En.Citatepedia^®.ro

The Hands Of Whom We Love

what i have been writing is simply
the product of
a big distraction

it is like the blind
writing about light

i hear it and i know it
but i cannot clearly see it
and hence
i have never fully understood it

if i understood it
i shall not bother writing about it

this doubt shall make me live to write for more
i have it in my tongue but it slips the moment i want to utter it

behind me are scenes of my rumored true being
i set it aside for a while to describe it in words

but words are too shallow
i cannot bury my feet on them

and so the same things happen
night after night

sleepless after sleepless hands
groping for a dark and elusive fish in space

i submerge into unfathomable madness
do not get me wrong i am sane as the brightest star tonight

but just like it
there is no intimacy
for clarity

there is only beauty at a distance
like the way we wish to hold the hands of whom we love

we long that much but
we do not die.....

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Tonight Is The Night

writing the burning away
finally I feel I can say things are okay
the darkness is gone once more
high on pedestal are the gods
looking down upon us with envy
for we can feel whats isn't internally real
so fragile eyes
so much love in disguise
a soul wound up so tight
tonight is the night
listen to me a as i speak
I'm writing the burning away
I'm sorry for the delay
i should have said so much so long ago
it too late but still it must be said
cause its all in my heart and
its time it takes the lead
its time to bury the greed
and humility just pure honesty
I loved you
even as you went left I went right
still things must be set right
tonight is the night
writing the burning away
i wish i could stay
but passion is igniting the desire
I look to you and admire
so strong is the temptation of going another constellation
god how much aggravation can come from instincts so right
tonight is the night
tonight is the night
ohhh the night baby the night
were making things alright
tonight is the night
writing the burning away
this is a risky game we play
but in the end I'm not afraid
I'm the knight so brave
I better behave for i know things can wait
slowly this road i shall take
the closer i get to the moons gate
the less I feel the hate
the hole is gone at the break of this dawn
a winter set so perfect
falling to the lust i just might
tonight is the night the night we make things alright

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writing On The Wall

Words and music by rick nielsen
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
Lo and behold, heard it on the radio.
It was a long time comin, but it sounds so sweet, come on, man, get off my back.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
In the midwest and in the east.
Canada, southwest, around the world,
L.a., tokyo, sounds so sweet,
Come on honey, get on your feet.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
The words were oh, so...
The words were oh, so clear.
All right, I saw the writing on the wall.
All night, I saw the writing on the wall,
I saw the writing on the wall.
Lo and behold, heard it on the radio.
It was a long time comin, but it sounds so sweet, come on, man, get off my back.
Saw it at the airport, it was on t.v.
Read it in a magazine, runnin down the street.
Makes no sense, but I hope its gonna last,
The next big thing, I really gotta laugh.
Worked and slaved and played like hell,
Everybodys goin crazy, youre the last to know.
Cant explain it, still a joke to me,
Maybe Im naive, cause its so plain to see.
Its right in front of your face, man.
Its right in front of your face, man.
Played like hell, whoa!
Played like hell, whoa!

song performed by by Cheap Trick
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Not The Poem Then

NOT THE POEM THEN

Not the poem then
Although it can be the poem
Writing
Simply writing
This is the duty and the meaning
And the release from meaninglessness
And the ‘enabling me to go on’
The poem is only one form of it
It is the writing which matters
My life has been this
This writing
Even if it is a poor poem now
As I write these words
I live.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writing The Words

I’m writing this at your funeral.
As I watch all the people in tears.
I wish I could join them,
But I know I have to be strong.

I’m writing this on my hand,
No paper to get it down on.
I want to remember your funeral,
So I’m writing this to honour you.

I’m writing the thoughts that pop into my head,
Making sure they are only the best.
I have to remember,
Because I couldn’t live with myself if I ever forgot.

I’m writing this at your funeral,
As people dropp flowers onto your coffin.
I stand up to dropp my own,
Blue, unlike the others, because I know it’s your favourite.

I’m writing this through the ceremony,
Because if I listen to the words I’ll cry.
And I know I can’t, for you,
I have to keep it together.

I’m writing the words I want to say,
To make people remember how much love you gave.
Because I want them to know,
How much of it you gave to me.

