if you are on the same boat with me. Come.
as you read these lines
(let me tell you, there is nothing
significant, and i may advise you
to quit and may even ask
that you write your own
instead
it may be good for you
than continue to read
on the next line...
why not write
something about yourself and the
full moon and the lonely tree
that needs badly a
good company to pass the dark
night away)
why not just be
on your own,
solitude and self-introspection?
the secret journey to your heart
looking for
the place that is only for you
happiness, right?
eternal bliss, how about it?
you are curious about my boredom
the ennui of the century
perhaps you like to know how i deal
with the numbness of my being
every night every day
when slowly i die and feel so excited
about ending this ordeal and
how i cope with it
yes, the it.
this it. my it. this self....
attempting on
writing lines
whatever lines that come into my mind
words that try to please my senses
symbols that give me hope
figures of gods who may be able to say
something wise and
inspiring,
images. lots of images...
the image of the wind
on the wings of the seagulls
the colors changing on the horizon
like a swab of orange and red and black
or blood
or pastel green on the shadows of the hills
or the brightness of the sun when i stare at it and hurt my eyes
and then i close them
and see this world as all red
bursting red
like a sunset coming
and then fading away like a song
of a flute faraway
i wish i could stop writing
i wish that i could get a nice sleep
a restive mind
a peaceful state
a harmony of all my sense
up and down
but nothing seems to work right for me
i tried to sing the songs of love
but my ears say
liar! you do not have love in your heart
you do not know the feeling anymore
i tried drawing my thoughts and putting bright colors
on the images of green fields and blues skies
and stars and even seven moons of the other planets
but always they end up so displeasing
i am looking for the meaning of my life and if you are
on the same boat with me
then come and take the ride
on the stormy sea
no lamplight
no island to land
no north star to guide us
i ask you to quit reading but you are just like me
hardheaded human being insisting that there is meaning to all these
and the inability to stop
and be a quitter
quieter, i mean.
hopefully.
in the silence of the cat's feet
cautiously catching another prey
let me stop now. quit me.
Look at the sky. Do you see stars?
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
I Fear My Own Silence
I FEAR MY OWN SILENCE
I fear my own silence
I fear the end in life in writing
Before my life has ended-
I force myself to go on
I feel my own inadequacy
I feel I am writing poor lines.
I sense it would make more sense to stop
I should stop
I can’t stop
I need to write
Even if my writing is only the scribbling of an amateur fool who has wasted his life in words and more words
I write this now in the darkness before the morning has begun
Will I walk to Shul this morning justified?
Or do I know these lines now too
More of the same self- indulgent nonsense
No one needs but myself?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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When You Read This
when you read this
poem, i am letting you know
that i still care,
when you continue reading on
the next line
you are letting me know
what i still know
that you still care for me too
and then you are angry
about how presumptuous can i be
and so i make another line
and another line and if you continue reading
more of these lines
in this poem
you are letting me know
that you are still angry about
my untimely departure
that moment when love was
still strong
when desire was at its peak
and then you think things over
how you have been
unwittingly betrayed by my words
and you keep on
reflecting if these lines still
say the same
meanings and i keep on writing
more lines
hoping that you will understand
what i have not said
because i cannot say them
because my self
cannot lie by saying them to
you because i do not wish to
hurt you because i still
love you and then i write lines
that ask
if you still love me but then
i must put an end to all
these useless writing
time has spoken
as the lines of fate and
destiny still have it
we were never meant for
each other
the love is there
the bodies still alive
our hands never reach
till then
perhaps in the next life
at the right moment
perhaps when
our parallel lives meet
at some point
of convergence
and as you read let me put
the last line: goodbye
May God make us
meet and love again.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Perfect Perfect Poem
Imagine that God asked you to write the perfect poem.
You sat down at the table, pen and paper at the ready.
You let your mind drift, as if in gentle wholesome prayer.
You wait for some guidance as to the main theme.
Into your mind came the title. How? You could not say.
Yet there it was, as if it were your destiny... your duty...
You write the title down and pause to think about it...
Into your mind come images, unbidden, unrehearsed.
Images unfolding, as from some midnight dream.
You think you should write down the first line.
You force the first verse to fit your new desire.
The words work well and you are warmly pleased.
With a faithful heart, you press on with joy.
The images continue and more words flow...
Who is the writer now? Who is leading the pen?
