarnation  relive as a doe or eagle. But I, as a reader, 
The last breath I take  The  last smile I fake The last step I walk The last hand I hold   My body slowly turning cold 
The last breath I take  The  last smile I fake The last step I walk The last hand I hold   My body slowly turning cold 
The last breath I take  The  last smile I fake The last step I walk The last hand I hold   My body slowly turning cold 
commonbees, pollen-sifters a poem by riley minteer   You can find me in the fields, catching water bugs, and small red beetles.
    I know writers say  Love can happen twice  But what if the  love never really happens ?  What if the emotion we thought 
At varying moments throughout one’s life, 
Writers block, Always on the clock. Going back and deleting. Then a not so friendly reminder. Shouldn't I be eating? Is this suppose to be dinner? Wait! Doesn't my character need food too?
Grounding me, similar to the acts of a ship’s anchor You are my stability. Anxiously waiting to hit land,  We met,  like wave greeting beach
Picture That I picture doubters with their jaws dropped because my words they went and copped I picture family not having to want Those that didn’t swallow their pride won’t have to front
I Just Wanna Write Man, everything would be alright if I could just write I write in a way that warms your soul and touch your heart I’m captivating from the start
Today is frozen in blue and white we live to stall upon a blank page This picture, now a photograph In black and white
They called her a writer. A witch. A Manipulator of words.   Etching them into corners, Onto walls, Abandoned buildings,
the first time I stank when I kept you dead when I should have manured you into the root of fresh promises as I was oft-tempted in death where I can't find ash so I choose my body as the crypt
To sit quiet and be nice wasn't kinda his thing He was known to all as the mighty sarcasm king He was shy and so very quiet He was the perfect man with that touch so polite ©mynightprayerwords Selly A
That rage was meant to reveal the truth from behind those eyes open wide He was stubborn and stood up for what he believed in Even though he was a man now,his childishness was still a part of him
Sometimes,  I wonder: Who am I  To put this pen  To this page And let the ink Swirl itself Into its' pattern? Or to breathe life Into my thoughts And allow them
Poetry, So simple a word that creates sentence, These sentences turn into verses, Those verses form a story, And within the story you learn about the writer. You read their emotions,
And if I don’t speak my truth I’ve learned that eventually, the unspoken words will sting my chest. like juice that went down the wrong pipe,
Sweet dreams are made from sober dazzling inseams, Those seams were once clogged by cocaine fog.   Where are your words, little writer? He taunted you; “aren’t you a fighter?”.
Though I run till my breaks hurt I have loved till I tasted dirt. And all of the embodiment of a 4’11 squirt. I have no reason to apologize for all of his lies.
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.
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
She was lightheartedlike a feather in soft windsI was playing throw and catchwith girls still growing breasts.
My fingers are itching to pick up a pen and start writing; my heart is jumping at the thought of my favorite activity; my brain is yearning to pour all of my thoughts out in lines of poetry
Dear Writer's Block, You have so much to say to a piece of paper,but I'm standing right hereplease acknowledge me,and tell me all you know. Your words are like rainI long for it during drought,to hear the drumming music,and wipe it across the sky
Ambition a constant hunger I advise you - Beware the quiet genius Cunning, unnervingly discerning Don’t underestimate me You see me sit in silence
All eyes on me Watch me stutter, watch me slip Watch me crumble at the pressure Laugh and applaud I craft masks and write acts
The words they lay unbending on the page they wait for her She blows The words they tumble as rivers of ink off the paper She knows
I know a writer She seems like quite the fighter her arms and legs are covered in scars But her eyes are so full of stars   I know a writer
Because I love you, I am willing to make sacrifices Because I love you, you're everything to me Because I love you, we both share the same prices
Isn’t it Ironic?   It’s sometimes overwhelming having so much to say, Thoughts filling your head all moments of the day,
Whether it is sooner or later, people will reveal their true colors. Eventually, the sparkling gleam of fairytales and new beginnings fades into the dark enchanted woods of reality. Imperfections. Losses. Disappointments. Failures.
I signed my soul away with a 21st century John Hancock, To get rid of stubborn, ages old writer’s block. And now these trembling hands they do mock, At my crooked fingers and smudged fingerprints they gawk.  
The pen is my sword , and the paper my charioteer . Alphabets form my shield , and Imagination my armour .
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.  
