En.Citatepedia^®.ro

Liking Colours

I like the colours of the wall and mirror,
Lost in the entrance of a thought, beaten.
One of those ideas strikes me rich
As I write a letter to the government.

Haste and pleasure combine to irritate,
Wonderful sentences are colliding with paper;
Most words hit the floor from the roof,
The ceiling collapses from too many words.

The phrases are built at a strong rate,
Filling the dear old years with thoughts so bold.

poem by Naveed Akram
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The Mood

I'll simply be out shopping,
or just going for a run,
when words and phrases hit me,
and a poem has begun.

Sentences and lots of words,
go running through my mind,
and i know if i dont write them down,
my thoughts leave me behind.

So quick hand me some paper!
Just please give me that pen!
If i do not write this down soon,
the words will go again.

poem by Holly Smith
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
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Mirror, Mirror

(m. sembello/d. matkowsky)
Mirror, mirror
On the wall
You said you had the answers to it all
You never told me Id take a fall
Mirror, mirror
On the wall
You, you turned my life
Into a paperback novel
Words that come to life
Inside your little melodrama
Chapter one
When I was young
I came to you with my problems
Chapter two
You promised me love
And anything that I desired
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
thought you said you had the answers to it all
Never told me I was gonna take a fall
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
You have nailed my heart
Upon the wall for your pleasures
You have cast a spell
That cannot ever be broken
And now
My eyes grow tired
I watch my picture getting older
But i
Remain the same
Trapped in this mirror forever
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
thought you said you had the answers to it all
You never told me I was gonna take a fall
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
I talk to you each night
And I follow your advise
Youve been wrong
Whats the price I have to pay
For this fairy tale thing called love?
Let me go!
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
thought you said you had the answers to it all
Never told me I was gonna take a fall
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
thought you said you had the answers to it all
Never told me I was gonna take a fall
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
Let me go
Mirror, mirror
Mirror, mirror
Mirror, mirror
Mirror, mirror
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
thought you said you had the answers to it all
Never told me I was gonna take a fall
Tell me mirror, mirror on the wall
Tell me mirror
Tell me mirror
Tell me mirror
Tell me mirror

song performed by by Diana Ross
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Once Again I Write...

This pen, this paper is once again my savior.
I write to save my sanity.
I write to ease my heart.
I write to cleanse my soul.
I write to feel alive.
I write to keep my mind strong and my thoughts clear.
I write my words of sorrow, despair, pain, and love, as well as words of wisdom.
I write so that one day someone will truly know me.
This paper, this pen is once again my inspiration.
It is the inspiration to what I see.
It is the inspiration to what I hear.
It is the inspiration to what I feel.
It is the inspiration to the art I create.
It is the inspiration to what I draw.
It is the inspiration to the love for my daughter.
It is the inspiration to the love for my husband.
This pen, this paper is once again my savior.
Once again I write to say thank you my timeless friends.
Thank you for saving me time and time again.

poem by Sara Jo Andrews
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Liberty Sought For All

Words keep filling my brain.
I rarely write them down.
Because as soon as I empty my head.
Words start filling my brain again.

I can never empty my head.
For there remains too much unsaid.
Poignant thoughts, enlightened ideas, ideals.
Waiting for a poet to bring them to heal.

Words. Words. Words. Words. Words.
Whirling Whirling Whirling Whirling Words.
Waiting for a chosen moment, of precise creativity.
Waiting for a special moment, of ordained existence.

Waiting to transform
a corrupt materialistic world.
Waiting to put compassion
back into heartless hearts.