You are puzzled as the images stop suddenly.
You are given time to catch up, so all is well.
The words become eloquent, bold and fanciful.
The story becomes more than what is first known.
A hidden meaning has yet to be revealed.
You sense it is on its way and you strain to know it.
What can it be? Is it a secret from the Lord?
Is it a precious prophecy, is it a holy revelation?
And you tremble, with eyes closed tight, waiting.
'Tell me! ' you plead with God... 'Tell me! '
Then the secret comes and all you see is light.
White hot burning light, the essence of God's glory.
It is fitting to kneel in the presence of Christ.
Behold the Son of the Most High, the risen Lord...
And all that was written before means nothing.
Now is the time for revelation, for the Lord speaks.
And you are truly ready, for now is the time to write.
poem by Denis Martindale
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Dear Friend
i always love to write, as early as
gradeschool when we were classmates
while you were playing and chasing and stumbling
i just sat on the grass of the playground under a tree and scribble anything
and read a lot about some stories with lots of pictures
and colors of fairies and kings and queens and butterflies and bees,
i do not stop writing, in fact, writing has become my life
that without words i may die an instant death
i dream that i have written novels and stories and lots of poems
i wake up with some ideas like some seeds that i want to sow
and grow in the field and see them become shrubs and trees and forests
and i keep on this life writing and writing and writing and writing
for writing's sake and i wish i may live longer so i may write
some more, some sequels of my love stories and suspense thrillers
and write finally all the poems that are inside my mind
hanging like ripe grapes and creeping like vines on my fence
as i am writing now as you always want to read me
until such time my friend that i will die, or end my life myself (who knows?)
(i will not talk about it now, it is something bizarre and makes me
shiver, but who knows, well you know, all are but possibilities and nothing
but possibilities in this vast wide world of realities and dreams)
there is something i must say somehow
there is something that i must have forgotten, i have not written about myself
i have always written about them, about you, about the world,
please do not refuse me, stop playing with your life,
gradeschool ended
a long time ago, i have one and ultimate request:
write the story of my life, because it is you who only knows about it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Liberty
On my school notebooks
On my desk and on the trees
On the sands of snow
I write your name
On the pages I have read
On all the white pages
Stone, blood, paper or ash
I write your name
On the images of gold
On the weapons of the warriors
On the crown of the king
I write your name
On the jungle and the desert
On the nest and on the brier
On the echo of my childhood
I write your name
On all my scarves of blue
On the moist sunlit swamps
On the living lake of moonlight
I write your name
On the fields, on the horizon
On the birds’ wings
And on the mill of shadows
I write your name
On each whiff of daybreak
On the sea, on the boats
On the demented mountaintop
I write your name
On the froth of the cloud
On the sweat of the storm
On the dense rain and the flat
I write your name
On the flickering figures
On the bells of colors
On the natural truth
I write your name
On the high paths
On the deployed routes
On the crowd-thronged square
I write your name
On the lamp which is lit
On the lamp which isn’t
On my reunited thoughts
I write your name
On a fruit cut in two
Of my mirror and my chamber
On my bed, an empty shell
I write your name
On my dog, greathearted and greedy
On his pricked-up ears
On his blundering paws
I write your name
On the latch of my door
On those familiar objects
On the torrents of a good fire
I write your name
On the harmony of the flesh
On the faces of my friends
On each outstretched hand
I write your name
On the window of surprises
On a pair of expectant lips
In a state far deeper than silence
I write your name
On my crumbled hiding-places
On my sunken lighthouses
On my walls and my ennui
I write your name
On abstraction without desire
On naked solitude
On the marches of death
I write your name
And for the want of a word
I renew my life
For I was born to know you
To name you
Liberty.
poem by Paul Eluard
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Write A Poem In Utter Simplicity
do not complicate
what is obvious
to our senses
our sense of touch
does not require
so many words
feel and write
do not ever think some more
it will just be painful
watch the images
pass
just a glance
do not stare much
there will be so much
glare
so much light
injuring your eyes
in a moment
of truth
close your eyes
and then
open your heart
it will be restful
like a good night's sleep
a nice dream
where harsh reason
cannot have
dominion
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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If You Read
If you read me
In my lines you begin
To understand what
I write about &
Perhaps what I am
That would be
So ordinary
A matter only of clarification.