I crave to adore you when your at your worst Share a love that can not be dispersed I crave to be held close to your chest as my head lay to rest
                                                                                                         So very few people Know how to convey The making of this world,
A god sits before his world, created by his own hand. He thinks something is missing and casts his great tool down to add to his world The missing item takes shape according to how he has envisioned it.
Take hold of thy pen, Crawl within my den, The world appears free, For the beholder is me, I caress the page with my wants, No sour stranger can ever taunt, In the world of love and poetry,
now I'm no weatherman but you're my sunshineI know that when I'm with you, there is an 80% chance of smiles and a 20% chance of running into someone we know
I read a beautiful book It brings joy for my feeling Heals every broken piece inside me And gets my lost soul back with the peace it found
The girl gave herself to the poem because it was self preservation to set the words free.  There was something about emptiness that got the fingers moving, twitch of
Anxiety, depression, An undiagnosed disease. Hiding under smiles and laughs So nobody saw me. Twelve years-old and so confused By the media displays. I tried to be just like them
How can love be sweet like a summer's day, When it will always leave a bitter taste? Capturing and blinding mystified prey, Defeating mesmerised loves in the chase. It smothers the heart in an icy grip,
Don't panic, our blue planet's a wonderful placeDreamers, we live, we fly, we soar, we singUnlike the desolate rest of outer spaceAlthough all curious wonders always bring.
The smile is a lie, a lonely cryMisunderstood perception of the mindThis moonless night no sorrows' death defyBut twisted and undone for fighting blind.
Black for her darkness hidden. Blue for her not yet cried tears. Green for her pain that is there but not found. Pink for all her fake smiles. Purple for the laughs that pains her but she tries.
She sits in the room full with her friends. They all laugh and talk. But why cant she seem to smile? She tries but their all fakes. She had plenty of reasons to be happy. She had her friends.
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
The minute she steps foot in a libraryShe has an excited lookAnd before you can even blink your eyeShe has her nose in a book
Don't trust a creative typeDon't trust a musicianHe'll create melodies like the ones you heard as a childYou'll dance to every chord so blissfullyThe tempo starting slow then soon racing like your heart
Ink runs across a
Beautiful city bathed wih flowers with an essential sound emitted by the water that as a cascade touches it everywhere.   This city is history, present and future.
we were wild animals. 
I remember when I was younger
There are a lot of things that have been plaguing me. It is something that I really need insight on, especially when wisdom is abandoning.
One thousand empty chairs stretch to stage   she meets my face and suddenly it's noon, i'm   staring in the mirror : a distorted reflection   two people two strangers  
I lost myself again last night. That tight feeling in my chest overcomes me and I’m drowning; Sinking myself into dangerous parts of the sea.
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.
It is so frustrating.  In your mind there is a fascinating creation or new way to view reality around you.
  I’m not a poet, I’m a writer Since I was a child, I’ve been scribbling on pages One day your young, will be reading my work   While you’re lying to them about Satan and Santa, they’ll flee to Feltman
 Take a look inside my deep ,beautiful, almond like brown eyes Cut open my soul and explore the secrets that lives within 
Quiet, I sit and take in the world, spinning in drifts -- golden flecks of ash— a cloud of shimmering possibilities shade my reality.
#NoFilter Scholarship Slam
The problem with writing is that it consumes me, no longer do I remember the responsibilities I once had. When I write I am intoxicated by the words flowing from my finger tips,
   Bam went the light. We will not leave without a Fight. The coach yells, and off go the bells.    The crowds roar, and the light shone. This was my zone. I felt like a wild boar.
    I have an innovative mind One with many characters and personalities My friends are imaginary, a figment of my dreams They come alive as I write on the pages inside a blank notebook of my alter worlds.
I am only a girl,a girl with a heartand a soul made of glass.   A girl who walks alone,keeping to herself.I am just a mysteryto the world passing by.  
They come They go They stay They leave   But to catch them Now that's hard So close you come To forming coherency  
A writer whispers
  Every story needs an endthat's why were here my friend
My imagining is free.
We're asked from an early age What do you want to be when you grow up It's a question designed  To make us look forward to the future   But no matter what I do
I thought it took a lot to be a writer. Extensive literary courses to use exactly the right word
I can't think of anything... Writers Block. I hate it.  A big huge wall were your mind stops thinking and you are staring a little bar on your computer screen. The worst is when you are writing a paper.
