Poetry

Where to begin?

Other than the waves of hatred,

There is only anger and pain.

Poems

They look at you with pity and fear

Knowing that they’ll be soon torn apart

And left with nothing but a fake meaning

Meaning

That was never there in the first place.

Why try to find meaning where there is none?

The way these poems are put through the depths of hell for our English class

Analyzing

Picki...

I hated the awkward classroom…

set pieces to study and interpret,

collections of old words;

stuffy and unexciting

I flunked the mock literature exam…

parental payment withheld,

works of the greats untouched;

only language class remained

Roll on many years…

experiences mounted, feelings rose,

language came to the fore…

poetry spilled onto the page

Intermittent waters have passed…

swirling seas ...

How does one become a

What makes one a

Who am I to call myself a

Poet?

How does one write

What makes my words

Who am I to say that I make

Poetry?

Meter

Couplet

Refrain

Rhythm

Stanza

Pentameter

Rhyme

Where is mine?

Free verse

Is worse

Give me

S R C U E

T U T R

Give me sestinas

Villanelles

Haiku and Sonnets

Limericks and odes

Ballads galore!

Break...

In a daze, I sit and stare,

I tap my pen, I scratch my head,

But all I hear is silence.

Perhaps I'll doodle or take a nap,

Anything to escape this writing trap!...

You write love poems with the meanings you could never say out loud,

Wax poetic from a page but never look in her eyes,

Far too arrogant a man who couldn't ever be proud

Of his smile without the lipstick and his toffee disguise.

As if you'd ever scrub your skin before the truth;

As if you'd ever let them see your ashened roots.

As if you'd ever sink to sobs-

As if you'd ever drink to drown-

As i...

I wish I could be a peice of poetry,

my vulnerabilities written on a page,

for people to read as my shames turn to beauty,

transfixed by the stanza in each framed stage.

Despair and longing turn to duties crushing ache,

my pains would become heartachingly real,

my mind described as the moon in the suns wake,

Where poetry makes horrible things have a ghastly appeal.

To be a poem is what I hunger ...

He writes and hopes that someday someone finds his broken thoughts.

He writes in hopes that someday someone might just care enough.

He write so someday someone says “I could have loved that boy.”

“I could have loved his rage, his hate, his jealousy and joy.”...

Language is a dream we believe

Whispers of the past

Like death’s melancholy murmur

Echo through the night

Thus we see the empty shadow of what was

The poet is just a disciple

Language, our god

Created by flawed man as expression

Used as a tome of truth and purity

What is it we crave so dearly?

What is it we seek?

Unknowing, we step forward as blind prophets guided by the hand of a broken god....

With pen in hand, I ponder where to start,

My mind brimming, instinct guides my heart.

I write all day and night, still not content,

I scrap a page, my message not well-sent.

I know what to write, yet my words won't flow,

I strive to express, let the emotions show....

It’s not always easy,

But it’s fun to write something cheesy. (Hehe)

——

Your writing is so impeccable,

Your mind must be a mess.

But that’s okay,

Because the best like off of stress.

“I write because I don’t know what I think,

I until I read what I say.”

“he is half my soul as a poet say.”

All these words,

Flow from the shyest, wisest, and the ones who cry.

Poets are hurt, loved, rejected.

...