If you read me, however
Carefully
in between
My lines,
and go deeper
To hidden symbols
And find some meanings
You will find
something
Else, something not
Me but sounding like
Me and you will begin to have doubts
If it is really me
Or I am just
Bluffing
Misleading you
For something else
So that you
Do not grasp me
At all,
and if you begin
to
Doubt it,
well, it could be that it was
Done on purpose
i
Wanting to achieve
A little
dramatization
Of what I am,
For some little
Thrills
Some gigs
Or gimmicks
We all love these
Tragic plays
Most of the
The time.
But sometimes,
For you to know me
I write about you,
You are
in some lines
talking about me,
and it is quite
challenging,
me finding you
to elaborate me,
and this one
would be a little bit
complicated,
You become
so confused
And even be paranoid
About this twist of
Things
Some turning points
Which may
Even be mistaken
As an identity
Crisis or a mental
Disorder,
Why do I have
To be spoken of
By another
Personality
As you or any other
Organism,
Sometimes a bird,
Or a fish,
Or even things in nature,
Like a cloud,
Or the wind, or the
Sea, or the
Sun or even the coldness
Of the night,
Where I can always
Be there in such
A hazy form
Or in opaque shapes,
And yet so essentially me
And so very like us,
And such questions as
Why
May even be answered
In that kind
Of reading,
About me
And you
And this world where we are always
In a situation.
Well I do not wish
To complicate matters more
Like this is some kind
Of a treasure hunt
With lots of signs
And symbols
And some missing links,
In a sense
I want clarity,
I need simplicity,
To drive my points clear
So that when you read
Me in short crisp lines
You grasp me directly
Like
A traffic sign
Red for stop
Green for go
And yellow for a while,
But in truth,
Things and matters and me and you
Are not that really simple
And as such
We cannot be so simplistic
And at the same time
Do justice to this and that
This you and me, this world,
But perhaps reading
Is not just that,
Not just knowing me
Or reducing me to a
Simple conclusion,
Reading me
Could simply be an enjoyment
Or a plain reading
For curiosity or
Even for just a perusal,
As I am not even
Worth reading at all,
A waste of your
Precious time,
You are busy,
But some lines may strike
You or shake you
Or develop a certain
Familiarity, of such things
Like this once happened to me
Or that I once said these lines
Or that I once thought
The same thoughts,
A sense of home
A sense of déjà vu
A sense of I am just like you
In the same situation,
That we are on the same boat
On a stormy sea, tossed
By this fate,
This commonality of failures,
And so you are
Interested for common reasons,
In a way that I search for myself,
You are also searching for
Yourself,
And once I talk of this
Loneliness, this sickness
Unto death, you ring a bell,
You are also
Feeling the same,
And we come together
Searching for the cure,
Or you at the end,
Would simply be
Wishing that we will have the same
Kind of fate,
A survival,
A victory,
A success,
A shout for joy, a shout for discovery.
But on the other hand,
that would be so
Selfish and we do not
Glorify selfishness,
as it
Is not a commendable
trait,
We humans are
humanitarian
We always care,
we always love
We always have
affection
For another, so
If you read me,
really, as a
Good natured
human being
With a soul,
You read me,
With sympathy,
You empathize
You cry in sad poem,
You laugh
In humorous ones,
You get
Glorified in glorious ones,
you
Become a part of me,
and I become a
part of you,
well,
being
One with each other,
but, I still
Doubt it,
you read,
because
You simply check whether
This poem is good,
or making some
Sense,
or this poet
makes a
Mark for good poetry,
which
To me, is nothing but
Hypocrisy,
utilitarian,
and
Too
academic.
In truth,
I write,
not wanting
To be read,
not so inviting to
Any reader,
You read me
With a risk
But if you read me,
I am telling you,
Frankly,
I do not invite you,
You came
You gate crashed
Me, and you are
Never my guest
You are simply
misinformed,
coming here,
I do not know
You and
you do not
know me, and
I will fault you
For this intrusion,
And that would be
Too arrogant
& cruel of me
telling you
to stop reading
and leave me
at once.
Well
Actually, this is it
If you read me
As you read this poem
Just read,
For no purpose,
No vested
Interest,
You read,
Because you have nothing to do
With me
And I have
Nothing to do with you
We have nothing
To do with
All these
This life
This poetry
It is
Not because
You are hunting for
Some animals,
Put them on a cage
Or kill them
For meat
Or consider the stuffed heads
The tigers and
lions and
Gazelles
as your trophies of your adventures
on a safari of life
Or marks of your
Civilized cruelty
You are here because
you just pass by
And want to read
this poem
for a while
You read
me
in passing,
I see you passing by…..