So, I’m writing this at your funeral,
To stop myself from shedding a tear.
I’m writing this at your funeral,
So that I never ever forget you.

poem by Rachel Brewer
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Nobody can erase my writing

Nobody can erase my writing
And it is determined by destiny
I can see at dark night
I can hear voice of silence
I can bring colorful light
It is my joy to write
And no body can erase my writing
My writing is my soul my eternal truth.

poem by Gajanan Mishra
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sleepless Night

Oh, there's a rude little lady
Livin' next to me.
Oh, she sure loves someone,
But it ain't me.
Ev'ry night at twelve o'clock,
They start to rock with all they got.
They keep it up all night.
It just ain't right.
They O.K. by me, I'm not.
He and she, they all right.
Once they start, they never stop
Through this sleepless night.
Once I was her lover.
It was so good to be.
Now she's got somebody else and I can't sleep.
Ooh, nothin' hurts people more than other people do.
But what can you do?
Meanwhile, upstairs, they O.K.
Ev'rythin' is all right.
I wish that I could find a way
Through this sleepless night.
Ooh, this sleepless night.
Ooh, this sleepless night.
Ooh, that wicked lady,
She's got a hold on me.
Ooh, she doesn't want me,
But she won't let me be.
They play that music ev'ry night.
It rocks my bed; it shakes my light.
They ball with all their might.
It just ain't right.
Ooh, this sleepless night.
Ooh, this sleepless night.

song performed by by Kinks
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Something

I'm writing in hope for something with sweet melody,
A rhythm that can be felt,
A beauty that can be read.
With words flowing like water over rocks,
Steadily without fault or obstruction.
A liquid in its purest state.

I'm writing in hope for something with sweet remembrance,
Like the scent of falling rain,
Or the memorable sound of a mothers cooing voice.
Something so memorable,
The slightest reminder sends you back to the exact moment,
Replaying in unbroken pattern of mind.

I'm writing in hope for something spectacular to happen,
For my words to form a feeling so deep they hurt,
For each image to be as clear as these words on this paper.
I want you to feel what I feel,
A feeling of lonely discontent,
Sitting alone in my own my own world, writing away.

I am writing this in hope for something to stick with you,
A message or a meaning that I've hidden inside a syllable,
A voice of reason that you have kept from yourself,
Silenced with the voice of your shallow desires.
A dream that you once had forgotten,
Lost in the darkness of the night.

I am writing this in hope for something to be brought to light.
Maybe a buried thought that you wish you never had,
Or an inner conflict that you hadn't noticed but feel tearing apart your skin,
Even an aspiration you promised to live up to but left to die.
Something so lost in the world of your mind,
Swallowed by deep chasms of thought and memory.

I am writing this in hope of telling a story.
The story of a world that can only be imagined in a dark room,
Hidden from the world and apart from anything else.
The story of a broken heart of a shortened life,
The story of the silent cries of a lost soul reaching for sanity.
My own story, perhaps, or even yours, is this your story?

I am writing in hope of making your thoughts and feelings dance,
A slow and steady music in the background,
Propelling your eyes left to right and back again.
Following the steps of each word,
The flow off each line and stanza.
An endless waltz with the reader and the writer, will you dance with me?

I am writing in hope of making an impression on your mind,
Maybe not an everlasting one, but even just a brief moment,
A moment of realization that you are now reading what I have written,
That for one moment in time our minds share the same space and thought,
Each word playing in our head the same as the other's.
Can you hear my voice, can you feel my thoughts?

I don't know why I am writing, or why I am writing what I am writing,
But I know that it has accomplished one thing,
It has given a purpose to something, if even just a piece of paper,
It has given worth to something that at one point was just a blank sheet,
Waiting for something to be etched into its surface, making it something.
I guess that's why I'm writing, I'm just writing; something.

poem by Bethany Maxwell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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My Poet Time Travelers

I thought of it all day and well into the night
That for you a poem I would write.
What words can you use to describe a person
You’ve never seen.
Then a realization came into my mind
I’ve been writing them for a very long time.

Every time we write about GOD and his begotten son
The words flow freely and never left undone.
So it matters not if it is sight unseen
We write about everything- it’s a poets dream.

Poets go into worlds never traveled before
Seeking all that GOD has made
And come back with knowledge that they’ve gained.
Into the realms of mystery, love, excitement and fear
So that with you these words they could share.

They see the realities of today
The dreams of yesterdays
The future of tomorrows
And the pains and sorrows.

They are the time travelers of the mind
Their eyes are open - they are not blind.
So when you read what they write
It’s because of this time travelers insight.

