Understanding
We are here
To understand, not to condemn yet
Anyone.
I perfectly understand
Darkness
My companion since then
Has always been
Chaos and Confusion
I agree it is hard to write
What beginning there was
To point out the opening word
And to start writing
Sentences
But take love
First, Above All
Just love and take more pondering
On compassion
Take the teachings of Empathy
Whether you end with Sadness
Or you end with Happiness
Whether you arrive at Nothing
It does not really matter
Anymore
Just take love
The rest shall follow
The pen shall begin to write the word
Itself
And then, mind you
The sentences are too many.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
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
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Inspiration..
Inspiration comes and goes.
I write it down or I’ll forget while searching for a pen.
Inspiration comes and goes.
I get is from dreams or experiences.
Inspiration comes and goes.
But tell me, what inspires you.
I’m inspired by beauty, love and lust.
Giving me words and thought I dare to trust.
It’s inspiration that separates me from the rest.
‘Cause when inspiration comes words fall into place.
And things are beginning to make sense.
Sometimes I’m inspired by sorrow.
When I’m waiting in my bed for tomorrow.
And words start to become sentences.
I will start to write just to understand.
And to make me feel better so I can go to bed again.
Sometimes I write because of a pain that runs so deep.
I write cryptic lyrics about the secrets I keep.
I express them in other words so no one will understand.
But they feel not knowing what I’m trying to tell.
It’s a just way to clear my conscience.
Sometimes I write how the world could be.
Or I write about the girl of my fantasy.
Then I’m inspired by a fragment of my imagination.
And now I told a few ways where I get my inspiration.
So now tell me what inspires you.
poem by Rick Adriolo
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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It Is Me
He sat in his own world
writing down the stories
that came to his mind.
He never watched time,
for him there
was no time.
He wrote stories of love,
of mystery and suspense.
He wrote of everything
that popped into his head.
He was not a lonely person
as his characters kept him company.
He wrote things
for every writing sphere,
but there was one thing
he could not write
which may come as a surprise
to everyone.
He could not write a letter
no matter how hard he tried.
His mind went completely blank
whenever he tried.
Yet he could write
just about everything else.
He could write songs,
he could write stories at will.
He could write poems
on everything,
but writing a letter
was something he could not do.
Now all who read this
might take it as a joke,
but it is very true
every word I have spoke,
and how would I know that.
The answer is simple it is me.
19 April 2008
poem by David Harris
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A poem for you...
I write a poem for you today,
to get a place in your heart for ever
A poem that could tell you my love for you
I write my poem with emotion and affection
for you to understand my deep thoughts for you
A poem to love and a poem to understand its soul
A poem to enjoy and a poem to understand its happiness
A poem to think and a poem to understand its way of life
A poem to learn and a poem to understand its content
A poem to sing and a poem to understand its melody
A poem to cry and a poem to understand its sorrow
There are poems I have written but this is specially for you
The poem could tell you how important you are for me
There are words comes out freely from my mind to write poem
but there are no words to find my love for you
Those words can not missed as I miss your love today
Let me have all those words put in to my heart and
say I love to write a love poem for you
Ravi Sathasivam / Sri Lanka
Copyright ©2004 Ravi Sathasivam
poem by Ravi Sathasivam
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Losing
Oct 2012
Losing
My love for you inspires me to write poems of love, yet mixed with sadness and sorrow.
Loss and gain of finding and losing, of regret and fulfilment,
happiness and the denial of enlightenment in reality, that I was ment to write for you.
Love, yet not to posses, or to touch.
Only to write of loss and to live in reality, to write of what I may of had...
To write how I sabotaged love.. yet still.. and how I'm too hard to like never mind to love.
Its all written down on paper, in my mind scarred and seared into my heart, im just too out of reach
for anyone to want to....
Loving you, allows me to see this... I have failed...and I thank you for this...
I hope, I'm sure, love will never come my way again.
I write it all down for you,
using red ink.
poem by Jill Laughlin
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There Is No Poem To Begin The Week With
THERE IS NO POEM TO BEGIN THE WEEK WITH
There is no poem to begin the week with
Emptiness is the beginning
I try to think
I try to listen to some internal rhythm
I write words down
My thoughts are simple and self- referential
The green- yellow light is there outside my window
The world is moving
Am I writing a poem or simply writing whatever sentences come into my mind?
I sometimes think poetry never stops being written within me
At other times I believe I am just ambitious and pretentious
Today this is the beginning
These lines these words
A poem to begin the week with?
poem by Shalom Freedman
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317
you do not start at the end
you will not be understood
but you insist
to start from the end itself
it will be interesting you say
and they will follow you through
confused
they will mind every word
because they cannot understand
it is the end
you say is the most important
the most dramatic part
and that is all that they want
so you start from there
and end from the very beginning
inverted
but not really perverted
not for the fun
but for the run, now i understand you
like rashomon
more arguments shall come
like battered wives
complaining about their husbands
like children lost
finding their home in the streets
like some of us
wanting to start with nice endings
always finding hard
to end with new beginnings
for a start
but indeed, there is nothing
that is so hard
that cannot really be learned
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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So Where Will You Start?
you do not start at the end
you will not be understood
but you insist
to start from the end itself
it will be interesting you say
and they will follow you through
confused
they will mind every word
because they cannot understand
it is the end
you say is the most important
the most dramatic part
and that is all that they want
so you start from there
and end from the very beginning
inverted
but not really perverted
not for the fun
but for the run, now i understand you
like rashomon
more arguments shall come
like battered wives
complaining about their husbands
like children lost
finding their home in the streets
like some of us
wanting to start with nice endings
always finding hard
to end with new beginnings
for a start
but indeed, there is nothing
that is so hard
that cannot really be learned
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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How Infants Learn To Talk?
