Writing Poems
making it big in a small world
by Bogdan Dragos
other than
weirded
the fuck out
she didn’t know how
to feel about it
so she read the
words again
SO GLAD TO SEE YOU
......
Symphony
by Erica Scott
My hands touch the keys as if I’m to play a masterpiece.
And I am.
Just not one you’re used to.
There is no music,
no beautiful harmony,
no flowy concert dresses,
or sheet music on the stand.
There are only words.
Only letters.
My fingers type the things unspoken,
......
Paper Cliffs
by Leo Warne
A paper cliff, and a crashing wave,
stick figures walking across the page,
nighttime curls,
and the darkness furls,
and in the starlight's shadows,
there grows to be a gallows.
Towards the ledge,
come back from the edge.
Figures turns around,
......
Scribbles of the Soul
by Aditi Hayaran
When stuck in the storm of thoughts,
Take a pen and write it down
Just anything that can express the pain
Even if it can't heal you completely,
It may reduce the storm to a rain.
When you feel hurt or broken,
Don't keep it unspoken.
-Aditi Hayaran (Larkspur)
Writing
by Barbara Maxwell Deraoui
Writing is in my blood
It runs through me like a running stream
It is intertwined into my inner most being
I am driven to do it
It is part of the air I breathe
It is life
It lifts me up
Like meditation
I disappear to another world
......
Scribbles of the Soul
by Aditi Hayaran
When stuck in the storm of thoughts,
Take a pen and write it down
Just anything that can express the pain
Even if it can't heal you completely,
It may reduce the storm to a rain.
When you feel hurt or broken,
Don't keep it unspoken.
-Aditi Hayaran (Larkspur)
not to the swift
by Rikske Kessner
They cling to the weight of their quill,
the tactile sensation, grounding them,
yet, the digital tide pulls at their resolve,
urging them to adapt or be left behind.
Nostalgia blooms in the scent of old books,
memories of applause, now distant echoes,
the poet's dilemma, a struggle within,
to honour tradition or embrace the new.
......
Stillborn
by Peter Quitadamo
Words painfully birth
from my anxious mind to ink -
My child was stillborn.
"the process of removing toxic substances"
by Soulayma A.
Why do I write?
.
Is that because writing is the act of being alive as Ryad said?
Even when I cannot breathe, I can write what suffocates me before my heart stops beating. I would point to the sun and make my last poem out of rays instead of words.
Is it because I’m still not healed yet?
But how much does it take? Three years of medication, 3 thousand words per month, 3 colors of dying, 6 new haircuts. I’ll break the record if I kept changing, I’ll break the record but I will not be healed.
Is it because, I write cuz I can do nothing about my rage, the rage that I don’t even recognize?
Writing is my "detoxification", but what if I was made of poison? When will I be healed?
......
My Merciless Muse
by Michael J. Nappi
I stand back, and light the fuse,
hoping, to awake my muse.
She could be found anywhere,
yet, when I call her, she's not there.
In field of clover, with no pen,
my muse flies to me again.
When I'm busy, hard a work,
she teases me, what a jerk.
......
