Writing Prompt
Writings
Writings
POEM STARTER
Compose a poem about a poet
This can be yourself or your favourite poet (or poets in general)
Writings
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...
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 ...
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....
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.
...
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