Words words words

I want to read poems that show the struggles or enjoyment of writing poetry. We write poems a lot of times about our life experiences but it would be nice to read how poem changes us.

I wrote this example just now,

"I want to write a poem,
With magical meaning and purpose,
For all to hear my words,
With comments of praise and glory.

Even if it be,
A poem just about me,
Or maybe its about trees,
Could be about being free.

I know i must work hard,
But it would nice to be easy,
Cause i want to write a poem,
Or maybe this isn't me."


You can post as many as you want, with any size. Thanks.

Struggled words..
Plopped on this page..
I can't get it out
And It fills me with rage

I want to put my feelings
In a work of art..
But I don't even know
Where to begin to start

It's pitiful I know..
To fight such a battle..
But the monsters will live
And their cages will rattle..

So i'll put that down as an idea..
A monster trapped inside..
Begging to get out,
No longer wanting to hide

firedaughter said:Struggled words..
Plopped on this page..
I can't get it out
And It fills me with rage

I want to put my feelings
In a work of art..
But I don't even know
Where to begin to start

It's pitiful I know..
To fight such a battle..
But the monsters will live
And their cages will rattle..

So i'll put that down as an idea..
A monster trapped inside..
Begging to get out,
No longer wanting to hide wow WOW WOW u got that one down straighT ill give it a try

Decisions of a housetrained poet


They should take their places, thrash us with their rapier pens    
those cudgels    
that render, with surprising accuracy    
the slices    
that have power to rearrange us    
   
We could use a good 'what for'    
for inanity    
and our relentless    
barrages    
of some chaotic flutter effect    
where we become obtrusions on the serenity    
of honesty    
free breathing and burn-writing    
and clear vision;    
   
which is almost as irritating    
as your golden voice having to trip over weird structure    
and spo.radi.c    
punctuation -    
   
Or should our beloved bards have positions more key    
than tootling only    
along the edges of their passions    
writing tunes    
that would define generations    
for poetry groups    
   
when their words could be riding ripples from the calendar pages    
shaking dates    
tunneling minds that think they know light    
repairing the nexts    
and so many versions of the past    
   
They take their places, herd us with their quick pens    
like bare-minimum mothers in overloaded hatcheries    
where half the younglings die anyway    
as the world continues to    
wonder    
Where are the poets?

Crumpled bits of paper all about
Jumbled words ,unwillingly I shout

Thoughts replaced by thought
No!no!phrase  place is not yet bought

Emotion please lie still
Its from my pen u should spill

Word upon word u line up
Coffee long grown cold in my cup
Pen flowing beautiful ink
I've finally found that missing link

In a moment an eternity
This page once blank
Has transformed into poetry



   

Wandering Quixotic

Having reached that point
in a young poet's career
where I no longer wrote of torn hearts,
moved past cheap cutter portraits
and pounded the lid
back on that abused black paint,
I discovered the existential crisis:

If I am to better myself,
What, then should I write?

My first thoughts
were rather slow;
mistaking spinning wheels
for distance, I decided
I should write of my own life.

But the more I lived my life,
the less I desired it chronicled.
Besides that it's very boring
(unless you care for Navier-Stokes),
and if I really wanted it truthfully writ
I'd still be writing about Julie.
One plan shot down.

So I jotted down another sad one
about a guy who breaks a girl,
(for you don't give up your day job
'til you've found yourself another)
and set out hard for new ground.

Well then, I shall hoist
Uncle Sam's flag up my pen
and exhort in red, white and blue!
Give 'em hellfire and preach up a storm
and my rhetoric shall take no prisoners!
I'll map out for all those smarmy suits
the path to a Golden Age.
We'll change the world, you and I.

But then I realized
that it wouldn't surprise me
if I learned that the latest batch
of silver-spoon politicos
never bothered to learn to read.
God, it's tough to get excited about.

So I was stuck with the inexorable itch
to find myself a use
and a valiant cause,
that transcendent drive
preoccupying so many empty wanderers—

And as I stoked the fire, it consumed me.
I missed the forest for the trees,
or at least the blaze for the flames.
Engrossed in this epic task,
I forgot I was looking to be engrossed...
Finally it hit me.

