Concerning the ranger;

he is both wild and careful.

The very woods he was hewn from, shake with magic — but he was not a craft of nature; he did not profess to control it either.

This striding stranger is the very essence of meekness, but not in sadness, in the choice to quiet down all of his tragedy even though he should not; the choice to stay silent though he is prone to be defiant and unconv...

I write poems every where i go

but I don’t consider myself a poet

I am not quite good enough for that

I wrote my first poem class

I wrote the next on an app

I wrote in books

And just now I am writing from the shower floor

I can write anywhere

ai can write here or there

Give me a paper and a pen

And let the magic begin

Words flow from my brain

through my body

merge with the ink

and the pen spit...

I wonder, at times

if I am worth reading

If my life is half the pages I pretend to write

Because the poetry that spills

Within the ink of this pen, I grip

Exists to emit what only others feel

The weight of their sorrow

While my pages remain unfilled

Like, death

I have written to the excess

That one might think I express that which exists within me

But I reflect those better versed in life

For...

Defining what the world means

Is what I do best

Poetry dripping,

thick through me

But words with little weight to anchor these pasted fillings

On the fresh pages left unfilled

I have written of love

That I have not felt

Of pain and sorrow

That has crept

tightly pressing onto my chest

I have written of death

To the excess

That one might think

I try to express a deep turmoil

That exists wit...

I snuffed me out / Or I thought I might.

Cross-legged on the floor: burn marks,

Charred / But I

Am melted wax

Seeping into my own /

Damned conscience.

Scorched.

Little boys burn brighter when they / Realise,

Time doesn't stop when you're extinguished.

Nobody waits if you slacken / So

Pack it up, man—

I picked me up / Or at least I tried.

I don't care

If you're burnt out;

Jack, be fucking nimbl...

To CS Lewis

Lewis, thou cretinous wretch,

in Christ’s peace might ye rest,

ye heaven-hued brother,

see how mine heart’s form

hath thine verse bothered

—— wherest Hephaestus’ gold-heat

hath now mine mind tempered,

and tampered have ye with mine

molten soul, thou’st poured me into

a peculiar mold, left me to cool, lifted mine form from thy forge and sharpened mine face with thou visage — brother...

The grief I hold for you is silent,

the tears poetry,

please,

spare me

inconstancy....

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...