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Poets are emotional rockstars
causing rokkus
getting ****-drunk off of anything
that moves them
wrecking rooms
of highs after falling
grabbing the "feels"
and smashing them
on the stage of their life
fearless and loud
Now, that's adrenaline
I chewed on a pencil for tea
an unpleasant splinter of graphite 2B,
my head machine purrs, but cogs do not whir
nothing stirs,  
no word flowers grow,
I need some more seeds,
are they herbs are they verbs or irritating weeds  
I don't know,
how this could be so,
I will make me a garden for rhymes to bloom,
poems only flower if you give them some room
Srishti Jun 1
Just pen and paper,
Tells millions of feelings,
Heals millions of souls.

Just pen and paper,
The best couple without any doubt.
This combination is utopia.

Just pen and paper,
Where every word from the heart
is on paper by pen.
The art they make is priceless."
the thing which heals me is pen and paper
Peter Balkus Sep 2020
Full time poets
don't exist.
In this world
at least.

There is plenty of them
on the other side.
It’s only for us
it seems that they have died.
Crow May 24
a poet's heart
is a thing of ink

pigmented with equal parts
hubris and anxiety
rage and hope
passion
and tears

narcissists filled with self loathing

composed of shouts inarticulate
and whispers of intricate craft

our thoughts and words rushing
through us
barely legible

defining our days
with explosions of fathomless obscurity
or flashes of visceral clarity

our nights consumed
in communion with paradise
while teasing secrets from the abyss

couplets and quatrains
providing us the space
to live
or to die

running breathless in free verse
we grasp at perpetuity
yet find ourselves doomed
to ephemeron

like the sky
we are rewritten each day

yet as the sky remains the sky
so do we remain
what we are

pages
in a book we can barely read

remaking and trimming

editing ourselves

to fit within the margins
of our paper souls
emma13nunu May 23
poets had their head full of love
tho they mistook it for eternal misery

i instead am the antithesis
cause grief won’t act as such

it creeps on you
and covers your view
preventing you from feeling
and leaving you reeling


it’s a feeling in the stomach
that for lone minds like mine
is seen as fleeing wings
rupturing my insides
Marebear May 6
She’s so beautiful
She’s a distinct petal out of a thousand roses
So bright and radiant, but feels out of touch
She feels dark, so out of love
One says she changed, but a million are blinded

She’s a philosopher
An artist with her words
One says sadness
While she writes a silent ocean
Her brush steals hearts

Summer will find us shortly
In the bristling but once-filled heaps of grass
through the wind, the howling of sorrow
May the sun find our chests and warm their holes
For the lovers in the past have torn us through

I hold their hand for them to stay
But they drift further away
Must be killed three times to hold
These poets' eyes are not foretold
Despite the words that pour from the soul
A field of roses will rot
If the gardener does not trim the grot
Admiration and nostalgia
I am an artist, try as I might, I will never fully live in this world.
A part of me will always live in the songbird's pocket,
and fly, to land on the windowsill of Romeo and Juliet,
to flutter to the doorstep of Anais Nin,
to hear the poetic masterpieces of her mind.
No, with this artist's heart and a poet's soul,  
a part of me exists only in a dream.

-Rhia Clay
Poems are not toothpaste,
you cannot squeeze another from the tube at will,
bend the ends of words for one last drop,
inspiration comes in waves
and when it wants to do so, it will stop,
you cannot pick a constant crop,
there are times when the field lies fallow
hiding seeds which may or may not grow
if and when they flower
that is not for us to know,
poets feed on what they find
the harvest of a fertile mind
Jesus' baby May 8
Blank as snow,
my mind has resigned—
Not from frail nerves,
but from the loss of momentum.

My fingers wrestle with the pen,
my hand clings to the laptop.
Open the tap—
Let even a drop fall.

Inspire me,
that I might inspire others.

Little by little,
a mighty ocean will stir,
erupting—
Breaking every bound.

Tap the keys, O hand.
Sketch the thoughts, dear fingers.
Just let the mind ignite—
Rome will be built, for sure.

Not unaliving,
but ensuering,
a cure will be found.
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