Passion Stroke


Rhyming words.
Simple,
Yet full of passion.
Stories unfold
Melodically in my mind.
Words jumbled together
So carefully
Paint pictures,
Create images
Never before concieved.
I'm filled with wonder and awe
As I see before me
The worlds you've created.
You spark imagination,
Open minds,
Bring to pass visions
Few may believe.
You touch hearts,
Summon tears,
Battle unnatural foes,
Color fears,
All with the simple
Stroke of a pen.

chezz said:
Crumpled bits of paper all about
Jumbled words ,unwillingly I shout

Thoughts replaced by thought
No!no!phrase  place is not yet bought

Emotion please lie still
Its from my pen u should spill

Word upon word u line up
Coffee long grown cold in my cup
Pen flowing beautiful ink
I've finally found that missing link

In a moment an eternity
This page once blank
Has transformed into poetry



   

Very nice! I like this one!

Writing to Write.


I guess I felt like writing,
to maybe think up rhyming words?
But it leaves me so inferior,
Because there's always more to learn.

The stanzas are pain,
and the prose so confusing.
Writing puts me to shame,
with the feeling like losing.

I can't make a rhyme,
I can't make it sound sweet.
Swear it won't sound like the kind
People write through their weeps.

Jagged red lines beneath my name,
and the score.
Backspace, Thesaurus, I can't
take anymore.

Blemish


Often a poem comes on like a pimple.      
Something gets under your skin      
something that doesn’t sit well with the system      
that you need to get out, but can’t      
until it festers a bit.      
The deeper the trouble lies      
the longer this will take.  
Sometimes it must get ugly before      
it leaves you be.      
     
All your cover-up and embellishment      
can't hide the fact      
that you have a problem to face.      
What's your intention, to make it pretty      
or just pretend there’s nothing there?      
It’s red for a reason.      
   
At times it even seems all creation      
is welled up inside you      
aching to burst out,      
but try to push it out too soon      
while the root of its rebellion still remains      
and it will just return, demanding consideration.      
There's still a seed to this dilemma      
you've not discovered      
or else it would be out by now.      
     
Stare straight on into the ugliness.      
Averting your eyes won't hide it      
or help you in your task.      
Ignoring it won’t abolish it.      
If you're going to get this out      
you have to do it right.      
Pay full attention to this task.      
Just picking at it makes it worse.      
     
Only when your conscience is cleared      
Only when it's all expelled, expunged      
can you rest right      
can your soul lay smooth, unblemished      
like a bed stretched tight with clean linen.      
Only then can you say,      
unsightly though it is:      
“This came from me      
this shining pearl of my wretched oyster.”      
     
When you are finally serious, set aside some time.      
Sharpen a pencil to a pin-prick point      
take a good hard look at yourself      
and let that wicked little poem      
spew upon the paper.

The words must rush,
as shattered as my breath-
Ragged fast and sloppy mess.
Sit in silence in a neat square of white,
Sillently alone, as I fade from sight.
Bursting colors calm and sweet,
As I stare into the sun filled world-
Turned gory black and dead,
As the clouds fordge ahead.
All the same the words contain,
The whole, the part, the soul of me-
Everything that's ever come,
Ever was, or ever will-
As I hope the world has seen,
This is all I can be...
Words on a page.

I Am Not A Poet

I live in a world where words speak people
There are no poets
Words have outlived us all

Drawing Inspiration  

Get a pencil my friend
sketch my words
read them as they curve
they're yours to lend
into mental swirls ,
do they strike a nerve
all short words can bend
if you draw them observe ,
how they apprehend
a mind can , stray to swerve
between depicted pen
two meanings you learn
in one line that's only read ,
a single verse
an implosion through the head
if you get the burst
all paper should be fed ,
with the letters that nurse
the pen who has just bled .

Drawing  inspiration
a law in all creation ,
artistic imagery
articulation , swinging free
words draw lines , trigonometry
we translate the signs
to what we read  ,
this fills the mind
eyes do receive
pictoral lines
in poetry .  

This was supposed to be a poem
And a good one, at that.
But somewhere in my jumbled mind
The idea just fell flat.

The poem was amazing,
Sad, funny and sweet.
Thoughtful and intensified,
Really quite the treat.

But now I will just sit here,
This pen in here my hand.
Everything I write,
Is really kinda bland.

My brain thought it was funny.
Making me forget.
It does this all the time,
And I almost always fret.

This was supposed to be a poem.
But now it's plain to see.
That what you have just read
Has done nothing but kill trees.