My mother had always taught me to write about my feelings instead of sharing really personal things with others, so I spent many evenings writing in my diary, eating everything in the kitchen and waiting for Mr. Wrong to call.
quote by Cathy Guisewite
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Diary
There is someone who is there.
Someone who is near me.
And that is my Diary.
I can write my feelings through words.
I can express my thoughts,
Whenever I see my Diary.
I feel like writing not reading.
Starting from day and ending in night.
Whenever I get time.I will write.
Diary starts with letter D.
Feelings starts with letter F.
IF I bring this together.
It will be Deep feelings.
poem by Yash Pradhan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I talk to Simon, I write to him. I never used to write a diary. But now I'm writing a diary to him. I think it's not just me, but lots of others, family and friends, can still feel him around.
quote by Petra Nemcova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Writing Poetry
Some people write poetry
to fulfil their dream,
others write it as a personal diary.
While yet more write to protest.
Some write sonnets
for unfrequented love.
Some bring laughter
to sad faces somewhere,
while others dwell on memories
that they would like to share.
Some write of love, while
others write of God.
Write as you will on anything,
but the main point is that you write,
and give joy to all that will read.
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Many Can Teach Few Can Write
many can teach and be good teachers
some even aspiring excellent teachers
but few can image write wondrous words
who are now waiting among
those who have words worth writing
words waiting to be written?
writing will cost much
demanded much
then will cost yet more
a small fortune in wages
wages spent not made
still to be spent and yet
accumulative cost is nothing
for there are hunger hearts
minds waiting for these words
looking even searching
for quest sought words
therefore it matters not
if for a specific poem
or passage paragraph
only a few or one is searching
these thoughts
are important
still must be written
some of what we write
even much of what we write
is of no prime importance
but that small portion
which is important
that tiny potent seed
which is important
must be written
translate many can translate
some even translate
almost perfectly precise
but those writing
original thoughts
are far more precious
and their words
will also in their time
be sought after read
but there time is not yet
that which is not
written cannot
be read
therefore write
write
and write well
poem by Terence George Craddock
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Intro
My momma said
"It seemed like yesterday my brother
Said him was gunna leave here
Said he was gunna go and make some money himself"
See my brother wants still to be a rapper
And he can rap real good too
He use to have this book he carried around with him all the time
He use to call it a diary, He use to take it everwhere he went
One day he took it to church when we went to sunday school
And the pastor asked him "Boy, whats that you got in your hand"
And he said this is my diary
And the pastor told him that sinners couldn't have no diary (sinner)
My brother said he was lying, And my brother said if he couldn't have a diary
and he was a sinner, he would just call it a diary of a sinner (diary)
My momma told him don't worry bout what pastor says
My momma told him don't worry bout what nobody says
If that was your diary, that's gunna be your diary
Thats what my mamma said
He said he gonna turn it into an album, And I believe him too
I'm just waiting (One day) one day we gunna turn that radio on ....
[Music fades
song performed by by Petey Pablo
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Authorship
You say that father write a lot of books, but what he write I don't
understand.
He was reading to you all the evening, but could you really
make out what he meant?
What nice stores, mother, you can tell us! Why can't father
write like that, I wonder?
Did he never hear from his own mother stories of giants and
fairies and princesses?
Has he forgotten them all?
Often when he gets late for his bath you have to and call him
an hundred times.
You wait and keep his dishes warm for him, but he goes on
writing and forgets.
Father always plays at making books.
If ever I go to play in father's room, you come and call me,
"What a naughty child!"
If I make the slightest noise you say, "Don't you see that
father's at his work?"
What's the fun of always writing and writing?
When I take up father's pen or pencil and write upon his book
just as he does,-a,b,c,d,e,f,g,h,i,-why do you get cross with me
then, mother?
You never say a word when father writes.
When my father wastes such heaps of paper, mother, you don't
seem to mind at all.
But if I take only one sheet to take a boat with, you say,
"Child, how troublesome you are!"
What do you think of father's spoiling sheets and sheets of
paper with black marks all over both sides?
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Write Erase Write Erase
this is what happens to this poem
when you have nothing to write
tonight....write, erase, write, erase
you are waiting
for an inspiration that does not come
you keep on waiting and then something comes
you write it, you think about it, you read it and you find nothing
worth the letter you assign to it
then you erase it and you are honest enough to admit that there is nothing
beautiful
not even a purpose, and then you write the word again, you ponder, there is
nothing worth its existence
there is nothing to grow in that word chosen
you erase it again, you write it and then there is this space of thinking,
what is it? you ask. what is it really?
it is this denial.
this negation of
what you are
that keeps you writing.
you stand by the window. Look out
the road. You see a dog, and it is howling again
to the moon
and to the wrong tree
it is barking.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Dear Diary
Dear diary, what a day its been.
Dear diary, its been just like a dream.
Woke up late. wasnt where I should have been.
For goodness sake whats happening to me.
Write lightly, yours truly, dear diary.
