Senecot.
When it dosen't flow,
When the Dam's backed up,
When the mind reels from constapation,
You find yourself wondering
Is this it?
Is this the time when the talent,
if any,
stops?
You'll never spill words upon the page again,
You'll never bleed out this raging torrent
of simile's, metaphor's and hard owrn
cliche's from the veins
and into exsistance.
Left forever to choke
like a hanging man
upon all these bitter emotions,
these moments of apathy,
these day's of euphoria
left to force the air
from your lungs
with no foreseeable outlet.
Your breathing becomes short, laboured,
the sweat from your forehead
start's dripping from your palms.
What if you've
nothing left too say?
What if you never did?
What if this sudden paralyasis
last's forever
leaving you blindly groping
for a justifaction
for your exsistance.
Dear God
what if you're
just normal.
Then the letters on the page
form into words,
the words fall into lines
and before you know it
you're back at the beginning.
The poems written
and the World is set to right's.
When it doesn't flow,
When the Dam's backed up,
When the mind reels from constapation,
A fearful ego
is the greatest
laxative of
all.
Related quotes
Will The Words Come Back?
Words slip off our pen
like warm butter off a knife.
They fall in unison across the page
with everything we write.
Then one day the words don’t flow
in unison like they used to before.
They have no rhythm within them
and just become no more than words.
We look at what we’ve written
and there is no bounce in them.
The words become no more than words
once written by a creative hand.
There is no meaning in what they say
they have no heart anymore.
They are just words written on a page
with no rhyme or reason for them being there.
Some call it a writer’s block;
others call it stagnation of the mind.
The creative juices fall away to nothing,
no spark to be kindled,
no emotions to be released,
no protests to be made,
no stories to be assembled
like a jigsaw in your mind.
Just an empty pen with words
that don’t make sense anymore.
Struggles without feeling,
ideas leading nowhere
on a spiralling downward turn.
You are no longer a writer,
your creativity is gone
and the only question you have,
will the words come came back?
13 July 2009
poem by David Harris
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Painting dreams...
Gazing at an empty page,
Thoughts and emotions run wild.
A portrait of words come to life,
Like dreams of emotions dancing.
Images of us live on in written words,
Stirring my mind and emotions.
A world of dreams built within the mind,
Forever floating upon the emotions of fantasy...
Spread the love... The peace will follow...
poem by Cosmic Dreamer
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Bloody Paper Dolls
They bleed an ink of green blood
Cut them out
Faces of drawn misfortune
Bodies of frail dresses
Minds of empty blue lines
Given names of whores from distorted streets
Megan molly Shannon mind so weak
Created world of plagiarized lives
These bloody paper dolls have no eyes
They see not the tears upon her face
They bleed words onto the page
Green ink dripping
Soft words describing a life
Take there heads the lose all purpose
Fixed scissors this time ill make a man
Green ink bleeds from the cut up words
And the body it forms
These dolls aren’t real they are a shaken reality
Let her be she has dreams
And I cut the words from this page
I lost my age
I’m old... and still
I have bloody paper dolls all around
They rule my life
They are my reality
My friends
These words now just letters
Green ink stains my finger tips
My bloody dolls you are it.
poem by Victoria Martinez
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The Love Letter
She wonders how to begin her letter
She knows he will read each word
Greedily for any hint of love. She knows
He will sniff the paper for any scent of her
She leans an elbow on her writing desk
And clutches her pen tight. She has got
As far as, Dear John, but then the words
Stopped coming. Before she had sat down
To write, the words flowed through her
Mind like a rushing stream, now nothing
She sucks the end of the pen. Say what
You would if you were face to face, her
Mother always said. She tries to imagine
He is there before her and what she would
Say if he was, but still no words will come
He writes to her so fluently when he writes
He always seems to know what to write
And how to put it into words. She tries again
Puts the pen nib onto the paper, gripping
The pen tighter. She reads what she’s written
Dear John. The pen moves, the words begin
To flow, her hand moves across the page
The images come into her mind as she writes
The things that they said last time they met
The things they did, she blushes slightly
That almost being caught out by the maid
In a state of undress. She pauses the pen
And sits gazing at the painting on the wall.