It is a matter of feeling not knowing me at all.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Writing Is Never A Race
writing is never a race
no one minds who wins and loses
a true writer does not mind if there are laurels on his mind.
one writes because there is something inside you that blooms
and wilts and dies and grows
some seeds without names yet
some leaves serrated and veins protruding like pathways
to your sorrows and pains and joys and bliss
comets carrying their own tails, stars exploding in their own energies,
suns keeping themselves at the centers of their universes,
snakes molting on their seasons, cocoons turning into butterflies.
writing is a round ring without an end
no one quits, no one can, and if you say you quit,
you only quit for a day, for tomorrow when you wake up
your hands start to miss the keys again
your tongue filled with words, your heart filled with emotions
and there is no one in your house who can listen.
writing is such a bad neighbor. It is aloof and never thinks what others
think of him. It is self-sustaining and survives and thrives on its own.
Like the light of the sun, it never fails to shine. I mean, this inspiration to write.
It does not quit. It does not quench itself with all the waters of this world.
It is this insatiability that takes us all here.
It is this human nature with its incomplete divinity that keeps us writing.
it is this boat that sails towards infinity that keeps me always waiting.
I write because I am.
Quit and you lose the essence of your being.
I am telling you, when you quit, you accept the judgment of death.
The penalty is banishment.
I heard. Total annihilation.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Valediction....
it was never me
there is never a part of me that was there
you have misinterpreted the truth about those characters of the novel,
the words in that poem
the metaphors are outdated
refer to another reality,
the reality that i have carried upon my shoulders
i am the horse, not that horseman,
i am not the star, i am just the asteroid at the background
i am the silence between your sighs,
do not read my silence,
you will find a word that cannot stand for me,
i am not even that tail of that great meteor that comes to your life
once in a century
it is not me that you see in those flowing words,
they are those pieces of undecided driftwood that i pick from the great flood
those dry falling leaves that land on my forehead
from the great tree of life
do you really have to find pieces of myself in those lines to make
the write-up interesting to you?
i am so sorry
call me a liar, but that is the truth
there is truth in empathy
there is truth in putting our feet in some other people's shoes
that is what literature is all about
read some more and be discouraged
fathom and then
be enlightened about the sufferings of others
their miseries that soon shall provide you company
when you sit upon a chair with a smoke in your left hand
and a margarita (or black coffee) on your right
upon an empty table
facing the sea
witnessing the beautiful fading
on another sunset
in your life
do not wish that i shall be there
oh, i have long been gone into another island
do not attempt to find me
i am not there anymore.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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A Silent Conversation With Myself
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face.
That is the best way to speak.
This is what is life is all about.
Speechless. Alone always.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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This Is Mumbling This Is Rambling
do not care to read me carefully, just skim over
some words that may call your preferential attention.
do not mind the smaller ideas, or the images that
you find hard to imagine. They may not be images
after all but just blotches of my stains, the negligence
of my trembling fingers, the lapses of my brains,
the slip of my tongues, the cliches of humanity,
seeking meaning in the meaninglessness of words.
this is mumbling, this is plain rambling
do not ever mind what i am writing. this is not about you.
or myself, or the society that like sheep simply graze on the grass
not knowing that on the next step is the landmine that kills them,
or why look for the meaning of loneliness in words or lines or poetry.
are you going home tonight? on a train. sit there. look over the window.
see the line of trees, do they shout at you? No.
and move your eyes, as though you are scrolling for names on the
cell phone, like roving camera, you do not have to look that far on the
20th person sitting across the other side.
someone is sitting next to you. listen to his silence.
feel the vibrations of all his problems. try to unmask the cover of his face.
are there words covering his face? none.
or if words cover his face and body, try reading them all silently.
most of the truths are not said. Not even written. You always see them
next to you. Be it on the train, the bus or the plane. Or simply when you
walk along the cemented paths of the park. Here comes another
lost soul. Talk to him. Do not write poetry.
this is mumbling this is plain rumbling. Do not speak poetry.
write them and let them cover your face. That is the best way to speak.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Poem I Am Writing Now
The poem I am writing now
does not know if it will be finished
it does not even know if it will be a poem -
it is slowly appearing line by line
and making its own meaning on the page-
Is it worth anything?
will anyone care?
