My Heart Writes
Unending words flow through me
like streams of water-
My heart writes not to tell
the world Im broken,
that he should shed some tears for me.
But it writes to tell
the world my failures...
and that somehow
he would learn from them.
Broken words that know forever
flow through me like streams of water-
My heart writes not to show
the world I need him,
and that he should praise me more.
But it writes to tell
the world the lessons
I wish I knew before.
poem by Jessel Jane Tevar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Must
She writes as if there’s not much time.
She writes to pain, to happiness,
She writes to every remote detailed thought.
She writes to the departed,
to the extant,
to poverty,
to wealth.
She writes to mourn, and grief.
She writes to the wind, the rain,
forest, the desert, and mountains.
She writes to her pouring tears,
to her grateful moments,
She writes because really what she has is time.
She has no little ones to feed, or bathe,
nor a husband to make happy. To write is
to escape- to her. Time is not a problem, time
is just a killing system, she needs to kill in many words.
She writes as if there’s not much time.
poem by Elenushka Toledo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Happy Words To Love 2011
Kee writes to you,
My dearest,
Happy new year for you to be blessed,
you writes the best
really blessed if writes from the heart....
You penned few lines on my our book
The harvest of god and prayer words on dreams
Somewhere, you keep my heart and its burns
a kiss of your words....
To see no further than ……
And now our psalm
And a smell of fiery word in this poem
your writes little is the best....
I love our greatness in its charm..
happy new year to you dearest
Sincerely wish happy to all, loves the fiery words in our poems
Kee thampi
poem by Thampi KEE
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Happy New Year To You 2011
Kee writes to you,
My dearest,
Happy new year for you to be blessed,
you writes the best
really blessed if writes from the heart....
You penned few lines on my our book
The harvest of god and prayer words on dreams
Somewhere, you keep my heart and its burns
a kiss of your words....
To see no further than ……
And now our psalm
And a smell of fiery word in this poem
your writes little is the best....
I love our greatness in its charm..
happy new year to you dearest
Sincerely wish you happy new year,
you loves our poems on god
Kee thampi
poem by Thampi KEE
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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He's A Man of His Word
He contemplates life
In general who people are
Or what things are
What is it all about?
He likes to learn
From those of us
With knowledge
Of the here and now
And of the past
He taps away
At his keyboard
As he reads
As he writes
And discovered
To his knowledge
That it helps him
To be a better man
His words are immaculate
Even words I've never heard
But when he writes his poetry
It has meaning to each word
The man is so humble
On what he writes
On what he feels
And on how he preserves others
And their words
I bow to thee Kevin Patrick
Who is a man?
Of his every word
poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Their Kind Of Books
You are somebody's wife and now,
Somebody's husband is using you;
But, is this what you call love? !
You are somebody's husband and now,
Somebody's wife is sleeping with you;
But, is this what you call love? !
What kind of world is this?
Is this the kind of love or lust that you want?
What kind of garden of Eden is this?
Is this what you call lust or love?
Oh, what a shame! ! !
A lady sleeps with a president and writes a book about it,
A man kills a woman ans writes a book about it,
A thief robs a bank and writes a book about it,
A man sleeps with somebody's wife and writes a book about it,
A flirt sleeps with different people and writes a book about it,
A kidnapper is very successful with his or her acts and writes a book about it,
A woman kills a man and writes a book about it,
And so on and so forth as we seen in this world;
But, sin is like enjoyment to these people in this Garden of Eden!
And now, thier kind of books are all over the stores in this world for sale.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Poem about Poetry - I know how God writes his poem
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the delicate, artistic and
defining lines of every flower
petals, pistil, stamen, pollens,
fragrant and scents that fill the air
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the ray of the sun
that reveals their metaphors
and rhymes in the rain
an arc over the clear blue sky
i know how god writes his poem
it is in your eyes, two lakes of honey
that sail me into your warm saccharine world
dilating and constricting to let them
speak more volume to my my lovelorn heart
i know how god writes his poem
it is in the dazzling lines of the sea
that shows the sky how many ways
it can define and redefine itself
it is in the breeze that pulls off a dancer
twirling towards me in every direction
poem by John Tiong Chunghoo
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Reflections 101
he writes not because
he wants to be read and
be understood
got him wrong really
he writes because he likes
to live
life writes upon himself
and so he writes upon life too.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Desire To Know You
First World,
Second World,
A Third World call when a bard writes;
Flow with my mind and let us rule the world.
In my mind,
In my world,
With my views to teach many;
The desire to know you matters to me.
To appreciate it,
To love it,
A Third World call when a bard writes;
The hope to work with you.
Of a world full of questions and answers,
Of the love of the muse that muses;
To swim with an empty bowl at hand with,
The vision still in mind.
Together we live, together we can make it;
Two heads are better than one.
First World,
Second World,
Write like a writer and teach like a teacher;
Two heads are better than one.
Indoors and outdoors activities,
The comedy of one's life;
There are no distances in friendship.
Together we live, together we camn make it;
Like the actions of one's move.