She looks back at the paper and starts again
The words tripping over themselves to be put
Down in ink upon a page; the images open up
In her mind, the colours, the smells, the events
The pen now stops. The love letter is written
The writing done. She looks at the words
Then she seals it in an envelope and writes
His address. She pictures him reading it: in bed
In his room, sleepy, in a state of his usual undress
poem by Terry Collett
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Z-Without You
I will not be able to write
without
you;
There will be no new lines
or ideas;
until
I hear in my mind
you breathing;
hear two hearts beating
above this page.
Even this
next word
isn't real
unless I envision
that it will
by you read;
that it will be felt
by you too.
Any eager beginning
is meaningless
unless
you sit with me here.
I move my chair now;
as evening comes
to better see
what to write;
This phrase too
and the next one or two
awaits my imagining
you'll see the words flow here.
I can't say when the words
will come;
they'll surprise;
but I am very clear
who they are for,
and they will sail
across this paper
buffeted by the gentle breeze
of we two breathing;
hearts beating.
Nothing happens
unless I feel
you share it too.
Dear Reader
I feel you.
and more.
Thanks for reading this volume.
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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Only In My Mind
thoughts fire
mind blaze
run on wind
words sing mind melodies
words sing song new images
dance in heart veins flow
words shape shift
into new thoughts
concepts poems
several are written
in time heart beats
wonder stirs anew
but only in my mind
where the beauty sings
sung sight meditation
no words given unto paper
no words processed on light screen
no words kept mind record
dart of honeybird flight
bats fly sonar night vision
wing beats of wonder
words released born free
poem by Terence George Craddock
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These Words Are Meant For You
So there is no confusion let clarity clarify here
these words on this page are meant for you;
you.
Strung along these lines are precious intents
longing longings from down deep where souls converse,
floodings of sentiments traversing time and distance all
forming a straight line to you.
Gratitude is the staff that allows me to walk and write-
bread given me by you
sustains;
for clarity's sake
understand
these words are meant for you;
you.
Time and distance, acquaintance
and daily externals and such
mean less than these
soul exchanges proffered.
These words are meant for you;
yes you.
In the interstices words allow
in the hurried moments
where emotions and ideas fly
there is only I you and the written page
and that is enough
These words are meant for you-J
poem by Lonnie Hicks
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My poems is not Poetry
My Poems are not Poetry
Poetry rhythm is essential part
Communicative act of rhythms
Where words created music
An effect on the reader’s and listener
Words beginning with the same letter
And achieve a poetically effect.
My Poems has no rhythms
For the first time I don’t know
What to say and how to show.
Many words is not my style
Let me say, I like your smile
I don’t think I should like you,
Unfortunately I do.
I'm not sure now how to write
I lost my idea how, where words
Are used in away similar
Creating Music, where you find
Languages of rhymes
I write Prose but not Poetry
Using a regular rhythm
Where vast majority
Of languages spoken and written.
I try to be a barn, the muses were believed and inspire
I try to hard without success,
you already know, I guess.
Anyhow, it doesn’t matter
Usually I do not write
Things like this, I never tried,
for the first time I don’t know
what these lines should say or show.
Allegory, metaphor equated
Meaning lie outside the narrative
Acrostic phase when read together
Alliteration words same letter for poetical effect
Satire is a form of humour
Limerick is a short humorous poem.
And Honestly, I don’t regret
Things I did and words I said.
7. January 2008
poem by Mary Wismer
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Ghost of who?
These words wrap themselves around my throat
Barbed wire grows and they nurse a poisoned coat
Simple words that my mind cannot, will not allow
Make my eyes bleed dark and my head bow
These syllables, letters, rhythms and vowels
Around my blackened soul they now prowl
I know that these sounds are what hurt the most
But I beg you to see, these are the words of a ghost
They care not what has past, how many have left
Nor do they see what they do as an attack, a theft
But surly you understand the pain I now feel
Because of their shallow vengeance my mind reels
Why can't you see just what they have done to me!
