Poets
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I want to be known by one name
Like Dessalines, Christophe and Pétion
Like Pelé, Ali or a Great Champion
It’s open mic night at the bar, and
there are twenty poets performing.
The poets meet in the back alley
Come centuries ago, our words were worthy
It held life and accompany respect
Then, poets were like rockstars like we stan BTS
widely celebrated for their insight
and graceful way with words.
the snake
was coiled
in the grass
& i
without shoes
leaving
the possiblity
of barefoot
and bitten
with
the most
bitter painfull words
known to
Sitting next to a willow I recalled,
The carefree look that brawled,
Heavenly wind passing through my rolls,
Making me feel as happy as a calm at high tide;
Finding your own journey asset
With your eyes closed
We just have to go on
Just go on;
The road is unknown but
You want to walk a mile in my shoes?
Man, I don't think so
I don't think you'll make it
Do I think the shoe won't fit?
Absolutely not
Maybe it will fit perfectly
But that road...
I sit here everyday
Wondering whether I should say it
But everytime I allow that thought to cross my mind
Every single time
You prove me wrong
Or I remember something you said to me
My first poet was a subdued dramatic
Speaking in succinct lines
Of delicate 2/4 rhymes.
In which success is counted sweetest,
When the inland soul goes out to sea.
Speak up by Abigail Kuhn
The sunflowers sit beautifully undone
and like you,
for days that felt like years,
My Paris begins with
Those early days
As a conscious flâneur;
I recall the couple
On the Metro,
When I was still innocent
Of its labyrinthine complexities;
Was always scared to talkHardly ever showed my emotionsHated being called on duringclass in fear of being wrong
Was always scared to talkHardly ever showed my emotionsHated being called on duringclass in fear of being wrong
A blurry future isn't a motivation to do better
But leave today better than yesterday
And even though we don't know what tomorrow looks like
Make sure you go at it with your all
Words always slipped in
Clouding my head so easily
But now
It's you
Weaving circles
Telling tales
Pestering my thoughts
(Never leaving me alone)
And words leave my tongue
The onyx of my eye confesses on this page:soft and torn with a leaking edge,My breath sinks into creamy lines:a fusion of cursive, print,and shallows of wine,My lashes accumulate dust
do you think the three
a.m. sky became jealous
of us that night? do you
suppose that this is the
reason the constellations
drifted a little closer?
closer?
closer still?
We're all a bunch of dreamers
Some of us advid drinkers
Novelists write collections of lies
I write the truth before it dies
The sweet prose that I can make drip sense
Or fall into a senseless abyss
confinment
to this body, this place, this time
doomed to live this day
over and over again
a wave crashes on to shore
steady as the old grandfather clock
the path worn down to dust
i know wandering and weeping poetswith hardened eyes but gentle souls,and i know happy poets who tookthe world and gave it a heart, somebroken poets who healed up well,some who don't want me to write
The love we shared was shattered in pieces
When I placed your photos in my book's creases
I was torn apart when it all ended
Badly crmupled and emty-handed
I knew it was the last goodbye
I used to be afraid.
Afraid to feel
Afraid to cry.
It’s funny though,
I’ve never been afraid to die.
The abstract art of writing
Some with a rhyme and a rythym
Others with- no. beat at all
Splashes
Of
A year ago,I would have done anything to make you stay.A year ago,I had it all in the palm of my handto have it all fall apart six months later.
Perhaps, In another life I stood a king.
Or I just a slave.
I was underneath the eagles's wing.
Maybe, a sea-shell swept away; a wave.
The purest of thoughts are the ugliest in kindThe prettiest of faces have the darkest of mindsIt is a fact, or maybe a foul But the most hurt of people have the brightest of smiles
Muses are supposed to be:
soft, loving;
passionate, burning;
But you are:
lost, looking.
Your eyes are wide open,
always searching;
you see everything,
but find nothing.
The potency of a poem
An omen to thought provoking
More pungent than potions
More hungry than the wolf is
Ancient, long before the Romans
A car loses control and hits a baby.
Reporters swirl around the dying innocence,
Like vultures around potential demise.
I grab my pen and write,
I grab my laptop and type,
I grab my phone and tweet
I’m not much of a poet
But then other times I think
Maybe I am if
Only in some ways
In a rush or a trickle
When I least expect them to
Words have a way of
Flying from my hands
True love’s kiss, first experienced through written words.