To appreciate it and to love it,
To write it and to learn from it,
A world full of questions and answers;
The desire to know you matters to me.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Angel of Darkness
The Angel sits and writes
Writing out how she feels
Tears stream down her face
No one knows why
No one can see a dark, lonely angel
But a white, crystal angel
As the angel writes out her words,
No one can see her world
Her world of sorrow and pain
Blood is on the paper
Her dark soul can be seen
You can see her world
Full of ashes; nothing that can grow
You can see the full moon
Reflecting on her pale face
The angel can scream
Without making any noise
The angel can cry,
Without shedding a tear
The angel can hurt,
Without feeling anything inside
Because my emotions
Now are here…..
poem by Krystal Galvis
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Book Of Suleika - The Loving One Again
WRITES he in Neski,
Faithfully speaks he;
Writes he in Tali,
Joy to give, seeks he:
Writes he in either,
Good!--for he loves!
poem by Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
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Master Of The Word
He writes with his feelings
Integrity in ever word
His poems make you think
About the why's in this world
As you read each one
You think
Been there done that before
But alas I can not say
Much about the wars
His eyes has seen
So much strife
Something I've yet to learn
I suppose I can say honestly
He's a true master with words
Respectfully I say to thee
Keep up the words you speak
I seam to be learning more
Of the world we paint with pens
With heart felt respect
I say to thee master of the words
His name is Eric Crockell
A true poet of the world
poem by Kaila George
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Poet Writes Of Poems And Poets And Poetry
THE POET WRITES OF POEMS AND POETS AND POETRY
The poet writes of poems and poets and poetry,
And the world goes by
And nothing is done.
And the sky- the sky.
Is it still above?
And Love and Kindness
Are they still deep in us,
Words or not?
Without Poetry the world does not exist for the poet-
But for others,
Dreams have other names,
And Music plays on,
And singing and laughter
Go on as the Beauty of Light.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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My heart beats her waves at the shore of the world and writes upon it her signature in tears with the words, "I love thee."
aphorism by Rabindranath Tagore from Stray Birds (1916), translated by Rabindranath Tagore
Submitted by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Honest Questions
Can you see
Honest questions in my heart this hour
opening like a flower
To the rain?
And do you know the silent sorrows
of a never ending journey
through the pain?
Do you see a brighter day for me?
Another day?
A day?
Do you wonder what's in store for me?
The cure for me?
The way?
Oh look down 'n see the tears I've cried
The lives I've lived
The deaths I've died
But you've died them too
And all for me
and you say (faded)
"I will pour my water down
upon a thirsty barren land
and streams will flow from the dust of
your bruised and broken soul
You will grow like the grass
upon the fertile plains of Asia by the streams
of living water,
You will grow, Oh, You will grow"
Do you know
The story from the start?
and do you know me
like you've always told me?
Do you see
the whispers in my heart against your kindness
my eternal blindness
Do you see?
Do you see a brighter day for me?
Another day?
A day?
Do you wonder what's in store for me?
The cure for me?
The way?
Oh look down see the tears I've cried
The lives I've lived
The deaths I've died
But you've died them too
And all for me
and you say (faded)
"I will pour my water down
upon a thirsty barren land
and streams will flow from the dust of
your bruised and broken soul
You will grow like the grass
upon the fertile plains of Asia by the streams
of living water,
You will grow, Oh, You will grow"
"I will pour my water down
upon a thirsty barren land
and streams will flow from the dust of
your bruised and broken soul
You will grow like the grass
upon the fertile plains of Asia by the streams
of living water,
You will grow, Oh, You will grow
song performed by by Daniel Bedingfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Swim Submerged
FLYING flocks travel in flight,
another faulkner puts down his
shovel, and writes, writes, and
writes,
spare me the out cry,
spare me the empty familiar,
spare me muddled spirits,
and write the words with your
own red blood,
FLYING flocks travel in flight,
sextan turns up, with her freind
plath, and they both begine to
write, write, and write, yippee,
says the words, for these words
will end up in a paper back book.
poem by David Gerardino
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ballad Of ‘Memo’ Roy
For JoAnn
Who in conversation inspired this little ditty.
This is the Ballad of ‘Memo’ Roy
the fastest memos in the world.
Roy writes a memo every minute
just to remind himself what to do.
He even writes one to tell himself
he must visit the loo.
It all started many years ago
when the doctor told Roy
he was suffering from
short-term memory loss.
Now he writes memos
to remind himself to write a memo
for everything he must do.
He writes one late at night
to remind him
to get up in the morning
and one in the morning
to remind him to go to bed at night.
It is estimated he writes
quite a few hundred memos everyday.
His house is filed with little bits
of yellow paper stuck up here and there.
He couldn’t watch TV
even if he wanted to.
There are s many memos on it
you can’t see the screen.
One day his pen ran out
and no memos he could write.
He couldn’t even write a memo
to remind himself to buy a pen.
Then he found a pencil
and shouted that will do.
Now he is able to write memos to himself
to tell himself what to do.
As far as I know,
he hasn’t written a memo
to remind himself to sharpen
the pencil once and a while.
28 February 2008
poem by David Harris
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Broken Heart
a broken heart
you search
for metaphor
to begin with
collins?
yes, you got
it
a broken
wing
it cannot fly
but i prefer
a wing
clipped
like paper
or a wind
without wings
or a wing
without
the wind
or wingless winds
or windless
wings
the point
is
one can always be right
for as long
as one feels
for as long
as one
still writes
for as long as one still attempts to write what one feels
and feels what he writes for as long as longing still longs
a broken wing
can always be a broken heart
a metaphor to always begin with
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Master Shakespeare
Quill in hand I see him so
A vision of him I there see
Word by word he writes on
No other can replace he
Master Shakespeare
A poet of Devine perfection
He writes and writes along
What an excellent inspiration
His words will continue on
Master Shakespeare
Magic in your very hand
No other takes your place
You I admire with my life
So full of love and grace
Master Shakespeare
poem by Suelynn Walters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Written in Black Ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her story
Her experiences
Her life
Written in
Black ink
Upon
The tear-stained
Paper
She writes
Writes,
Her sorrows
People she lost
People who are gone
Written in
Black ink
She writes for
Days and
Days
Until
At last
Her masterpiece
Is finished
Her eyes Begin to
Close and
Oblivion Takes hold
And when she
Awakens
Her story will be written
Written in black ink
poem by Autumn Winds
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