I try my best to dispel their dagger hopes to be free
But somewhere deep down I know it's only a matter of time
Before they break down my defences and cross that line
Irony has the best ways to break ones entire being
It wasn't the ghost that I host that had me fleeing
It was the spectre that I fell so foolishly in love with
Now I have no qualms with giving my soul to let you live
poem by Rebecca Pepper
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Writing The Book I Never Wrote(for Linda)
Pocket notebook
full of poems
written with a green
fountain pen
(in purple ink)
with a calligraphic flourish
left out in
the storm.
The words
run wild
go native
revert to being
just lines
rivulets of words
tributaries of words
all flow and whirl
into purple pools
purple passages
becoming watery
hieroglyphs
a secret language
made only of water and wind.
And now
the hot sun
of noon
bakes the words
cakes the pages
'til they turn and curl
leaving the book
in the position
where words
have thrown off their clothes
and become
as naked as paintings
the unmistakable brushstrokes
of rain and sun
translated into
their own native tongue.
poem by Dónall Dempsey
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A note in my diary
Writing this piece of peace
From my heart to you
Reading your words
From your mind for me
Feel so numb and I can’t hear
Anything you say makes me sad
And I am going to buy a fish
A fish to feed you all because...
Some words are incomplete
Few words are baseless
I’m going to take a shower
And get back to work…
Writing a short note and will send
Few diaries of snaps and poems
Pick one of them and wet the page
Let me read your mind and your words…
poem by Nithin Jacob
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Modern Day Poet
I am the modern day poet you know
that must make words that easily flow.
For to just present words that ramble on
is to yield forth words that soon are gone.
They're gone from the listener and reader too,
who cannot reason or cannot view
how the words just seem to sit on a page
allowed to sit and yellow with age.
Words must be caressed and also thrive
to take on rhythms which come alive,
alive in the memory that through the ear
has taken it in and holds it dear.
And so in each poem I have my say.
And so in each poem my words do sway
back and forth like a front porch swing
giving my poem a magical ring.
I never allow dullness to come into play
for then my poem will be thrown away
into the piles of poems never read
because they're too hard to keep in the head.
So over and over it's become my style
to enchant the reader for a little while,
making them remember the lilting rhyme
that got into my head one word at a time.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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Words
Words are my weapon
words are my shield
Guns and knifes just ruin lives
so words I keep concealed
Words are all I have here
they help me struggle on
Words are here forever,
when all I have is gone
In my thoughts or in my poems
Words will help ease my brain
I write down what is on my mind
Expressing love or feeling pain
Not that many I can trust
But words I can depend
Words wont turn there back on you
Words are my only friend
poem by Nic Hillen
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1. One
I am trying to find my poetic rhythm.
Pen my flow of thoughts.
Words running through my mind,
Ideas running through my mind.
Incoherent, Scattered and disjointed
I am trying to make words and ideas one
Create a world of words, in this world of chaos
Words running from one end
Ideas running from one end
On a path of collision
Ideas and words unite, one
One, the beginning
One, the universal beginning
One, the number of the gods
One, my first poem
poem by Anand Dixit
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The Writer and the Blood Inked Quil
The Writer and the Blood Inked Quill
By: Adam M. Snow
The candle flickered by a passing gentle breeze;
My quill dries up leaving not I at ease.
My words upon page now left to hang.
A reader's disappointment, now a writer's pang.
Misery held me as time stood still,
My heart has fallen because my mind is ill.
I stare at blank page as all words elude me,
I can't help to wonder, 'How could this be? '
Torment follows as night falls victim to dread;
My ink once black now turns blood red.
I wrote my soul upon each page,
As time ticks by with every age.
The word itself scream an agony scream;
I, the writer without a dream.
But what bedevils myself to write,
Elude me once more with the fall of night.