Waiting to restore love
vitality freedom and nobility.
Waiting to herald a new age
of heaven sent realized liberty.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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One Mans Ceiling Is Another Mans Floor

Words & music by paul simon
Theres been some hard feelings here
About some words that were said
Been some hard feelings here
And what is more
Theres been a bloody purple nose
And some bloody purple clothes
That were messing up the lobby floor
Its just apartment house rules
So all you partment fools
Remember: one mans ceiling is another mans floor!
One mans ceiling is another mans floor
Theres been some strange goins on
And some folks have come and gone
Like the elevator man dont work no more
I heard a racket in the hall
And I thought I heard a call
But I never opened up my door
Its just apartment house sense
Its like apartment rents
Remember: one mans ceiling is another mans floor!
One mans ceiling is another mans floor!
Theres an alley
In the back of my building
Where some people congregate in shame
I was walking with my dog
And the night was black with smog
When I thought I heard somebody
Call my name
Ah-- remember: one mans ceiling is another mans floor!
One mans ceiling is another mans floor!

song performed by by Paul Simon
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At A Loss For Words

Some time had passed since a verse had come to mind
a mental blockage I have had, nothing seemed to rhyme.
No words of creation the supply had gone
no thoughts, or imagination, nothing, not a one.

The source had stopped for some strange reason,
as though there was a break in the poetry season.
I tried and I tried, but nothing would come together,
not even with a change in the weather.

In the early hours I woke up and had to pick up a pen,
for some strange reason I began writing again.
It is quite odd and I’ll never get to know
why periods of poetry come and go.

But I’m thankful when words and lines come to me
it is as though they are sent telepathically.
It doesn’t matter if the poem is incorrect or good
or if it’s taken as silly, or is misunderstood.

As long as it relays that moment’s thought
an instinctive message that cannot be taught.
To me it doesn’t matter if its only two lines long,
or whether it has many verses, or even sounds wrong.

When thoughts of words or sentences come to mind
I have to write them down no matter the place or time.
If I don’t record the thought on paper right away
they become lost forever in the space of night and day.

poem by Orlando Belo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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As I work with my words as medium

I want to be profound
Deep, deeper than what i
Can possible swim

But I have seen
The limitations
Of words as medium
Of my thoughts
How can I put the
Color red
Of an apple
In words

Or the scent
Of lavender
In syllables

Here you are
Reading me
And I do not want
To disappoint
You, my reader

I want to create
A world of sensations
For such is the
World of poetry

I have long wanted
You to feel
My sadness in
Letters
My loneliness
In a single
Letter

This

i

Or...... ............................... me...................................

I want you to listen
To me
In the hush of the wind

In syllables

I want you to
Read my joys
In my phrases

Sometimes
I have given
You sentences
stanzas

I want you to
Be at home
With my words

But these are
Just words
And I must
Have failed
In bringing
Back to life

Your senses
Hopelessly
They have long
been dead

words, words, words,

And
Even this whole
Poem
Is not enough

Let me try
Again
On some
Coming
Illustrations

Birds falling
Their wings clipped

Leaves blown
Detached from
Their stems

Trees threatened
About the news
Of the coming storms

Oh I am so sorry
Your senses are sleeping

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thoughts Whirling

The need to write
Get rid of these mixes mass of thought
What to write?
Yes, something is amiss!
Talking is not enough
Yet thoughts whirling in my head
Unaware of revelling in the words
Which flow from this pen?
Still no words
Not sure what to write
Yet here it is
A whole massed mess of words
For all to read
Thought this medley of words
Brought some calmness
Shoulders more relaxed
Fragments of each thought
Clear as daylight
This muddled mass of thoughts
A verse created
By, a whirling mind

poem by Persian Khushi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thoughts Whirling

The need to write
Get rid of these mixes mass of thought
What to write?
Yes, something is amiss!
Talking is not enough
Yet thoughts whirling in my head
Unaware of revelling in the words
Which flow from this pen
Still no words
Not sure what to write
Yet here it is
A whole massed mess of words
For all to read
Thought this medley of words
Brought some calmness
Shoulders more relaxed
Fragments of each thought
Clear as daylight
This muddled mass of thoughts
A verse created
By, a whirling mind

poem by Persian Khushi
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Words, Words, Words

We seem to define words so as to use them,
Conquering the speech of another person;
Just to be a speaker is even better for a person
Than to read or write and practise scholarship.

We meet words carefully chosen by them and combine
To form sentences that will be recognised,
Thus the attached meaning is passed on;
Prosperity is the objective, success is marvellous.

