The Very Best Of Their Addicting Fictions
A writer who plays with politics,
Is not the same,
As a politician who writes...
To have people read to see it known,
The very best of their addicting fictions told.
And a writer who recites to speak,
May sound as if he could preach.
And from pulpits quote...
The very best of their addicting fictions told.
And no one would ever know.
With eyes closed,
Who should they follow.
Who is perceived to lead.
With eyes closed.
And who...
Eventually is discovered to have credibility,
With the telling of the truth.
Words delivered as they are and not dressed,
In a tailored suit and silk tie with spit shined shoes.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Paperback Writer
(LennonMcCartney)
Paperback writer
Dear Sir or Madam, will you read my book?
It took me years to write, will you take a look?
It's based on a novel by a man named Lear
And I need a job, so I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's the dirty story of a dirty man
And his clinging wife doesn't understand
His son is working for the Daily Mail
It's a steady job but he wants to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
It's a thousand pages, give or take a few
I'll be writing more in a week or two
I can make it longer if you like the style
I can change it round and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
If you really like it you can have the rights
It could make a million for you overnight
If you must return it, you can send it here
But I need a break and I want to be a paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer
Paperback writer, paperback writer (fade out)
song performed by by Paul McCartney
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Closed Book
A book unopened
leaves words to die.
A book unopened
leaves words to lie
in perpetuity,
never alive, never free
to deliver its thoughts
for any to see.
Who was the writer?
What did he pen?
The absence of readers
are lost and then
the book lies quietly
on a shelf
and maybe all by itself it knows.
It will never be opened.
It will always be closed,
just like some people
who won't open up
and speak their words to you.
Their life is something
you'll never know,
something you won't view.
For they are a closed book too.
poem by Edwina Reizer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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With A Wish To Get A Bigger Bang
Boom, boom, boom.
Children listening to their videos.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With the sound plugged in their ears.
And boom, boom, boom.
Violence is for them addicting,
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom, boom, boom.
Children listening to their videos.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Spilling blood and guts are nothing,
To the kids who love it much.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
It's a thrill for them to see somebody getting killed,
And...
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
And for them it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom.
Children listening to their videos.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
With the sound plugged in their ears.
And boom, boom, boom.
Violence is for them addicting,
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Boom, boom, boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Violence is for them addicting,
And it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom.
With a wish to get a bigger bang.
Violence is for them addicting,
And it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom...
A game addicting and insane!
Violence is for them addicting,
And it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom...
A game addicting and insane!
Violence is for them addicting,
And it's nothing but a game.
Boom, boom, boom...
A game addicting and insane!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writer's gift
The flow of ink in the writer’s pen
The flow of thoughts in the writer’s mind
A golden thread joining the sweet words
An enduring garland fresh with thoughts
A precious gem, worthier than gold
An epic in itself, the writer’s gift
No word is spoken, yet the tale is told
His mind speaks, his heart speaks
He blows life in each of his creation
The verses breath, the verses speak
The writer dies, yet the verses live
poem by Kavitha Krishnamurthy
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Mine Eyes
Sometimes we say before we speak
It's funny how we so bold
Without a word the words are still heard
Somehow the eyes they told
Isn't it funny how we can be
Such creatures of such mystery
All that we are and what's true in our hearts
Through our eyes we can so clearly see
Oh the mysteries within our own souls
We hide so others wont know
But in the end and in the blink of an eye
Your eyes on you they told
Isn't it funny how life can be
Isn't it funny about you and me
Such creatures we are we tell on our hearts
Our eyes have so learned to speak
Sometimes we say without a word
Our eyes so tell the truth
Can you see mine eyes so telling on me
Can you see that I so love you.
2006 Bill Simmons
poem by Bill Simmons
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Superman
you've been on my mind and I don't think I have the time
to listen to your voice
I've heard it all before, it's been seeping through the floor
shut behind closed doors
but I can see right through you now
the beneficial lies are told to keep us with closed eyes
shading what's in store
I guess it's up to me to find the luck and turn the key
and open up these doors but I can see right through you now....
ah yeah I'm superman
a three-piece suit and master plan
here I come to save the day
ah yeah I'm superman
a three-piece suit and master plan
here I come to save the day
well you've been on my mind and I don't think I have the time
to listen to your voice
I've heard it all before, it's been seeping through the floor
shut behind closed doors
but I can see right through you now
ah yeah I'm superman
a three-piece suit and master plan
here I come to save the day
ah yeah I'm superman
a three-piece suit and master plan
here I come to save the day
I don't want to follow
you can't make me follow
I don't want to follow
you cant make me follow now
ah yeah I'm superman
a three-piece suit and master plan
here I come to save the day
ah yeah I'm superman
a three-piece suit and master plan
here I come to save the day
song performed by by Unwritten Law
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Wonderful Remark
How can you stand the silence
That pervades when we all cry?
How can you watch the violence
That erupts before your eyes?
How can you tell us something
Just to keep us hangin' on?