It was cold outside my door.
So many people by the score.
Rushing around so senselessly.
They dont notice theres people like me.
Write lightly, yours truly, dear diary.
They dont know what theyre playing.
Theyve no way of knowing what the game is.
Still they carry on doing what they can.
Outside me, yours truly, dear diary.
Its over. will tomorrow be the same?
I know that theyre really not to blame.
If they wernt so blind then surely theyd see.
Theres a much better way for them to be.
Inside me, yours truly, dear diary.
.
.
.
Somebody exploded an h-bomb today.
But it wasnt anyone I knew.
song performed by by Moody Blues
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Surprise For Myself....
on his diary he writes:
dear diary
i have sacrificed a lot
years are like
layers of steel on my back
time is running fast
abnormally
on engineered days
canals are overflowing
with water
the cities are flooded
i am drowning
and yet how helpless
can i be
how dumb
not to call for professional
help or even
to talk to a close friend
about it
only to find that actually
i do not have any
of these
closer encounters
or needed
intimacies
tomorrow my dear diary
i will write more
courageously
i pray for more strength
more wisdom
tomorrow dear diary
i will surprise myself.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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I'm trying to get in the habit of, you know, picking up a book and learning how to write my feelings down, not my feelings but my thoughts, about things, and hopefully I'll moving toward the writing and directing thing soon.
quote by Corey Haim
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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041611G mom doesn't like way i write
i brought home my papers
with scrambled writing and
folded to look like unknown
bird or boat that really float
i could write my name not
my family name too long
i can't decide which hand
i will use for writing it seems
i can use them both at ease
so i have two gigantic pencil
my mom wasn't please with
so i hide my left hand under
***
i'm writing my recollection about
my mother as a reminder to mom's
that we kids does keep in mind
lots of things concerning our mom's
and of course we remember at
'MOTHER'S DAY'
poem by Manonton Dalan
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It Is Time To Write A Poem For My Soul
IT IS TIME TO WRITE A POEM FOR MY SOUL
It is time to write a poem for my soul-
To wake it up a bit this morning
So many errands have been done
So much walking and looking and buying and bringing
So much cleaning and eating and drinking
So many many physical things-
It is time to write a poem for my soul
And wake up a bit this morning
And come back to who I really am
When I feel I really am-
Writing a poem gives me my soul back-
And writing this I come home to who I am-
A poem is my soul
And I am writing it now.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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The Poems As Diary
to know me
there is no other but this poetry
to know poetry however
please do not read
my diary
for this diary may fail the standards
of your poetry
but at any rate everyday poetry is a diary
what makes us fume like a mad cow
what makes us whistle like a satisfied lover
what makes us surrender in defeat and shout victory in triumphs
little things and big things
all summed up
in this new thing: diary as poetry
and poetry as diary.
we do not even have to rhyme
does life rhyme at all my friend?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Diary Of Me
Umm pum-pum-pum
Pum-pum, pum-pum, pum-pum
Look behind myself
As I reflect on all the memories
The times they come and go
Lost everything from friends to Family
If I could turn back the hands
There would be some things I'd change about me
I know that my past is not what my future holds
Where I come from
Who could believe
All the pain and misery
Look in my eyes and you'll see
The diary of me
Rewind my life
Just go back and correct all the wrong
And ask God to direct my path
So that I can make it home
And if I could turn back the hands of time
There would be some things I would change about me
But I know that my past is not what my future holds
'Cause
Where I'm from
Who could believe
All the pain, misery
Look in my eyes and you will see
The diary of me
Years ago a child was born (a child was born) (ooh)
And raised without a man (without my... father, and wonder why he's in these streets) (ooh)
My mother's gone (mothers gone, yet still... found the strength to pray for me) (ooh)
But still reached out her hand
Just open the book (na-na-na-na-na-na)
Turn the pages of my life (na-na-na)
And you will read
A true story about one man's journey
Where I'm from (ahh...)
Who would believe, yeah
That all the hurt and pain and misery (ahh...)
Look in my eyes (ahh...)
You'll see the diary of me (pum-pum-pum-pum-pum)
Where I'm from (where I'm from, who could believe) (ahh...)
Who could believe (the hurt and pain and misery)
(Look in my eyes) in my eyes (and you will see) (ahh...)
(The makings of) the makings of
(My diary) my diary
(Where I'm from) look in my eyes (ahh...)
(Who could believe) you'll see
(The hurt and pain and misery)
(Look in my eyes) (ahh...)