I don't know -
The poem I am writing now
is just these lines
and these lines like all lines
are only small words
in a vast universe
that has long lived
and will probably longer live
without them.
Why then write these words now?
The poem I am writing now is saying,
'I am here now'.
But why should this mean anything to anyone else?
The poem I have written here
is not the poem I would have posted here
It is only the poem I am finishing now
a poem without great love or belief in itself.
The poem I am writing now
is written.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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God is GOOD.
somehow it is not all
about love, it will be sometimes a shame
if you
know all about these
i must tell you since i am about to burst
and i can be a disaster
i do not want a world annihilated
by my silence
i will say a word and i will not stop right there
i will describe a place there is a bridge there
between us
the boat is in my hand i will carry it to you
you will sleep like the water
i love it and i see it i am mesmerized
it sees me but it does not feel it keeps on doing what it does
it stops finally like a movie
and i the fanatic haVE to arrive at my senses and sing my song
the wall hears it and wants to shed tears
it is a very lonely song that even the wood can easily understand
i must stop telling you
my lips are shameless and my head is about to crack
there is an understanding and it is inside the heart of
our solitude
now you understand but i am not walking away
i am staying in the name of life and its colors
let the man in black wait
as i begin to count my fingers for the last days of my life
the boat is ready and the weather is fine
the afternoon is cold like wood with misty dress
i am writing a letter to my best friend who died
a month ago
and i am telling him i am staying for a while
i put the famous postscript that i keep on reminding him
when he was alive stormed in so much depression
life is beautiful
God is good.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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And So I'm Writing...
I'm hard-pressed for time,
yet I do have the heart
And so I'm writing
Know not what to pen down,
have a paper to write on
And so I'm writing
May be I'll write about 'you and me'
Or may be of 'us and them'
Feel like playing with words
And so I'm writing
May be that starving beggar's hungry looks
Or that homeless Child's beckoning eyes
Are making me scribble these lines to you
And so I'm writing
May be you'll find my words vague
Or you might decipher a meaning
Intend to leave you in the oblivion
And so I'm writing
Whatever might be the impression I create
Wish to see its reflection on your soul
And leave an imprint on your mind
And so I'm writing
May be you and I've become immune
To the pathos of mankind
Or may be there's still
A dropp of humanity flowing deep within us
Wish to arouse 'The Human Being' in you
And so I'm writing...
poem by Aparna Chatterjee
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Notes From The Night
Rilke once said
if he spent all of his life
studying and working
he hoped to
be able to write
four good lines of poetry
think i'll quit writing
grow a big garden,
cut and stack wood
for all who are cold
save as many stray dogs
as i can
spend a lot of time
playing with and listening to
small children
and sit with as many
old people left alone
to die as i can
read Rilke daily,
and drink a lot of
black coffee
and hope like hell
that just before i die
i can write one good line
of poetry
i'd be happy with that!
poem by Eric Cockrell
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Poetess
now that you have awakened from the deep slumber
you shall rise and meet this bright morning
do you see the sun rising from the thighs of the mountain?
do you hear the songs of birds from the mouths of the caves?
do you see how the trees dance to the caresses of the winds?
do you feel the coolness of the dew hanging on the blades of grass
as they all touch the soles of your feet?
they have been waiting for you
they are the images of your poetry
they are the symbols of your greatness
my dear poetess, how can you ever stop writing the words?
how can you ever stop to sing the songs of beauty?
how can you ever deny the true nature of your being?
my dear poetess, you must begin to write again
in all these, you shall not die.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Teach Them How To Fish
you may give them fish
but for how long will you be giving them fish? for how long will you fish yourself?
teach them how to fish and they will also teach others how to fish.
that is wiser that way.
teach them poetry at first. let them read the easiest one to understand. let them
see the beauty of the simplest lines from you and from the poet that you love.
teach them how to write one from the fingers of their hand. love their work and tell them how beautiful are they. there is always beauty in every personalized line. i know.i am telling you. your lines speak what is in your heart and everything
inside our hearts are always innately beautiful
let them read their lines. let them speak the meaning that they are hiding in there. that which you have never seen yourself. let them defend beauty and grace and truth in their own work. beauty and truth and goodness have to be
defended by its creator too.
