A Cure For Writer's BlockWhen your pen hits the paper and nothing comes outA Cure For Writer's Block3 years ago in Urban & Spoken Word More Like This
With a full cartridge, something's about.
Sitting there lonely staring off into space
You've got Writer's Block mate, it's a terrible case
The symptoms are some of the worse things to *bare
If left untreated, might as well say a prayer.
Diagnosing the problem is the first step to take
So let's get it started before it's too late.
Do you find yourself doing, the things you've put off?
Or watching TV late at night till you cough?
Dusting and cleaning. Hunting for food.
Surfing the net since you've found yourself glued.
Hanging out with friends all night long?
Getting them together for a night on the Town.
Or lying in bed staring off into space
Tossing something up till it hits you in the face.
This list of symptoms can go on and on
Keeping you busy for weeks, whilst mentally withdrawn.
Now on to the cure which you'll see,
It's really quite simple like *growing a tree
To Block means to stop, the ideas from flowing.
Get this barrica
Dream OnA dream can beDream On4 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
a passing thought;
a passionate ambition.
A dream can be
a battle fought;
a superficial mission.
A dream can be
a driving force;
a forgiving comfort.
A dream can be
a thriving source;
a deceitful consort.
A dream can thrill you;
drive you or kill you.
Beware of this, dreamers
and Dream On.
SleepInstead of ripping the covers off,Sleep3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Shaking it violently,
And forcing cold breakfast down its throat,
I wish they would carefully wake a sleeping poem
And ask it gentle questions
Before its dreams are forgotten
DenialDenial:Denial3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He stands before the mountains
and sighs, knowing that they reach toward the heavens
He begins his climb
his hands soon bloodied, his fingers digging into the hardened stone
He continues to drag himself
against the crags that scrape against his peeling skin
Unwilling to end his climb prematurely
though the rocks continue to slice into his flesh
Blood is drawn with a single desperate gasp
as pain rings out throughout his frame
His feet tremble and his hands grow numb
but still he continues to climb ever higher...
The winds threaten to throw him from the face of the mountain
and they slowly begin to waste him away
His body turns to dust and is scattered away amongst the clouds
But still he presses on!
Eventually, all that is left of this man
is a pair of hands clinging stubbornly to the rocks
and though the winds may blow, the man's spirit wills them on
Inch by painful inch they climb, undetered and utterly determined
For even if he lacks a body, even if he has nothing lef
Colours I Never TastedIt is not worth escaping over.Colours I Never Tasted3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
No, sometimes the sun rises lopsided in the horizon and the
clink of glasses against teeth sets irate neurones off in your mind cavity
and fireflies extinguish on car windscreens in rain storms. Sometimes
August drops down into lake reflections and sometimes October never
sends a breeze to whisper into your ears. But they teach you that all of
that is okay, even when you're watching sunflowers writhe towards the
sun with grey blankets over humid-day hair.
There will always be a dawn. Stay awake for it.
You are not truly living until you have breathed.
And by that, I mean, take two feet and place them on the path
or the grass and inhale April. it doesn't matter if it is not April,
imagine the dandelions and the daffodils and the soft bleat of lambs
and that fresh scent rushing past your nose in long car journeys,
the one that tugs your legs onto the map and tells you 'this is home,
all forty thousand kilometres of it'.
The world is your oyster. Be the pear
Sometimes I Lose ThingsSometimes I lose things.Sometimes I Lose Things3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Sometimes it's little things.
Things like my ipod or my keys.
Bobby pins and chapsticks often evanesce without warning or cause.
Sometimes I lose bigger things.
Things like my favorite sweater or my school bag.
Things like the reason I came into a room,
Or the memories of what I had for breakfast that morning.
Sometimes I lose my train of thought, or the point I was trying to make or an idea.
Sometimes I lose arguments.
Sometimes I lose friends.
I like to think all the things I lose go to the same place.
A plain white place full of hair ties and dollar store bracelets,
And I like to think they all wait there, patiently.
Wait there to be found.
One day I lost my passion.
It floated away like a helium balloon drifting toward the sun.
But I couldn't let it go.
I chased it into the sky,
Past the moon and the stars and the milky-way,
I followed it into the white place,
I faced a sea of bobby pins and hair ties and chap-sticks.
I faced all those lost arguments and id
I'm So TiredI'm so tired of crying,I'm So Tired3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
I'm so tired of loving,
I'm so tired of dying
inside my soul each day.
I'm so tired of hoping,
I'm so tired of dreaming,
I'm so tired of imagining.
It will never be real anyway.
I'm so tired of falling,
I'm so tired of failing,
I'm so tired of walking
when love is so far away.
I'm so tired of wishing,
I'm so tired of searching,
I'm so tired of remembering
those beautiful things you used to say.
I'm so tired of bleeding,
I'm so tired of yearning,
I'm so tired of living
in a world that's grey.
But most of all I'm tired,
of being the person I am,
I'm tired of my mistakes,
I'm tired of my broken heart.