My nightly whimper comes with a toll,
My life upon the page, now bearing my soul.
poem by Adam M. Snow
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Volcano Of Passion
As the passion builds inside, my heart beats faster
My mouth goes dry
My hands become clammy
My eyes widen in anticipation
Out comes a flow of words, a flow of meanings
A flow of thought and feelings
I can feel it growing inside me, waiting to burst out
I really just want to shout as the words flow out onto the page
Without any rage, just a desire, a passion
For my words to have their own stage
The volcano has erupted, the words flow
Yet when the dust settles, nobody but me knows whats happened
It's my very own volcano of passion
poem by Craig Piercy
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A Letter to Hilary
Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
you must not think ill of me,
though this letter be tardy,
it is mercifully short.
Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
no metaphor or simile,
can express in mere words,
my true feelings and thoughts!
Oh Hilary, dear Hilary;
this I say, verily,
the distance between us
must not temper my view.
If I might speak of Hilary,
and of nothing ancillary:
as every day passes
I'm thinking of you!
For my love, my dear Hilary,
pumps through vein and capillary,
as my heart thumps out
it's horrible beat.
For love, my dear Hilary,
is the liqueur and distillery,
mellow, mature;
an intoxicant neat!
But if you, my dear Hilary,
would condemn me, and pillory,
a dissembler of words
and execrable verse;
then I, my dear Hilary,
would submit to your devilry,
and bravely bare up
under your terrible curse.
For love comes, my dear Hilary,
like the drum of artillery,
though it too can be vanquished
in bloody defeat.
Love comes, my dear Hilary,
not as the White Knight of chivalry,
but as a war of emotions,
both bitter and sweet.
But if, my dear Hilary,
I speak a tad too familiarly,
then you have my permission
to tear up this page.
For it is your choice, my dear Hilary,
to dismiss this as villainy,
or the ramblings of a mind
grown feeble with age!
For you, my dear Hilary,
should be paid a large salary,
to compensate truly,
for reading this tripe.
For alas, my dear Hilary,
I can only tender apology,
the worthless coin and the currency,
for this twaddle and hype!
poem by David SmithWhite
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Can it be Memory, Inspiration, or Figment Causing This?
The poems I write are a story of my life
They are a foreseeable future, a regret filled past
In this they stain, in my poems they stain
The dreams, my ideals, life lessons, and hopes
Flood on to the page waiting to be read
Stranger they become
Stranger to be in my mind
How they come to be there
That bolt of lines that swirl and toil in my mind
They say for my allure, they sway for my attention
'Take me', they cry, 'Take me for your own'
'Release us from here, bring us to life and capture us in
your work! '
'Immortalize us in history on that page! '
They sway faster in an angry tempo
Chanting now on how to be used
Begging, pleading to be used
I grasp the pen and paper
Pull my laptop closer
I write and type as fast as my hands can go
The tempo soothes, and the swaying stops
All is quiet
All is empty
They are released, glorified on this magnificent page.
Written: January 21,2012
poem by Ryan Collins
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Sleepless Shore
With ink on her hands she wrote to me her truths
reading over her fingered letters
she gave onto my eyes her promises
and as her words echoed through me
its her hands I ached to kiss
its her fingertips I wished to feel along my face
I moved and I kept still to her image
writing back to her impatiently my inner-truths
my collapsing conditions without her I wrote
steady was the heart and mind I listened to
finding words that came easy to promise her
always and just enough to carry on past it all
whatever it was that came and left its mark
with gentle strokes I painted each letter each passion
laid and displayed carelessly and faithfully in her name
and in the pattern of my insanity, I spoke to her willfully
yours now and forever began each page
forever and a day ended each phrase and with it I reached for her
and in the tune and ballad of a memory I finished....
poem by KarlRomeo PierreLouis
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Words on paper
Words on paper
~
Just words on paper
Where a story is told
An emotion revealed
Or a love laid to rest
Where a dream begins
An ambition is spoken
Perhaps a whim of fancy
Takes charge of the pen
To write what is written
Letters forming words
Shapley and beautiful
Expressions of a soul
Or a mind at play
There across the page
Words on paper
Written to have their say
poem by Matthew Holloway
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