poems

i am like a dead begoniahanging upside down because like a dead begonia I don't give a fuck

I was just an option.Blown easily to piecesand offered to the skyby the sweet laced painupon your lips.

Fear is a hurdle that stops the expression

I do have a funny perception of mine I'd like to share. Being basically a lifetime poet. I've had many people say "I don't like poetry" But they'll listen to song after song that rhymes on the end in couplets Just a thought...

Is stuffed, de world, wif feeding girls.

A sacred soul Thus, within the cosmic creation proceed Life is precious as gold Death will come In a better place, where there__ no earthly lifeEternity exist...God..... Judgement falls upon usNothing to minus and nothing to plus Only the truthIn a better place where there__ no cuss They say tranquility exist hereNo fussNo sorrowA better place with great yarrow It will come in the morrowIn present times Life is but a Dream

Once, we were a mighty nation Our people came from strong foundation Until cursed with darker days A dragon red came from skies blue Came and stole the things we once knew Making us humble, unknown But we were told one day of old That we__ give our throne of ancient gold To a prince and dragon slayer__ son For us to regain the ancient throne He will fight and bleed for our mountain home This dragon prince of Bowen__ line He will kill the drake that broke us He will remove the Witch who cursed us And become our King some glad day So now we wait ever patiently We wait for the one promised to make us free We wait for this prince to come

hough we travel the whole over to find the perfect match,we must carry it with us a light or it's playing hard to catch.

I believe in your kiss... your touch and the way you make me feel. I believe in your eyes... that make me see the good in most. I believe in your mouth... and your sweet taste... and the softness of the words that flow from you. I believe your love has taken me places, I never dreamed possible. I believe in your laughter... your tears of caring and your muted look of understanding. I believe that your love has made me a better human being. I believe your compassion and patience have enriched all who have come to know you. I believe because of you, I'm the luckiest person on the face of the earth. I believe in you... in everything you say and do. I believe... that you have made this world a better place

A poem is its own name and cover.

only kindness that raises its headfrom the crowd of the world to sayit is I you have been looking for,and then goes with you everywherelike a shadow or a friend.

I'll stop loving you the day my shadow stops following me around. Because on that day, nothing will make sense.

I write poems. I'm often laughed at for doing so. My friends and foes, who were born in 1980's or even later aren't savvy with this concept of the reading and writing poems. They're probably not at fault because while they were being brought up in their respective environs, they weren't really taught how to appreciate poetry. Sadly, those same indifferent souls are now raising their children in the same robotic way, keeping them away from an art form as pure as poetry. Anyway, on the path my life, my poems, written and unwritten, are spread throughout like breadcrumbs. Alas! I'm savoring these breadcrumbs alone because no one has chosen to walk by me, maybe because they're skeptic about the taste of these crumbs. They've hypothetically assumed that these crumbs, these poems are bitter. Sigh! They aren't courageous enough to gather the strength to actually taste them. Perhaps this way, the real sweetness of my crumbs, of my poems stays obscured to them. But I haven't let them crush this sweetness beneath their feet and that's why, I've chosen to walk alone instead. How can I not savor these crumbs if I already know that they're leading me to the apex of my life? How can I not write poems if a voice inside me is constantly pecking my hands to give it a form? This voice is my meditation. This voice is my shadow, a shadow which is stubborn enough to remain intact even when I'll be gone. This voice is my concrete, the concrete that I'm made up of. This voice is my power, the power that will shake your senses. This voice is my poetry.

Nails that claw by a beautiful mind.A pretty face can leave you blind - Poem 'Small Pain' from 'The B Word: The B in LBGTQ Poetry'.

Poetry is like an unexpected noise in the night: the creak of a door, a footstep on the porch, the soft scuffle of a moth against the screen, which rouses every sense to an instant alert. So comes poetry to the drowsy mind, which startles a moment, wonders, and returns to sleep.

The attention was flattering. For the first five minutes. Now I know how poems feel.

Poems are not often simply emotions butOne has enough emotions -- they're experienceExperience themselves are not important....

When They Die We Change Our Minds About Them When they die we change our minds about them. While they live we see the plenty hard they__e trying,to be a star, or nice, or wise, and so we do not quite believe them. When they die, suddenly they are what they claimed. Turns out, that__ what one of those looks like. The cold war over manner of manly or mission is over. Same person, same facts and acts, just now a quiet brain stem. We no longer begrudge his or her stupid luck.When they die we change our minds about them. I will try to believe while you yet breathe.