Scholars are thinking men, relaxed by books,
They do not only speak, but look at the messages
From the written word, learning godly works,
Escaping blunders, escaping our mockery.

We are with fine words, words capture us,
Your vocabulary depends on your cleverness and intelligence,
So concoct the perfect sentences,
Invent the same language that we speak.

poem by Naveed Akram
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Words Of Some Sort

The balancing action of a few words wraps us in sin,
Sin has a way of telling others the whole secret.
The embroidery so sudden enacts the religious view and worship,
A word or two carried new meaning to the select.
A balance of words means new phrases and more sentences,
Sentences cause us to seep in thinking, more than you.
Those words are plentiful for the soul, in effect,
The affectionate soul marries to the other soul.
My acts are numbered by the absence of fondness
For words that encase a comprehension of some sort.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Suggestion Box

It was there on the wall,
a suggestion box,
painted white
as if to symbolize
purity or honesty.

He watched others
write on slips of paper
their suggestions
and then push them through
the thin slit at the top.

It gave some
a sense of satisfaction,
a small smile appeared,
a feeling of awkwardness in some,
maybe they thought
the suggestion dumb
or maybe they’d put in
a series of four letter words
to convey annoyance or grudge.

He didn’t write himself,
didn’t want to waste his time
with words that wouldn’t change a thing,
knowing that maybe when
the box was emptied
it was cast into the refuse bin
without an eye scanning
a single word or set alight
and left to burn.

He watched as others
put in their slips of paper
hoping for a change
or great improvement:
he chose no comment.

poem by Terry Collett
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The Young Letter Writer

Dear Sir, Dear Madam, or Dear Friend,
With ease are written at the top;
When those two happy words are penned,
A youthful writer oft will stop,

And bite his pen, and lift his eyes
As if he thinks to find in air
The wished-for following words, or tries
To fix his thoughts by fixëd stare.

But haply all in vain-the next
Two words may be so long before
They'll come, the writer, sore perplext,
Gives in despair the matter o'er;

And when maturer age he sees
With ready pen so swift inditing,
With envy he beholds the ease
Of long-accustomed letter-writing.

Courage, young friend; the time may be
When you attain maturer age,
Some young as you are now may see
You with like ease glide down a page.

Even then when you, to years a debtor,
In varied phrase your meanings wrap,
The welcomest words in all your letter
May be those two kind words at top.

poem by Charles Lamb
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Mania

Keep the paper blank,
do not write anything new.
Words were abducted earlier also
Let the truth speak from the folds
of dying clocks.

Fauns were searching the human
abodes for fake currency of truth. There
was no method in their method. Do you
find a pride in their attacks? A strange
militia had joined hands with sleep mafia.

My soul colours the half-black berries.
The sum will not eat them.
Father was beaten in war of tricks
I still follow the laws of kindness
in filling the extended empty cups.

poem by Satish Verma
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Brephos

Although it is easy for one to think, it is not always easy for one to write
Not all thoughts can be expressed into words, nor should they. Rousseau said in his solitary walks or was it his confessions? That his most beautiful thoughts died in him as quick as he thought them and how he at the time wished he had a pen in hand to write them all down. Those thoughts are dead, but perhaps those same thoughts are born in others written down somewhere in all of infinite time. Some thoughts like some lives are not meant to be born. The seed of this thought, watered by my serene tears, germinates in my soul as I write this letter. Still I can't find the words to express its beauty, its paradox, its mystery. The seed germinates but no plant is born, no flower blooms. For every child that isn't born, for every thought trapped in the moral order nature's thought; the ineffable, the unborn, the unknown, I hope one day you find expression and tell the world what you are and what beauty really is—To eloquence that never speaks, to thought that never thinks, to life that never lives, in my heart you speak, think and live.

poem by Kevin Michael Murphy
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The Magic Mirror

Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Who’s the fairest fair of all?
Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Who’s the smartest head of all?
Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Who’s that girl standing tall?
Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Who's to hold me when I fall?
Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Why are you not answering my call?

Oh mirror...

The lines and the scars you do not hide;
My scattered thoughts you would not guide.