Something that just don't mean nothing
When we see it you are gone
Clinging to some other rainbow
While we're standing, waiting in the cold
Telling us the same old story
Knowing time is growing old.
That was a wonderful remark
I had my eyes closed in the dark
I sighed a million sighs
I told a million lies - to myself - to myself
How can we listen to you
When we know your talk is cheap?
How can we ever question
Why we give more and you keep?
How can your empty laughter
Fill a room like ours with joy
When you're only playing with us
Like a child does with a toy?
How can we ever feel the freedom
Or the flame lit by the spark
How can we ever come out even
When reality is stark?
That was a wonderful remark
I had my eyes closed in the dark - yeah
I sighed a million sighs
I told a million lies - to myself - to myself
Baby to myse - e - e - elf
(etc. to fade)
song performed by by Van Morrison
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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What a Writer Has to Say
It baffles my understanding.
Why would one writer
Ask from another
To give an opinion of what has been created?
It baffles my understanding.
How separate experiences...
With no connection,
Can be thought related?
It baffles my understanding.
When a request is made...
To have another writer read,
And rate
What a writer has to say!
As if what is said...
Would change thoughts
In another's head.
Or expand a point of view.
Isn't that what readers often do...
When they wish to expand their insights too!
But when a writer writes...
Shouldn't those visions,
Be the ones writers pursue?
As narrow or as broad...
With an imagination left,
Unrestricted to cruise!
I am baffled by this...
'Read me, please!
And rate me', business...
Persisted and enlisted.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Emphatically Expressed
A writer doesn't write to attract readers.
Maybe gossip columnists do.
To sell images and ruin a few.
But a writer who is true,
Writes because that is what writers do.
I wrote years before anything I wrote was read.
It wasn't to impress.
Those issues express about me,
Have long been put to rest in my head.
If something I write is read...
I hope a connection is made from what I've said.
Some also make claims they too like to write.
And I say to myself,
'Liking and loving are different appetites.'
No one who 'is' a writer takes it 'light'.
And those who feel this way...
May stay up night after night,
After many a sleepless night.
And it isn't for fame or money.
Trust me on that.
And I thank God what I do isn't done for the glory.
That's another story.
However,
When my contributions do become discovered...
It will be 'seen' there is some depthness meant.
Something within me that seems never to be solved.
Something with content I can not just dissolve.
And there is nothing to glorify,
When someone who writes for nourishment...
To feed others,
Do not think themselves to eat or drink.
Not when a thought comes to possess their minds,
With a desire to be completed.
Coming with a sensation one should heed.
And most of the time this is the writer's deed.
Whether the one who 'writes' gets a wink of sleep,
Or blinks.
And no matter if what is written is accepted,
Or thought to be rejected and stinks!
This kind of discipline...
Does not seek to reach for that attention!
Unless,
Money becomes mentioned.
And only then,
Of course...
What I have just emphatically expressed,
You have my permission to ignore.
Since my intention will take upon another direction,
To excite my need to explore...
With a more deepened Introspection.
I do write.
But biting into a good meal,
Intrigues!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Eyes... Have It!
Eyes closed
we kissed
against as the sunset
only once
during this eternity
I dared to
open my eyes
to see if you closed your eyes
when you kissed
to see the flying scarlet
of your hair unfurled
against the sunset
like a banner of love
bleeding into the sky.
Later you told me you too
had sought this answer
squinting at the impossible
question
& were pleased to see
my eyes shut tight too
& that my eyelashes
trembled
& seemed impossibly beautifully
long.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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The Writer's Pen
Today is the writer's pen but,
Yesterday was the lying pens of the scribes!
Read it yourself in Jeremiah chapter eight verse eight;
Because, they've changed the laws.
What then do we expect to come out when tomorrow comes?
Most of our own writers today are afraid to tell the truth,
And they are blind leaders of the blind.
Of my imaginations,
Of my words,
Like a Doctor of letters to make the world go round;
They have prophesied but, i am fulfilling the message.
My mind is true,
My council is positive,
And i am the writer's pen with a vision on a mission;
They have written but, i am now telling the truth!
Like a locust that eats the grass.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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The Writer's Ink
I am the writer's ink,
So just write with me without any fear;
I will move more than expected,
I will write more than expected,
I am the writer's ink.
Use me slowly or even faster,
I will talk more than expected;
I do have the message to teach everyone.
Of the beauty of communication,
I am used by everyone;
I am the writer's ink,
I do make people sad or glad;
My ink makes rulers sad,
My ink makes personalities sad,
My ink makes the common man sad,
The way i am used matters.
I am the writer's ink,
I am not expensive;
Buy me and use me always.
How can a country like Ghana be poor? !
Ghana has gold, oil, cocoa and timber;
There are also diamond, bauxite and other minerals;
How then can Ghana be poor? !
The writer's ink should tell us more.
Mismanagement is the food in the country,
Ghana has really more than it needs;
This country shouldn't be poor.
What the leaders say on air is not,
What we see on the ground;
I am the talkative ready to talk.
I am the writer's ink,
I will always speak the truth!
