Related quotes: “I’m writing to say.” “I...

Letter of Commiseration

“I’m writing to say.”
“I decided to write.”

I found beginning the difficult thing. (Remember not to commentate.)
How do I say I cried when I heard the news? That my body heaved with crashing sobs?
Some things words cannot contain. The need I felt to tell you that I hurt too. And instead
I work a polished screed of clichés and craft.
You will scan my words, wondering why I wrote at all. Why break my silence to say so little?

I picture myself stood apart from the mourners, wanting to be a witness to grief.
But I walk alone in Marble Hill Park and the flowers are funereal.

“Best wishes.”
“In my thoughts and prayers.”
“Condolences” (I ask you)
And the time it took to produce two sides of spidery writing.
I almost did not send it. I hoped the thought would count. Count for once.
It ought to have been an elegy, a song of praise.
But it was only an advertisement for my emotions.

“Hope you write soon.”
“Call me if you want to talk.”

poem by Patrick Rylands
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Related quotes

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
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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 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
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I Need to Write

I need to write a poem, but how shall I do it,

First of all shall I write standing up, or just sit;

Until I get comfortable, I won't be able to start,

All the words will be muddled up, and then it'll fall. Apart.

Now! I got it right, I will choose the title to write about,

No good getting frustrated, or even sit or pout;

Just need to relax, and then the words will come easy,

Cause if I try to hard, Then my stomach will feel queasy.

I know what sort of holiday would people like,

And as I start the poem, the hall clock did strike;

Oh! It is now is what I can do, write about the time passing,

And so I have the heading, the thoughts on paper lasting.

It's got colour, size, And description, and the taste of art,

It's come from my mind, emotions, and also from the heart;

It has vision, and thoughts about where I want to go,

Yes! I think it'll get some to agree, to me they'll show.

So if you have a problem to write a poem or story,

Just read this poem, as a help, it's a help from me;

Don't force the idea, or rush it through at all,

Just go have a cuppa, read an article or a friend call.

Eventually it'll come, the words will flow along,

You might even end up, turning it into a song;

Writing poems will be rewarding, just give a go,

And you might enjoy it, they may end up in a show.

poem by Margaret Haig
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A Poem For Those Who Are Sad

did Octavio say that happiness
and charm are cliches?
did he really mean that he
shall write about those who
labor in pain
about those who stopped
smiling because of the
harsh rain
about those who hide
because of the coming storm?

he could be right
not writing about the cliches of
happy days

for they have all enough
that make the sweet syrups
of their eating lives

let me write a poem for those
who are sad
for those who have less

let me write about the opening
of a flower
about the butterflies moving
out from their cocoons

let me write about the
end of the bitter days
for they have less and now

they may have more
through my lines

let me write about the
rising of the sun
the waking up of the boy
from his sleep
and the beginning
of his play on the yard
with his bike

let me write more
about what i really like...

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Call On Me

The feelin is clear
Clear as a blue sky on a sunny day
Everything was you
cause no one made me feel
The way I felt with you
Call on me cause
I love you
You know I do
You love me too
Then came a change
When I said I would soon be leavin you
Nothin else to do
Please remember Ill never lose the thought of you
Call on me cause
I love you
You know I do
You love me too
Youve got to find
Someone else to somehow take my place
Share his love with you
But if you need a friend
You can always count on me
Count on me cause
I love you
You know I do
You love me too
You can count on me oh
You can count on me
You can count on me baby
You can count on me
You can count on me oh
You can count on me
You can count on me baby
You can count on me
You can count on me oh
You can count on me
You can count on me baby
You can count on me
You can count on me oh
You can count on me

song performed by by Chicago
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Many Can Teach Few Can Write

many can teach and be good teachers
some even aspiring excellent teachers
but few can image write wondrous words

who are now waiting among
those who have words worth writing
words waiting to be written?

writing will cost much
demanded much
then will cost yet more

a small fortune in wages
wages spent not made
still to be spent and yet

accumulative cost is nothing
for there are hunger hearts
minds waiting for these words

looking even searching
for quest sought words
therefore it matters not

if for a specific poem
or passage paragraph
only a few or one is searching

these thoughts
are important
still must be written

some of what we write
even much of what we write
is of no prime importance

but that small portion
which is important
that tiny potent seed

which is important
must be written
translate many can translate

some even translate
almost perfectly precise
but those writing

original thoughts
are far more precious
and their words

will also in their time
be sought after read
but there time is not yet

that which is not
written cannot
be read

therefore write
write
and write well

poem by Terence George Craddock
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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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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
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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
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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
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Broken Promises

Just another broken promise.
Your words are really cheap.
You're writing cheques with your mouth.
Your body will not keep.

They say that love is action.
Not simply just a word.
If that's the case, I've never felt.
I've only really heard.

You've said it many many times.
When push it came to shove.
I truly honestly believe.
It's only you, you love.

The times you said, the things you'd do.
But then you would forget.
You would work as hard as you wanted to.
Until you had to sweat.

Things got tough, you packed it in,
And threw it all away.
Instead of putting in effort.
You'd rather go out and play.

I tried and tried, the work I did.
Make our world a better place.
You sat right on the sidelines.
While I went and ran the race.

The same excuses “I forgot”.
I've heard it all before.
The hurt I felt and feel again.
I can't take it anymore.

You say “Don't sweat it! ”, “”It's no big deal! ”
“Be thankful for what you've got”.
But to me it is the little things,
That really mean a lot

I take your broken promises.
That fill my broken heart.
I'll tell you what they do to me.
It rips my soul apart.