First of all kinds memorialized in the pages between her fingers.
At home with the ink stained paper.
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In third grade,
They handed me a poetry book
And I found it terribly boring.
I was a child of prose, reading stories of adventures
And faraway lands.
It's funny how life picks you up, puts you down
Holds you steady,then spin you round.
It makes you Laugh, it makes you cry,
It'll be like this til the day you die.
It numbs my body it numbs my mind.
I was lead
To the path.
Of poetry.
By some famous war poets.
Siegfried Sassoon and Winfred Owen.
And Cpl Robert Lin Cook USMC.
Poem Tarawa of his youth.
Some poets have written
About their governments
Before on issues of their day.
Soon, it will be politics as usual.
Slamming the character.
Of a political opponent.
Are the Gods gift to the world.
Some famous and some just common folks.
Poets are descents of story-tellers.
All poets see a need, to be told.
Some poems are serious.
The rustic life, pastoral scenes, the basis of idyllic dreams the simple ways of nature come, its harmony in total sum. These country settings, warm and real,
How is it that all of us poets live separate lives,
never meeting, never speaking, never working together,
yet our voices are so similar?
The way we all write,
there is something that unites us,
Don’t fall in love with a writer
Don’t believe them when they say they love you, don’t believe their sorrys
If you do not feel anything
When your fingers touch a keyboard
You are not a poet
If there is not the slightest rhythm
From the syllables stampeding
In a Socratic circle
So There’s this idea that Poets are old white men, rich enough to sit around writing monotonous lines. Like since when did we become Congress?
See, poetry…poetry is for the people.
Clint Eastwood’s got cameras.
For what I do not seeFor what you doFor what we encounterFor what they don't
To see delightTo see wonderTo see imperfectionTo see warnings
There was a fire alive in my body
Your words had reached deep into me and twisted my soul into contorted shapes
Filled with desire
I had never know you to pen such meanings from the heart
To my future daughter
You will know that you are a queen from the moment you are concieved till you rest your head against the silk linen of your eternal crib
The pain of the world strapped to their ankles
a poet is weighed down.
Weighed down
like cotton bales strapped to hunched backs;
stone uprooted by torn cuticles and nails
I spend much of my time alone
Stopped writing as much
And why? Well I don't really know
But the familiar feeling
Ink stains on my fingertips
Silence breaking through my room
Pen to paper, ink to letter,
Word to phrase, line after line,
Rhythm and rhyme, beating in time,
Meaning so fine, inspiriation mine,
Never will quit, the heart of the poet,
Starts when he knows it,
When I was younger, my favorite poet was Sylvia Plath.
I liked her because I related when she wrote about the weight
of all the lives she wasn't living and her life under the fig tree.
Your words
slide past me,
dance beyond me,
tease at the edges of my imagination
before disappearing from the pages of my mind.
I see ages in your eyes
and pain in your hearts.
Why do we write? To tell others of the sorrows we go through as people? To share with the world how high and mighty we show ourseleves to others but deep down we sore lower then the ground itself?
My words flow on paper,the stress loses its leash.
Allowing me to be vulnerablewithout the lost of dignity.
The pen and the paperbecomes the doctor.
I Remember
My exploration of limericks, stanzas started
at poets drawn from shavings of high ambition.
Fragmented dreams, misplaced desires
etched with ink onto my Incomplete storyboard.
Stay silent
Sit straight
Perfect hair
Perfect teeth
Perfect body
Perfect house\perfect friends `
Perfect parents
Perfect! Perfect! Perfect!
For all the heartbroken teenage poets whose hearts are filled
with unspoken rhymes,
for the lovelorn adolescent authors whose beloved words
are spoken out of time,
It is a disease, a sickness, a monster that grips you when you least expect it.
It shows its self through flat characters and erased paragraphs,
I find it much more difficult to write
To tap tap tap into my own mind
To indulge my words and to delight
In the soft and sweet poetic kind
A man I knew, or did one time
You don't where I come from
You don't know what I've been through
You don't know how many nights I
Stayed up crying for you
You just think this is a game
But you're the one to realy blame
Running down a dirt street
With my bare feet
Holding on your hand
As tight as I can
And never letting go
Running from my past
And going to the future
Running through time ain't a bad crime