Me myself and I; the gap so wide.
Oh mirror; you make me look inside!

You show me a girl against the tide,
By the rules she would not abide.

Within your frame, a caged spirit am I?
By your name, what voice have I?

Oh mirror … can you hear me?
My mirror is deceiving me!

I will show you my smile... will you let me?
A star in my eyes... will you get me?

I will show you a happy face... please let me!
A shelter from myself... please get me!

Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Do not show me her face;
I have killed her and left no trace.

Mirror … mirror on the wall,
She shall never stutter;
With a new voice, words she will utter.

Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Her fear you shall never show;
Fearless she is to know.

Mirror... mirror on the wall,
Do not point at her scars;
It hurts... not her scars.

Oh mirror...

There is no Santa but tell her not;
Dreams are dreams but wake her not.

She will give in... tell her not to.
She will give up... tell her not to.

Cruel mirror...

Why show me a figure so broken?
Why tell me words unspoken?

My mirror...
Every time I look at you
I miss a line in her face.

Every time I come to you
A part of her I erase.

Every time I need you
I abandon her grace.

So my mirror..

Where is the little fat girl that you used to show me?
Where are the frightened eyes that used to look at me?

Is she still hiding her smile with her hand?
Is she still looking for a magic wand?

You loved her not;
You loved me a lot!

Mirror … mirror on the wall,
What have I done?

Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Where has she gone?

Mirror … mirror on the wall,
Which way do I run?

Yes mirror...

How I wish I could give you my back
and never look at you again.

How I wish I could leave you on a rack
and never fall for your tricks again.

Oh mirror... Why can’t you lie?
Why don’t you tell me that I am the fairest fair of all?
Why don’t you tell me that I am the smartest head of all?
Why don’t you let me stand proud and tall?
Will you at least be there when I fall?
Oh … Mirror … mirror on the wall …
Why are you not answering my call?

poem by Marwa Rakha
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Writting

When i feel lost lonely and have nowhere to go,
the words keep me company and im a loner no more,
Letters come together in my minds free flowing from my
heart,
Two letters one letter many letters make up words,
Long words short word
bring up sentences that form up,
my concious wades throught them picking seeking to join
short and long and make it work,
No rules to my word play anything u want can stay a
concortion a work of art,
Am lost in emotions,
lost in expressions,
pronouns adjectives and nouns,
Lay them straight,
hang them down they still are need a flow to make a sweet
sound,
The rhyme,
the time is put into consideration when iplay with all my words,
My best friend is my pen, my paper and my head there is no limit to what i can,
Its a poem am at it a work of art in progress i love the work
of my hands...

poem by Kennedy Musyoka
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The Three a.m. Burst

I was woken in the early hours of this morning
by an overwhelming mental burst.
My mind bombarded me with random words
and compelled me to write poetic verse.

Words were branded upon my thoughts,
like initials on the hide of a steer.
But then strings of words in a jumbled mess
in different colours began to appear.

Like calculated numbers, words fell into place
adding their value to the score.
Another sentence brought another verse,
which begged for even more.

By breakfast time the burst was over,
the words had been laid to rest.
Several pieces of paper had been filled,
and my mind had been freed from stress.

poem by Orlando Belo
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Vellum

I write my name down on paper
paper that has a unrealistic desire
to be vellum

I read what I have written
for a sense of authenticity
more authentic than my image
reflected in a mirror stained with mildew
and toothpaste

The words on this paper
anyone can read
bums, whores, addicts,
homosexuals
intellectuals
and the broken old men
whose hope died
in the past

I write
but I don't speak
what I write
details what I see

The things I see
O, the things I see
could invoke suicidal tendencies
in a child who still believes
in Christmas carols
and hunting Moby Dick
whom rules the seas

How tragic it is
to let fleeting imagination
slowly die among the magic spelling
of the words we once spoke
on Christmas Eve

And now I sit
with the adulterated gift
of alcohol
and nicotine
writing down words on paper
whom wish to be vellum
but realistically
could never be

poem by Justin Tallman Gonzalez
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