How infants understand things
And respond to our words
Is amazing!
Babies repeat the word they hear
In their mind frequently
And can remember some of them later!
Even six-months-old can utter words
And make simple sentences
In their mind
And understand them as well!
That’s why
Babies usually utter the first meaningful word
With their mouth when they are around one-year-old
And start saying many meaningful things
Within a very short time!
poem by Asif Andalib
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If I Write A Few Lines
IF I WRITE A FEW LINES
If I write a few lines
My mind will open
My heart will take heart
I will begin to believe in myself again.
If I write a few lines
I will say that I still somewhere am alive,
Writing these lines
In such deep deep sadness and trouble,
I try
And word by word
Squeeze out a bit of Hope.
poem by Shalom Freedman
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To be a writer
They say, when you have nothing to say
Do not say anything
They say when you have nothing good to say
Do not say anything
He is not convinced
He wants to be a writer and to be one he must write
What is in his mind
To be a writer he must write and write and write
Even when there is nothing to write
Even when there is nothing to say even when nobody listens
Even when the word is dead even when there is no sense at all
Even when he gets blind and deaf and mute even when his fingers are cut even when his mind is blank even when his consciousness is lost
Even when you are angry even when you say what is written is nothing
But trash, dung, cadaver, corpse, poo, pee, even when there is nothing
Anymore,
He writes because he is a writer and no one can stop him now.
he is
he is writing
he is writing always
he is writing always whatever that needs to be written
and here you are foolishly reading. thanks to you, audience of one.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Your Poems About Love Revisited
the first poem that you really find it hard to write
is to write an image which must tell her
that you love her truly from the bottom of your heart, and then
the most beautiful poem comes from her when she admits that she
also loves you with all her heart and soul and mind,
and then the saddest poem
was not written.
it was when everything ended.
the years passed.
and you do not even know
where she is.
it is always the saddest poem,
when you do not know where to find love
anymore.
All corners of the world are looking for it.
They seem not to find it,
and all these corners will only stop writing
and talking and speaking
when love is found
when their hearts are
filled,
when their mouths
cannot utter a word,
because of so much abundance,
bliss, joy, happiness, these shall make
us mute for another hundred years.
for in making love,
words do not have use,
except to call its name again
on the intensity of feeling....love.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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0005 Letter to a Younger Poet
Thanks for your letter. Though
you’ve caught me at a rather awkward time –
I’m going into surgery tomorrow – a rather
risky op; so I’ll try to put all the answers that I’ve got
into this one letter;
I hope you'll understand...
and that helps me to make my first point to you:
write as if you, too, may not live
beyond tomorrow – write as if
it’s the last thing that you’ll ever write –
give it everything you’ve got,
hold nothing back;
or better still – write as if
the world will end for everyone tomorrow:
write so that in their last hours, too, this
will make them feel, will make them know
we’ve faced life fully, faced it so complete
that death is relatively unimportant now…
write as if it were only yesterday
that, in an air crash, all your family –
parents, wife or husband, partner, children, and best friend,
had lost their lives; write as if,
were you not to write,
your heart would break forever, or you would go mad...
write as if you’re writing somewhere
where there’s no such thing around, as ink;
you’ll have to use your own blood in the pen,
so use it carefully; so red, so living,
look at it… so beautiful, so precious,
and so solemn – use it carefully, don’t spill a drop…
write as if you’re borrowing every word
from the very centre of the universe, where suns and gods are made;
and need thus to account for every word
with your whole life, no less; know that every word
must be given back, cleaner, stronger, brighter
with your own power, than when you borrowed it;
write as if every poet that ever lived
is leaning over your shoulder, so that you
can feel their breath upon your neck as they say
‘Tell them all that we would tell,
but cannot now; tell them all of this’…
this, now, is how you must deeply be and speak;
write as if you are the only being on earth
who can tell them this; as if tomorrow, if tomorrow comes,
you shall visit them every one, at home,
and look them in the eye; write as if
you love them more than they will ever know;
write as if you were offering to live their lives with them;
write as if you were a force of nature in yourself:
as if whatever earthquake, hurricane or flood might do,
whatever law or love may greatly do,
whatever gods or men can speak, in fullest force,
this you may do, because the sound of poetry is such;
yes, write ‘as if’ – but know you really write ‘because’…
write as if – no, write because –
you know that only poetry can tell
all, that must be told, and must be known;
and as all hearts melt in the heat of your own love,
be in no doubt – and see that all are in no doubt too –
that life was never, never more serious,
never more glorious, than it is right now;
write all this.
poem by Michael Shepherd
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To write is a challenge, But to understand the writer is a mystery
Right now I am writing history
Amongst a million other writers
But what makes me different
from that never ending million?