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Pusher Of Words
I've been made effectively invisible for years.
Considered a fool who jokes.
And not to be taken seriously.
Afterall...
I am just a writer.
A pusher of words.
Not a politician.
Or a minister who preaches.
Nor am I a thief.
So what possible influence could I have?
When I speak...
Few remember what has been heard.
Or read at their convenience.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Everybody Wake Up
Everybody wake up
If your living with your eyes closed
See the man with the bomb in his hand
Everybody wake up
Oh baby its not easy sometimes
But built these walls
ever hide and hide behind them
Seems we not wait and try and make things right
Oh i feel like im crazy sometimes
Everybody wake up
If your living with your eyes closed
See the man with the bomb in his hand
Everybody wake up
I remember the words of a misguided fool
do unto others as you want them to do
not an eye for an eye is the golden rule
just leaves a room full of blind men
....
see the pig dressed in his finest fine
..
as the daylights sucked with fire
Everybody wake up
Everybody wake up
Everybody wake up
Wake up
Everybody wake up
If your livin with your eyes closed
See the man with the bun in his hand
Everybody wake up
song performed by by Dave Matthews Band
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Which Sickness Is Preferred
If it helps to heal,
Why would sugar be added...
To the naturalness of anything tasted,
Concealing its true identity?
When eventually a curiosity will seek truth.
With a creating of havoc,
That could have been avoided.
Are factors attached to control issues,
THAT addicting...
To keep a people seeking chaos,
As a means that keeps them with beliefs...
A power over others is theirs to have eternally?
Is a sickness more dangerous than any weapon used.
How thick are the heads of those mindless?
And to what degree are their beliefs twisted?
And...
What is it on 'this' Earth,
Is perceived by anyone is theirs forever to keep?
Devastation, annihilation, with nonexistence?
To leave behind no human evidence?
Which sickness is preferred,
To implement by these mentally diseased creatures?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Writer- a must?
Out of what does a writer write?
Out of hatred or perversion;
Out of denial or deprivation.
Why does a writer write?
To vent his anger or hatred.
To cry out from pain or lust.
How does a writer write?
By borrowing or distorting.
By modeling or duping.
For what does a writer write?
For an applause and a place.
It alone suits him, an idler.
What is the use of a writer?
For him to flaunt his skill.
For readers to idle away
Does the society need a writer?
Does a woman need cosmetics?
Writer is a part of civilization
16.05.2007.
poem by Rm. Shanmugam Chettiar
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I wanted to be a writer from my early teenage years, but I never told anyone. Writers, in my opinion, were god-like creatures, and to say I was striving to be a writer would be incredibly arrogant.
quote by Tim Cahill
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Black Art
A woman who writes feels too much,
those trances and portents!
As if cycles and children and islands
weren't enough; as if mourners and gossips
and vegetables were never enough.
She thinks she can warn the stars.
A writer is essentially a spy.
Dear love, I am that girl.
A man who writes knows too much,
such spells and fetiches!
As if erections and congresses and products
weren't enough; as if machines and galleons
and wars were never enough.
With used furniture he makes a tree.
A writer is essentially a crook.
Dear love, you are that man.
Never loving ourselves,
hating even our shoes and our hats,
we love each other, precious, precious.
Our hands are light blue and gentle.
Our eyes are full of terrible confessions.
But when we marry,
the children leave in disgust.
There is too much food and no one left over
to eat up all the weird abundance.
poem by Anne Sexton
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The Writer and The Soldier
The Writer and The Soldier
By
Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
The writer writes a sad lament for the love that he lost long
ago,
The soldier mourns the loss of a fellow slain long ago.
The writer has lead and ink on his hands,
The soldier has blood on his.
The writer can wash away the pigments and with them his
memory’s go, but the soldier can only wash the blood on his
skin; he can not wash the blood on his heart nor
The memory’s in his mind,
Burned into his mind with canon fire and the cries of
His falling comrades.
Oh,
When the two meet, they give to each other much needed gifts;
The writer gives the soldier understanding and a few happy
tales to think of when tears try to strike him down,
And the soldier gives the writer a new sad lament to write, and
a new meaning to the word friendship.
Written August 14,2008
poem by Tolly Rebeka Christian BlackWolf Hawk
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Stronger Than Me
So you closed your eyes in the morning
You said you want to start smoking again
You said you had that dream last night
Of the stranger in your room
You said you want to start making new friends
Well I'd found some peace
You want release
You must be stronger than me
I don't know how you can take it
Invest your heart and then you break it
I don't know how you can set it free
You must be stronger than me
Set it up but it's not perfect
Tear it down cause it's not worth it
If someone else can light your mystery
They must be stronger than me
So I closed my eyes at midnight
Cinderella must go home
But the map was burned
And I've taken a wrong turn
And I found myself alone
I'm tired of this war
I don't want to fight no more
You must be stronger than me
So it's too late then
You could have told me when
Living died and passion lied
Now you're a refugee
Well if it's what you need
Run away from the truth you see
You must be stronger than me
song performed by by Melissa Etheridge
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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