One of the great joys of being an adult is the satisfaction of competence. It's the pleasure of accomplishment with your own skill, of doing something well. One of the great joys of childhood is the nervous excitement of doing something you've never done before. It's a pleasure to be here, nervous and excited at the prospect of sharing something I've done for a very long time. What a pleasure to revitalize an aged satisfaction with childlike jitters!

Hello, fellow poets, and anyone whose soul shivers at the mercy of words. As a poet myself, I understand the deep connection we have with our craft. After two years of honing my skills, I have mustered the courage to share my work with the world. Thus, I have published two poetry collections centered around the themes of self-love and nature. However, it seems that my poetry remains largely unnoticed. While I have shared it on my Instagram, only a handful of friends engage with it. Admittedly, I primarily use the platform for stories, and I am making an effort to post more frequently. However, I yearn for the attention of those who truly appreciate the art form. Thus, I have turned to this community as a last resort to find my people. I seek your guidance and advice on how to connect with the right audience for my poetry.

This is my welcome poem before I reveal my masterpiece to date.

ART.


"Life imitates art far more than art imitates life." - Oscar Wilde.

Every generation creates art to display in galleries,
After all, imitation is the highest form of flattery.
Innovation comes with each phase,
To stimulate the mind in a variety of ways,
An array of words could convey the same message as a painting,
Some people use their art for entertaing,
But harder than creating is sustaining when it feels like the creativity is waning.
Obtaining the talent takes a lot of training of the brain,
So much so that it could drive a normal person insane.
Sleepless nights, countless rewrites,
Until one day when something clicks, so you pick up your pen, and you start with one word, two words, three words, four.
You write a few words, then think of a few more.
Until the metaphors metamorph like a butterfly from a caterpillar,
You spent your whole night searching for the bigger picture.
You hoped that words would come flowing like the river Wensum and then some if only you could pull the trigger,
Like you just took a shot of tequila to the liver.
But writing is the thrill you chase, to embrace the gift placed into the palm of your hand;
Sometimes you don't understand just how much you inspire,
How each word commands attention of an audience like you were conducting a band.
Art is the instrument for the eyes,
An abstract symphony of colours and sounds that becomes so profound it leaves them mesmerized.
As we spend each day in the body shop of life,
Carving out the future with a knife, chasing some kind of perfection,
With no direction or path to follow,
But you still hold out hope for tomorrow.
It's a hard pill to swallow,
You can't help it if sometimes you feel hollow,
Searching deep inside for the strength to bellow the words into the universe,
So they can disperse in hopes that someone will hear the echo.
In the gallery where they reveal your masterpiece to the masses,
The splashes of blood, sweat and tears smeared on the canvas;
Colours of sadness, madness and all of your bad habits blended together in a beautiful disaster of plaster;
On display forever after.
Life imitates art as the story unfurls,
Pick up your own pen and give it a whirl.

My name is Antony, I'm 35 years old and have Agenesis of the Corpus Callosum. Meaning since birth, I have been missing part of my brain. I have uses poetry as therapy, which I'm about to reveal in a poem you'll have to read to believe.
Look out for it shortly and I look forward to sharing some of the best poetry I've ever written to showcase to the world that even people with disabilities are capable of greatness.

As the day creeps on
And the night drags in.
Wondering if I will ever belong
Or even if I win.
It doesn't matter if I do
Or if I don't.
I can barely keep my head afloat...
Trying not to over think my thought
your dying sadness has only been brought.
I don't know how to get to the other side
Or even of there is one.
I can't sit still
No time to think
Like a river flows down stream
With you is my only dream.

In the jar where I let my thoughts flutter
Letting them go hurts
But feels so much better
When they begin to fill up too much of my sky
The light becomes so dim
The stars begin to die

Recently words have been pouring out of me. I don't feel comfortable sharing with people around me, so I hope I will be able to share them here. 🖤

Digging my hole as fast as I can go!

Yes

I'm new to this site and quite excited about joiniy

Hey. Im the new guy. Was just looking around for someplace to share some of my writing. Maybe someone may find it cathartic or relatable. Who knows?

Hi all, I had a small account some years ago on here and after a break from writing seemed to have found my way back, I look forward to reading some wonderful writes :)