Every word has a meaning, has
it's background, I, on the hand don't.
Just a meaningless word, nothing more
But a word it is, nothing less
To write is a challenge
But to understand the writer is a mystery.
Right. Write only with the mind and heart.
So powerful, So strong, So moving.
Today, Tomorrow a never ending cycle.
Today becomes history when tomorrow becomes today.
So right now I am writing history
But tomorrow it becomes forgotten
It will not be forgotten if the writer has a mystery to solve, so to write is a challenge but to understand the writer is a mystery.
poem by Lady Simple
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When you write.
When you write
You hunt for words
Capture them and put them where you
Want them to
Symbolize
An idea, words are symbols too
And these words can be more than that,
Like the word love
Symbolizing how you feel
About her
It can be more than that
Love as a word can go beyond
Its symbolism of
Affection
It can be demanding
About other words
Time
Money
Effort
And if you are true enough it
Can mean vulnerability
And nudity
One by one you remove every
Cover of yourself
From shirt to pants to brief
And there is more to that still
What you write
Any word for that matter
May demand that you remove
Your mind
Your eyes
Your soul even
So that in the end what you write demands
That you become completely
Nothing. Try it.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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The Word That Wouldn’t Fit (Fun Poem 25)
A writer’s life is full of woe,
you find a word you like,
then you write something,
and try to fit that word in,
but when you look again.
That word you thought of
it just won’t fit in,
no matter how hard you try it,
that word just will not go.
In a fit of frustration,
you stick it here and there.
Just like jigsaw puzzle
where the pieces will not fit,
so this word will not go anywhere.
In the end you say, “OH heck! ”
Then you put the word
to the back of your mind.
Maybe another day
in another poem,
that word just might fit.
Having said all that,
I’m not betting on it.
poem by David Harris
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I Promised You That We Make Love At Dawn
but then there is this poem
inside my heart
and it wants to be written
at dawn
and so i promised you
another dawn
tomorrow
you perfectly understand
my situation
it is not simple. it is complicated.
i make it complicated.
you look at it simple enough.
lack of love for you.
devotion to poetry.
and sooner, you declare a war.
an end. you write a letter telling about
the word
goodbye.
i understand it too perfectly.
we have two parting worlds now.
floating stars looking for each nest
in some other space.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Soap
you wish i were true
to every word i wrote in my poems
like sadness
that i must be sad when my poems
talk about sadness
like separation and disgust and pain
that i must suffer
with the poems i write that i must have despair
and pain too
and disgust
for every word of disgust written in every word
in every line
how cruel of you
how cruel of truth
how can i justify my death when i speak only of death
and in the very poem
where i write the word
death
there is soap
there is this box of untruths in pandora and when i open it
they must spread and you may refuse to believe
me again
but it would be very cruel of you
to make these poems
all these poems be my life my only life
and lived
and day by day lived in accordance with the
mouths of these poems
empathy
is the word, it is like i am putting my feet in another person's
shoes
then i write, and i could have written about this word: happiness
joy, bliss
ecstasy, light, and amazing glory
i choose not to,
i think, i have too much of it, and i do not share it for now
there is no necessity
and i cannot really help
with so much loneliness and sadness out there
with them i stretch my hands to hold them and feel them
and they all become
myself. it is not soap then, and there are no bubbles in the skies
there is no child playing amazed by the bubbles that burst and by the
bubbles that
are so abundant.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Speak The Word
Unsettled hearts
Promise what they cant deliver
Bring me the wine
And the cold night air to clear my head
Gray matter memory house
Master of this trembling flesh
Steady still my doubts
Let me speak the word that precedes bliss
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
These weakened knees
Have not touched ground or pew in ages
I havent bowed my head
I offer thanks to any God or to ask for favors
But watch me now
Im falling down
Praying
To speak the word that precedes bliss
To speak the word
To speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Love love love love love love love love
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
Let me speak the word
song performed by by Tracy Chapman
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Conversations Of The Heart
the first poem that you really find it hard to write
is to write an image which must tell her
that you love her truly from the bottom of your heart, and then
the most beautiful poem comes from her when she admits that she
also loves you with all her heart and soul and mind,
and then the saddest poem
was not written.
it was when everything ended.
the years passed.
and you do not even know
where she is.
it is always the saddest poem,
when you do not know where to find love again.
you say, not anymore, but
it can be a lie, for how can one live without it?
All corners of the world are looking for it.
They seem not to find it,
and all these corners will only stop writing
and talking and speaking
when love is found
when their hearts are
filled,
when their mouths
cannot utter a word,
because of so much abundance,
bliss, joy, happiness,
all these shall make us mute for another hundred years.
(do we ever reach there?)
honestly in making love, (and be in so much trouble loving,)
words do not have use,
love, you embrace me with so much intensity
all my nerves sing, neurons spark with flints,
i explode, finished.
poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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