  Word Weaver
I stare in envy at the school children around me This silence a curse I bear to keep I want to whisper I want to scream I want to shout I want to be But my words refuse to leave  
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  
Wam, bam, this WORLD is oursThey told us we couldn't do but they were liarsTo express ourselves through jewelry and clothesTo finally be able to take a load off and be oneself
Why write when Tim Horton’s has the NEW RED VELVET CUPCAKE? When Zara’s new floral jeans are $49.99? They also sell knitted sweaters, flat rim hats, faux gold necklaces, OPI nail polish, Mavi jeans
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
Words of the mouth are difficult for me I don't take my time I don't think before I speak But words of the fingertips Those are to keep
My one goal in life is to be a writer someone nice and peaceful, not a fitgher. I don't care if I have to write in a cellar just as long as one day, I'm a best seller. People don't even have to know my name,
I wish I were many things,  but to be many things I would need to be a writer. A writer creates what they want to see and feel.
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
  I want the world In the palm of my hand I want to serve others By writing down the word of man   I want to write To see the world To record the ways of life
It's just one job, I promise, just one. I have a dream, a great dream, to live under the sun.To see the ocean gleam,to be wild and free.Ah, yes, a traveling journalist,that's what I'll be! 
Words are taken for granted.  Written in books that just sit on shelves. Children no longer want to read but play video games.    What about the children who suffer. depression anxiety
One job? Honestly? I want to be a published writer. Nothing ambiguous, just a poet. Of course, I want to be a hero, A dreamer, A strong spirit,
Let me write for you. Absorb my words and remember my name. Search for me through the pages of the black and white print. Adopt what you like of mine, Compliment my style.
I am a writer.I am a prophet of creativity.I am the interpreter to my own personal muse.I am a dreamer of dreams made manifest to letters that spiral in my mind and make neat and orderly lines on the paper.
                               My Dream My Dream Is To Write .   But not just write.   I want to   W R I T E
A rainstorm of words, A twister of thoughts blunder inside my mind like a spinning top, It will not seize nor do I want it to; I am a writer and this is what I do,
  I never have a free weekend to party or have fun I work in the fields and don't stop until the day is done  From six in the morning till seven at night 
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
You--spill over margins, between lines lace ink with weakness--Your-- trembling fingers aching viscera cold sweats--pouring between shoulders, and flinching limbs--blood pumped by,
I started writing music when I was eleven. First thing I wrote about,was the man up in heaven. I never told anybody i was a writer, I always thought somebody was going to hit me with the three striker.
Writers BlockWriters BlockWriters BlockWriters BlockWriters Block  N E E D I N S P I R A T I O N  . . . . .   My brain is melting right now . 
I have always wantedTo write a book,But could I never find the inspiration.I finally found itIn her eyesAnd the way her tears flowed outLike rain(She was the only person I know
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?
I am a writer, poetry is my soul: I am a writer, poetry came to me on its own.   I am a DREAMer, my writing is my voice; I am a DREAMer, poetry runs my thoughts.  
Dear World Where you have to pay extra not to have chemicals in your food Where not being the most obese country is an accomplishment Where Nicki Minaj's butt has more hits than Mahatma Ghandi
If you've ever woken up inside a dream, you already know why I write. If you've ever screamed "feel-words" at the clouds which lie low, you already know why I write
I'm a listenerI sit back, I watch the showPerformed by those around meAnd I don't mind I prefer it this wayI laugh at jokes, nod in agreementTo the conversations others haveI don't feel left out
They loved on a deathbed. Rather,their love was that of a deathbed love.
I am me, untamed; am I untranslatable? No, not yet;anyone who has come to go or has yet to, why then question our differences too,then leave it be or take it otherwise!
I was introduced to poetry 7th grade. I started to understand the concept: releasing. I write because it is an outlet for my frustration.
What is it about a fire escape? A rusty, old fire escape attached to a building that has seen many years, many faces... What is it about a place to sit that looks out over a small world...
Plath said, “I write only because there is a voice within me that will not be still." That's what happens when you're no longer in control, when the voices in your head see instances of love, famine, war, heartbreak, betrayal, death, and life, and
I was always fascinated by the universe of New York and all the stars that hailed from its solar system but Brooklyn was a bitter taste that was hard to swallow.
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
A pen that flows Is a pen that knows What it wants And where to go But when it stops It gets stuck Like myself In a rut There are things That I could write But none of my words
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