I'm just so tired of being me.
all poets are used to deceitare you still savoringall poets are used to deceit3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
the taste of deceit
off the edge
of your limerick tongue?
you know what i mean
you "poet of unusual sorts,"
chaotic green eyes
and skin of pale misfortune
leaving scents of sweet seas when oceans
begin to spite you.
yes, your silent panthers,
loyal only to the sound of sonnets
of broken piano chords
and keys and torn six-strings.
those slithe things will
prove to you
that betrayal is just eight letters
of pleasure undercover.
it's these little beauties that
will make you see;
every liar was an artist
and every poet was a whore,
just till the point
they owned you no more.
every limerick was a trap
and every stroke a cry;
and my every little breath,
sweet deceit strolling by.
We are human.We are not perfect, we are not angelic.We are human.3 years ago in Concrete Poetry More Like This
We can be evil, but we are not demonic.
We are not Godly, though some might wish it.
We are only human, but no one will believe it.
I am myself, I am my own being.
I am not controlled, I am untamed and raging.
I am not normal, I am a freak; if you will.
I pride myself on this, I am not run of the mill.
I have some faults, as do we all.
But a few things I am a master of, as are we all.
We all have our fortés, our one special thing we're best at.
We are not Godly, but that doesn't mean we are any less than that.
We are all individuals, unique in our own way.
We are all good at one thing or another, we all have a perfect day.
We are not demonic or angelic, we are not Legion.
We are simply perfect in our imperfection; for we are human.
ShynessEverybody knows that feelingShyness3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Looking at somebody half dreaming
Thinking about what it would be like
If the two of you were alike
We don't want to face rejection
Fearing that we worsen our self reflection
When we talk to them all we can do is stutter
Sometimes we just need a little courage
Everybody has courage no matter what their age
So whenever you're feeling shy
Don't just stand there and sigh
Remember that just 20 seconds is enough
Even if it's all just bluff
Believe in yourself
Cause when it comes to love
You are the only person that could beat yourself
She's Not Your ToyShe's Not Your Toy:She's Not Your Toy3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Mmm, it's okay sweetie
Just stay quiet
It'll all be over soon...
Creaking springs and quiet eyes
Cold without emotion
The smell of fear is mixed with sweat
Breath like a churning ocean
The waves and tide will push and pull
as water fills the cave
The heart longs to stop itself
when there is nothing left to save
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday to you
Happy birthday dear Jenna
Happy birthday to you...
A shock of pain brings her back to the present
The muscular form above her contracting in the dark
She remembers now that her limbs are pinned
but she would not move them anyway...
Happy birthday sweetheart, you're older now
You've grown up well haven't you...
A single shuddering thrust means that everything has ended
and once again a wet worm is pressed to her lips
The weight lifts from her body, leaving red marks around the wrists
limbs denied blood begin to buzz softly as the silence suffocates
She will not move from here, because i
A ComparisonI do not dare to speak of familyA Comparison3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
When yours was torn apart so suddenly
I do not dare to speak of funerals
When you had to bury several friends
I do not speak of depressions and mental issues
When your demons had almost got you killed
I do not speak of the darkness I am fighting
Compared to your hell it's merely a shade
You all have faced greater horrors
Than I can ever imagine
I never felt such intense pain
I never was already dying
What right do I have to be weak
When you survived so much worse?
The ArtistThe artist knows that her teeth are a palette,The Artist3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
if only she could figure out the colour scheme
of her innermost thoughts. All she knows is that
they taste like Earl Grey with just a pinch of salt.
It jars her tastebuds and she paints a picture of seventy
shades of disapproval with a roll of her eyes, the slight
nod of her head. Two pupils widen when the brush slips and
injects colour - if only a burst - into swarms of grey
fruitflies lusting after an ashen peach.
She knows of all the colours in the spectrum
and knows their flavour, can persuade them to lay
on her page while she seduces them with detail.
She'll lend her ear to a box of paints as they crawl
into her thoughts and tell her to give them a life story.
She'll snap her brush when the sun between her teeth
bursts, shedding a million lights over a blank page.
Writers are all crazy, you know.Letters spill down from a canopy andWriters are all crazy, you know.3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
down the vines,
scatter across the margins to make
a story so divine.
There's a picture show
behind those eyes,
where a lake leaks stories
into a boat full of mad
but for those who think it's crazy
it really is quite sad.
on a rope swing,
between horror and once upon a time.
She obsesses over meter,
and nothing will quite rhyme.
She stares off into the
d i s t a n c e
trying to make some sense
of every idea that flocks her boat
and never will relent.
Her brain is constantly on
No EscapeNo Escape3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
Tried pressing escape
Still Sitting here...
Painted SkinPainted Skin:Painted Skin3 years ago in Free Verse More Like This
He smiles at you, as you enter the office;
Wearing eyeliner made of contempt and disdain.
His cheap cologne invades your nostrils immediately
And you quickly suppress a cough.
"Yes, yes, indeed we have to review this...er, many things are involved."
His face is powdered with a layer of self-importance;
Lips reddened by the polite harshness he spews.
His forked tongue flickers as he prattles on
And you're really getting quite tired.
"Oh I'm sorry! Of course, of course I understand; but my way is much better!"
You're getting really bored now, so you take a look around the room.
The expectation is to see it bedecked with acolades;
Yet bare walls, cold and empty, are all that greets you.
"Are you listening to me, I'm telling you why this isn't good enough. LISTEN TO ME!"
You take a look at the cup of coffee you were offered,
Cheap and lukewarm; you narrow your eyes.
"Is there a problem? I'm being honest, this is for YOUR OWN GOOD!"