Poetry.Behind every poem is a person,Poetry.6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
poetry is just a synonym for life story;
woven into every poem is some truth,
whether its the writers or to a scenario a writer connects to.
Poets want to convey parts of life in a few lines, sum everything up right.
Its like trying to grab sand, never being able to catch enough words on your page.
Poetry is also used to figure out the unknown,
used as a therapy and constant for all those who seek it.
If you know how you look for it.
But all good things eventually come to an end, as it must.
The curtain closes, pen capped and life goes on.
But there is always more to say in the next poem.
Incy, Wincy SpiderIncy, wincy spider climbed up the water spout.Incy, Wincy Spider6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Down came the bleach and washed the spider out.
Out came the spider's guts, they shrivelled in the rain;
And incy, wincy spider never climbed again.
The sound of silenceThe sound of silence,The sound of silence5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
Is so deafening,
That it makes my ears ring,
With the cacophony of my own insanity.
Some people live their lives like pencils.First,Some people live their lives like pencils.6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
But at the end,
and wipe out
7:40Said you'd meet me at the station,7:406 months ago in Traditional Fixed Forms More Like This
so I waited for the train,
the tunnels stretching out beyond my sight.
Footprints wet on tiled platform—
From above, the sound of rain
and muffled groans of thunder filled the night.
Then the seven-forty bellowed in
and, screeching, checked its pace;
from doors poured forth a horde in coats and cowls.
And I searched the rounded windows
for the angles of your face
but could not find you there, nor in the crowd.
Swiftly in and swiftly leaving,
with a shriek the engine fled,
tracks black and bare behind it: it was gone.
And the passengers pushed past me
to the spattered street ahead;
breath misting in the air, they hurried on.
Empty platform, empty station,
empty echoes on the stair—
No heart to leave, I faced the tracks alone.
But a voice behind called, "Emma?"
I turned, and you were there!
A smile split your tired face. "I'm home."
ArtArt is the most passionate love there is.Art5 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
It is not paint on canvas.
It is not words on a page.
It is not music through air.
It is not bricks on foundation.
It is not summer sunsets.
It is not snowy days.
Art is all of that.
Art is soul.
Art is what we make of it.
So take your creativity, hold it like a deadly weapon.
Know it's strength in your hands as you wield it.
Prepare yourself for Excalibur.
And prepare yourself for a Shot Gun.
Prepare yourself for the people who will proclaim that your weapons are futile.
And prepare for the look on their face as your weapon becomes their demise.
Because Art is Love.
And Love is War.
So suit up, Artists.
And march into the most beautiful battle you'll ever Fight.
ShipsDo you know why its a bad idea for ships to travel side by side over the sea?Ships5 months ago in Short Stories More Like This
They sat side by side, husband and wife, not touching. She sat perched on the edge of the sofa, as though she was scared to come into contact with anything solid. He, on the other hand, lay so far back that he was almost flat, as though hoped that the cushions would swallow him. He was wrapped in a blanket (he was always cold these days) whereas she just looked cold. Not as if she was cold, but as if she radiated it, as though it was some sort of negative heat. Neither of them looked at each other. They both acted as though the TV was their entire world.
The motion of the waves acts on the outer edge of each of the two ships.
"Do you still love me?" she said suddenly. He didn't reply. This wasn't particularly surprising, as she had been dead for a year now. She sighed, and he wriggled deeper under his blanket.
But the really interesting part is that each of the ships acts as a natural shield
SkinnyI wish you'd believe me,Skinny6 months ago in Free Verse More Like This
When I tell you you're pretty,
That you don't need to skip a meal or run 7 miles,
Just so you can be skinny,
You talk about how you hate yourself,
You wish you could be stunning, beautiful, gorgeous.
You think that if you looked like a model,
That you'd never be lonely,
Everyone would love you.
You think you d get that guy you ve been dreaming of,
Maybe mommy and daddy wouldn't be so harsh if they had a pretty little girl.
You re skin and bone,
But that is not good enough,
You need less and less,
And every pound that disappears,
You begin to lose yourself in a vicious cycle.
Until you re consumed and it eats away at you.
I beg you to listen to me,
I want you to know that you mean everything,
But you don't care,
And then when the ambulances came,
And carried you away...
There was nothing more I could say...
I guess you were unaware,
That you were already beautiful.