listen. open your mind. listen attentively.
teacher. listen to them. they are now making their own.
love each work.
teacher listen. now they are teaching you. now you are learning some more.
they have their own wings now.
teacher, see the sky. see them. oh how beautiful are they. they are all flying
and singing. do not wish them to come back to you. let them fly away.let them see the big wide world. let them find the other universes.
they are not yours. they belong to themselves. they are now free.
that is your happiness that even the gods cannot give you.
sit back. and write another poem for another batch. some more. some time.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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She Is Sleepless, She Is Probing
They read your lines
They perhaps like you
They try to read you
In between
she is sleepless
And she pities you
she is probing
And she writes for you too
And you feel so honored
Comes our arrogance
You say you write
Only for yourself
For art’s sake
You say you cannot
Write for no other
You say you cannot
Stop writing
Your essence is just that
To write for no other
To write or you die
Be kind
Let them read you through the night
Let them follow you
Warn them though
They may have followed
A blind man eking his way through
His darkness
Without even a cane to feel his way.
The Virgin Mary
And Veronica
The crying mother
And the cloth to wipe a bloody face
Don’t stretch further
There is no Christ in me.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Why Do I Write
I write from my sadness
I write from the madness
I write because I have something to say
I write to pass the day
I write only from the heart
I write for sometimes I am not that smart
Whatever is in head just comes out on paper (in this case a word document) , and I go with the flow
Write to let my mind go
I follow my hand to where ever it takes me
I write all the things that I can see
I write when I am happy, but not as much
I write from my heart that you can touch
I write because I’d go insane
I am driven to write quell my pain
At times I feel alone so I write what I am feeling
I write for it is self-healing
Confident not so I write it all away
I write and write to pass the day
I write to comfort my soul that cries out in the night
I write for love is always out of sight
I write so I don't have to cry any more
I write for I have no one to adore
I write so someone somewhere will hear my plea
I write for someone is out there for me
I am lost and I the clown
I write to turn my frown upside down
I write to embrace the sadness I hide inside
I write with my heart opened wide
I write to silence the ghost
I write for I’ve been let down by the one I loved the most
I write through the stormy weather
I write for I am light as a feather
I am not a writer nor am I a poet
I write for the grief I do know it
I will write until I draw my last breath
I write because I'll die a lonely death
I have to write for strangers delight
I write because I have to write
I write for my own happiness
I write to relieve my stress
I write because I have no other choice
I write as if I was writing a letter
I write because I can’t do any better
I write because I am afraid not to
I write for this is what I do
I write for I give a damn
I write just because I am
poem by Wilfred Mellers
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Read Between The Lines
Uh hu
You got to read between the lines
You got to read between the lines
You got to read between the lines
Ah ah ah ah
Late afternoon
Its the sun going down
A call on the cell
Why is he in such a hurry
Leaving the room
Hes mumbling too
Now look what hes doing
Hes leaving out the room
No explanation
No ask for location
Just watching him pacing
Wonder who hes chasing
Looks like versation
The end of debation
Hed love to go swing and
(chorus)
You better open your mind
And read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Hot in the morning
Im up waiting for breakfast
Know your getting restless
This fool is full of questions
Little replying
Whole lot of denying
Instead I feel life in
So why do you keep on trying
Touch for the median
Now hes a comedian
Thats all the more reason
Its changing like the season
Are you still pleasing
How soon youll be leaving
Which one hell be creeping
(chorus)
(bridge)
Your replies are getting old
Its in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Your replies again told
Look in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Your replies are getting old
Its in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Your replies again told
Look in his eyes
Youve got to read between the lines
Dont really think your pulling one over me
Cause i
I know whats going on
Dont hope you wont be planning on running me
Cause ah cause ah
Ill be gone
Dont really think your pulling one over me
Cause i
I know whats going on
Dont hope you wont be planning on runing me
Cause ah cause ah
Ill be gone
Cause youre thinking
Your ___ aint mistaken
My temperatures peaking
Now why is you barely speaking
Busting his bubble
And he knows hes in trouble
Hes talking in doubles
I listen to him hardly believing
Changing the story
And trying to ignore me
Still reaching out for me
Still aint no point in reaching
Give me a reason
To put you back on the line
You wasted enough time
I had to open my mind
And read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
Got to read between the lines
(bridge repete 2xs)
song performed by by Aaliyah
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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