So to my time traveling co-poets, this I must say
I am proud to have traveled this road with you
Into the minds of man, and writing
The stories that they all understand.

poem by Louis Rams
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I am touched and will not be able to sleep

he touched her
thru the fingers
of his poem
about the deep
night and the
sleepless one
a true story about
him and her

writing, deep,
deep into the night,
about sleeplessness,

why?

did he not tell her once
that he never sleeps?
did she not believe him?
did he not tell her
that his poems come
in the depths of darkness
from the dark recesses of
his dimming soul?

at a time when twilights
have not even sprouted
yet?

that his deep thoughts
come like some strangers
capricious and whimsical
and on shorter notice
leave without goodbyes?

now, the cycle grips him
again, he writes unceasingly
like he is being chased by
his own ghosts,

like he is one cat
disturbed by the shadow
of his own rebelling tail,

he shall write,
and if she too
is not sleeping at all,
tonight
then she must write,
like him as if both of
them are twins
in thoughts,

and if there is nothing to
be written, why not read
and tell him what he is
blindly writing?

perhaps,
he will soon understand
his very own tragedies
perhaps she can figure
out the answers in his
written works

she must touch him,
like her brother or even
like her lover
and even kiss him

and he will sleep,
perhaps, soundly, tamed
by the softness of her love
perhaps, the answer to
all his questions.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writing To

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
Writing every emotion..
With such a white background.
It makes no sound
Even as the keys I pound.
Let my words have bite
Let from my words drip out meanings beyond meanings
Its something I try to be constantly be achieving.

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
I want every heart and mind
Sucked in cause this is my world stage
No sense of the time.
Never to turn the page
Stuck in to a world oh so oh so fine

Writing to feel
Writing to heal
Writing to steal
Listen to her melody, as she sings.
Let chaos reign down from the skies
What will this day really bring?
Will the letter say good bye?
Will it mend everything?

Making everything better.
Destroying all the consequences
That exist in your world.
Welcome to the place I visit daily.
Inspirational maddness,
It attacks, attacks, and attacks.
With perfect sadness
I must let go once more.
And then the words hit the floor

Writing to feel
Writing to heal.
Writing to steal.
Becoming one with my soul.
Fighting for its one and only control.
Its mine, Its mine. Its mine.
In this reality it subsequently is not
A constant questioning of what?

Writing to feel
Writing to heal.
Writing to steal.
With every sound, taste, and light.
The worlds get get oh so oh so bright
Understand that which is not so forthright
This is my night, and day.
So come on join me, please this way.

poem by Ace Of Black Hearts
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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True Love

There’s something more to love
Than saying, ‘I love you! ’
There’s something more to love
Than asking, ‘How do you do? ’

There’s something more to love
Than catching hands to walk;
There’s something more to love
Than everything you talk.

There’s something more to love
Than writing letters long;
There’s something more to love
Than composing a song.

There’s something more to love
Than embracing, kissing;
There’s something more to love
Than enquiring, hugging.

There’s something more to love
Than cooking dainty foods;
There’s something more to love
Than romance or sex-moods.

There’s something more to love
Than doing house-hold chores;
There’s something more to love
Than opening heart’s doors.

There’s something more to love
Than inking poetry;
There’s something more to love
Than sinking hate truly.

There’s something more to love
Than touring the whole world;
There’s something more to love
Than forget bad words hurled.

There’s something more to love
Than entwining in bed;
There’s something more to love
Than things all done or said.

True love is undefined;
True love is invisible;
True love is most refined;
True love’s indelible!

True love is celestial;
True love is more concealed;
True love’s perennial;
True love stays least revealed!

True love’s ill-understood;
True love is tested much;
True love’s misunderstood;
True love has divine touch!

Copyright by Dr John Celes 5-11-2008

poem by John Celes
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Sleepless Eyes Make Sleepless Night

Sleepless eyes make sleepess night
Please world
Give me something to hold on tight,
For even though I have
Sleepless eyes that make sleepess night
I yearn to rest, a rest so peaceful
Only death can make it right.
Sleepless eyes make sleepless night
Please world
Restore my life so it can be in my sight
For all I see is death
Because only death can make it right.
Sleepless eyes that make sleepless night
Rest assues that the world
Will give in and not put up a fight
Otherwise there is but death
Only death can make it right.
Sleepless eyes make sleepless night
Please world
Shine hope back into my life with light
So brightand warm it makes
Death seem not so right.
Sleepless eyes that make sleepness night
Give me the strength and will
That the world will share its might
To fight against death
For only death can make it right.
Sleepless eyes make sleepless night
Please close your eyes
So death will disappear with the sunlight
And let the world
Be the only one to make right.