(And you will see) yeah-yeah-yeah-yeah
(The makings of my diary)
(Where I'm from...) (ahh...)
song performed by by R. Kelly
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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An event to recall on Mother's Day - That mother is no one other than me
Summer evening
Sun still harsh
Me, then fourteen
My mother's younger sister
Came forward to tell
A story about a mother
Mumbai, then Bombay
Highrise residential quarters
Fourth floor
Big Hall
Two big bed rooms
Two baths
Big kitchen
Grill-less windows
Free flow of air
Lot natural light
A mother in the kitchen
Preparing food
For her husband
And their three sons
The youngest about two years old
Left on the kitchen table
Mother being busy around
The child not seen now
Mother realised just then
Would have slipped
Across the open window
She was right
The child has fallen
But on the sun shade
About four feet below
Her two year old son
On an open sun shade
Not less than forty feet
Above the ground level
No time to lose
No time waiting for help
From outside
Mother too slowly
Slipped about four feet onto the
Just two feet wide sun shade
Picked up the child
Put him onto the kitchen work table
Managed to climb back to her kitchen
I was thrilled
I was to ask a number of questions
One important being
Is the mother is so courageous
My aunt finished telling
That mother is no one other than me
And that son is no one other than
My third son
Both that mother and son
Are safe, living and active
poem by Bashyam Narayanan
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The Wicked Postman
Why do you sit there on the floor so quiet and silent, tell me,
mother dear?
The rain is coming in through the open window, making you all
wet, and you don't mind it.
Do you hear the gong striking four? It is time for my brother
to come home from school.
What has happened to you that you look so strange?
Haven't you got a letter from father today?
I saw the postman bringing letters in his bag for almost
everybody in the town.
Only father's letters he keeps to read himself. I am sure the
postman is a wicked man.
But don't be unhappy about that, mother dear.
Tomorrow is market day in the next village. You ask your maid
to buy some pens and papers.
I myself will write all father's letters; you will not find
a single mistake.
I shall write from A right up to K.
But, mother, why do you smile?
You don't believe that I can write as nicely as father does!
But I shall rule my paper carefully, and write all the letters
beautifully big.
When I finish my writing do you think I shall be so foolish
as father and drop it into the horrid postman's bag?
I shall bring it to you myself without waiting, and letter by
letter help you to read my writing.
I know the postman does not like to give you the really nice
letters.
poem by Rabindranath Tagore
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Mother Dear
Written by john curulewski
Lead vocals by john curulewski
Lonely feelings in the city
One room flat with crumbling walls
Sirens play a distant melody
Neon shadows paint the halls
In the thirteen months Ive spent here
With my manuscript and rhymes
Ive paid in cash for foolish pleasures
Mother dear youd call them crimes
Raise the roof
Light the lite
Mother dear Im returning tonight
Now I see
Your concern
Mother dear how you taught me to learn
I been a roman for survival
Showing two sides of my face
I need the comfort of your wisdom
Im coming home to your embrace
If by chance I pass before you
Dont discount my gratitude
Youre responsible for me here
And of course my attitude
Raise the roof
Light the lite
Mother dear Im returning tonight
Now I see
Your concern
Mother dear how you taught me to learn
Stayin up half the night
Wonderin if what Im doin is right
Raise the roof
Light the lite
Mother dear Im returning tonight
song performed by by Styx
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Revolution Poetry Is....!
Are you writing words of rhythm according to thoughts?
Or are you coining words of thoughts according to rhythm?
Or are you writing poetry both working at the same time?
Asking so, if they ask me how to write poetry, what shall I say?
Poetry writing is natural, spontaneous expression from heart!
How can this be taught to anyone to write poetry ever at all?
Poetry is a spontaneous flow of words direct from heart ever!
I wonder many a time how am I writing poetry at all ever!
But this is happening to my great surprise since longtime!
Due to engagements ever poetry only I am able to write
Though my aim in the beginning was writing stories.....,
Novels, short stories and nonfiction articles of criticism!
Poetry books too I have completed writing so since long
But what a pity there is no reception for poetry books...!
poem by Ramesh T A
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Jeannies Diary
How does our world spin
Without me and her nest
Could there really be
Such happiness
Oh, shes got a dark side too
Even murderous
But I love that
Just like here
I dont have a change at writing the book
I just wanna be a page
In jeannies diary
One single page
In jeannies diary
Yes I am intense
Maybe quite obsessed
Everything she does is curious
Oh, shes going to let me in
I just know its so
Then again, who do I kid
I dont have a prayer at writing the book
I just wanna be a page
In jeannies diary
One single page
In jeannies diary
She could have anything she wants
So why not me
She could have anything she dreams
Oh, to be one single page
One single page
One single page in jeannies dairy
song performed by by Eels
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Poem For My Mother
I need a mother who loves me, who understands me and is there for me
A shoulder to cry on, someone to rely on
But now I am older I can see you will never be
the things I need you to be.
a mother wouldn’t make you cry
a mother would never say good bye
a mother would never cause you so much pain
or call you all those horrible names
a mother wouldn’t tell you they want to die
a mother would never to try to control
a mother would give you all her heart and soul
Everyday I always try to keep all these thoughts and feelings at bay
but it has come to a point where I have to have my say
I needed a mother who would never close the door, but now that you have I realise that me and you are no more.
I live with the hope that one day you will see, how much hurt your words and actions over the years have caused me.
poem by Mis Understood
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