Again, I bet you'll blow it off.
You'll say what you want me to hear.
You'll take the promises that you make.
Then make them disappear.

So talk your talk, I'll walk my walk.
I've done everything I can.
To keep my promise and my word.
I truly am a man.

You keep your broken promises.
I know that's what you'll do.
Your talk is cheap, your words are lies.
I know that mine are true.

I'll pack your broken promises.
I'm out the broken door.
I hope you enjoy your broken home.
I won't be broken anymore!

poem by Ryan Lee Morris
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His Call

That evening
I sat down to write
My very last mail
To him.

And while I was writing
I could feel
My aching heart
Throbbing so loud
I could hear
Every beat of it
Pulsating with pain.

And still I kept writing
My very last mail
To him.
Though my eyes
Felt blurred
With all the tears
That rushed asunder
Streaming through my cheeks
And yet I brushed them aside
And wrote
My very last mail to him.

And when I had done
All the writing
I took a long, last look
At that letter of mine
Re-reading every word of it
That I had written to him
With all my heart...

Those precious moments
Were so endearing to me
For I felt that
Once this mail goes
I won't be able to
Write to him anymore
No more of those
Diary mails of mine
I used to write to him
Everyday.

For I had made a Promise
Never to go back
To him.
And that promise I had made
To him and to myself
With all the pain
And the agony
That had shrouded me.

Yes - that promise has stayed Intact
And I would abide by it.
And I haven't faltered...
Though my tender heart feels
So very Bruised.

And even though
The other day
He called me up
And I heard
His broken voice
Over the phone
Saying that
He had read my mail
Explaining himself
How he was...
How very dear to him
I have been
How very close
To his heart.

I just listened
And yet his garble of words
Were beyond me now
And more than his voice
His words of care
I could hear -
The waves of silence
That had engulfed me.

He did all the talking
And I -
All the listening...
And yet,
Today - when I look back
I don't feel like going back
To him anymore.

And I know he might call again
Asking me if I am cross.
In life's such delicate
Situations -
Being angry doesn't help
So why should I be?

It is just that
I don't feel like
Writing to him anymore
The pain is just too much
And so are the scars of the past
Like scabs on the skin
Bleeding every now and then.

And so that was my last mail
My very last mail to him
And his call for a truce
I had to choose...
Truce with him
Or truce with my silence.

And I looked back
At all the hard times
He had given me -
All the pain of the past years
That kept reverberating inside
Like the Tinnitus of being Deaf.

And I thought
I would call it a truce
A truce of realisation
A truce of acceptance
No - not with him.
But - A Lifetime's Truce
With me and my Destiny.

poem by Aparna Chatterjee
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Dawn Of Reasoning Interconnected Mind

At the traditional age of consent,
I found a great undeniable love
for poetry as I strove to make sense
of this world with its nightmare,
of ignored unresolved problems.

I never had the chance to write,
most of my thoughts, down in
poetry. To reflect my reactions
to the events of my era. Life did
not allow time for contemplation.

It is my ardent hope that economic
circumstances or perhaps a more
focused determination; will allow
you to succeed in writing out more
poems of vital importance than I did.

I wrote when time allowed maybe
one in ten of my poems and often
the easiest. While years passed by
sometimes with nothing but work.
The gap in thought record haunts.

Ignore constant discouraging critic.
Your success now is mine your failure
mine. Therefore keep focused and let
at least some of your poetry, address
real issues. And write write write now!

You are in a time and place that requires
strong young poets from within. Past great
American poets would be devastating with
words writ in this era. I am not American,
you must be our voice from within, voice

proclaim and publish your insight! Pray or
meditate as you will and write that which
I lacking your knowledge cannot. The words
will come because the age topics demands it.
We are united in poetry and desire to express

difficult thoughts and concepts, hopefully to
be a voice of positive change! Tools are at
your finger tips, I never had contact with other
poets, in an electronic interconnected web of
minds, at the dawn of righteous determination.

poem by Terence George Craddock
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Is Hope Of

A word perhaps to me is hope
and hope you used to use a lot.
Without perhaps it being hope for naught.
A lot of hope about the things you are,
and you are all the things I hoped about.
You of hope at night the moon the light I write about.
And you write about the thoughts of hope,
and make them come to pass and write of that.
Ardently your mouth of hope, not going over there.
You who are without to be and I am crossing over.
Green bushes hold within my hope, blue open flowers.
Afterwards through fog or loam a stream flows slowly after.
I saw so bright the torch of hope from here to there beside us.
So there are we.
And are we there, for loving it sits about us.
Me I simply am, you and I, comes hope a certain thing.

poem by Is It Poetry
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A Heartfelt Letter Unsigned

It seems I am only good with words
When I write them in my silent hours
Of all the things I have wished to say
But never found the moment or courage
I find myself saddened by my thoughts
All of which surround my thoughts of you
I think you are amazing, kind and so strong
You are beautiful in many ways I cannot count
Your nature and spirit I have come to know
Shows you to be funny and loving
You put a spring in my heart, a song in my step
I would love to hold you each night
Look after way and love you always
But alas, a time has come I must face
That moment of courage and opportunity
I think it matters not anyway
I have listened to my mind and heart argue
And wish I could look through any eyes
Other my own, when I look at you
A time has come to say goodbye, to move on
I wish to take you from my heart
Place you by my side as a friend and nothing more
If only my thoughts were not my own
If only I could look through another’s eyes
Perhaps I would not need to write these words
Because moving on from you
Is the hardest most difficult decision in life
You will always be so beautiful to me
And in loving you I must say goodbye

poem by Matthew Holloway
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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