poem by Music Galore
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Thank You For Writing A Poem For Me

i am your fan
many years and more years to come
i shall remain
your avid fan

thank you for writing me a poem
about love
and sleepless nights
thank you for writing about the ward
the man bound in
straitjacket
that glass of water that has to be taken everyday
to slide the pills smoothly
in your throat
thank you for writing about the children
who shall still find their mothers
their homes
thank you for bearing with us all these years
when we ourselves
have nothing to write anymore
thank you for being there
always and forever.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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I Can Write Poetry All Day Long

I CAN WRITE POETRY ALL DAY LONG

I can write Poetry all day long
But what will it give me?
There is just so much others will listen to
If anything?

And what is the value of writing words to myself for myself
Even if I love them
And believe they are real poetry,
And know in my soul
That their music is real?

I can write Poetry all day long
Or think I am writing poetry
When I am not-

Am I writing poetry now?
I feel I am-
Within me there is the song and the sound
There is the music of poetry
But is it real
Or only my self- deception?

Can I write poetry all day long?
Can I write poetry at all?

I am writing poetry now
Or so I tell myself-
But as I write this
The music within
Is already fading
And I hear in myself
The silence of my own lonely sound.

poem by Shalom Freedman
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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No ideas but in things

the snake is always a snake
and the scorpion cannot promise the frog
that in the middle of the storm
at its back, it will not bite
they will die together, but that is not enough
fear for being what they
to each they are,
the weeds are weeds and writing
is writing as always,
words that are words, come and speak, and mouths
will always be mouths,
sleepless are we at times on this
endeavor to understand
what lies beyond this
crap, metaphors of stones not reconciling
with roses
tattoos of the arms of a jilted lover
i am composed.
i compose to thing to things
not words, not to think to think
but things
as they are
as they were
forever.

still trying
what this saxifrage is all about
it splits.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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A Letter From A Writer Searching For Her Soul And Wanting To Feel Not With Her Hands

Hello (to whom it may concern) ,

It's been awhile since we exchanged messages. Sorry, I'm not much of an |'onliner' these days. I resigned from my job. I'm, in the process of soul searching. Funny but I don't really know why I'm looking for a soul, my soul, when I cannot even see it. I'm on an unplanned vacation in some quaint town some miles outside the city while writing this email.

I guess I never had the chance to tell you how you took the glint from my eye. To write from the soul and not for the awards. I have overlook that writing is an Art. Thus it is priceless. A gold medal does not define you as an artist. Write until it ceases to become a craft.But more than just stringing words after words, conscious of your weary grammar, punctuations, right words, and subject matter. To write is to turn your heart inside out.

Beyond 'writing' and its technical definitions, it is actually a journey - a self surrender - towards the oblivion you are willing to traverse with your pen. And you find yourself in another state.

To write is to 'see' but not with your eyes. To 'feel' but not with your hands. And at the end of it all, you know that it's there. Writing takes over you. Thus, I often wonder: am i writing with the pen? Or is it the pen using me to write? But I know somewhere deep inside, there is a thing mightier than the pen that prompts me to write. And that is the soul.

I want to find my center. My creative process in writing. Ironic, but to find it, I must loose myself.

hahahahaha. whew. I know i sound stupid. Sorry. Thanks for bearing with me. Hope it's not too late to greet you a Happy New Year! ! ! ! =)

Always,
(name witheld, but this could be you)

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Writing

My words they no longer flow like a calm river
They rip, through, delicate flowers wither
Not in a long time have I wrote pure gold
One more worthless word and I'll explode

So I write these words to help express
That to me my writing can no longer impress
If the letters I write turn to heavy stone
Maybe I should try changing my tone

Even when words sing a merry tune
When the words hit me like a monsoon
I look back and scowl at scribbles and letters
And know there is a need for them to be better

So I try to write something funny, add humour
Rhythms with big cats, small rats, lions and pumas
But it all seems to lack that special spark
Something with a vicious bite and a gentle bark

Let's try and make it dark, murder and death
Something that literally stops ones breath
Words that hide the killer, build suspense
But this dark angst and pain is all pretence

A rhyme about love, happy and quite light
A poem about everything that can go right
Maybe just maybe it will all fit together
But these words take too long, almost forever

I guess I'll just carry on in this infuriating way
I'll continue writing the words I just can't say
So when I feel the need to write I'll let it all out
Then you will find out just what I will write about

poem by Rebecca Pepper
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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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
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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