challenge on communication...

[wildsweetone]

write a poem explaining the feeling of writing poetry, to somebody who has no idea what it is like for you.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

Rhyming-itis
by My Erotic Tale ©

I don't know
but I've been ... oh,
rhyming

I will not rhyme ...I will not rhyme
I will say this, one thousand ...
ways

I have been told I have a disease
I need some help pretty ...
soon

My poems all seem to want'a Rhyme
I seem to write these poems all the ..
weekend

There is no cure I have been told
nothing short of good ole self-
awareness

I plan to tackle this problem I have
then my poems won't be so darn ...
rhyming

 

[polarized]

write a poem explaining the feeling of writing poetry, to somebody who has no idea what it is like for you.

I wrote this earlier with a few lines directed towards a specific person so I am not sure I if I re wrote those lines well for this.

This is currently how I feel about writing, not how I feel most of the time.


Racing, racing my mind can't stop
like a top forever caught in a spin
so many things I have to say,
to write down, pour myself unto a page.

Faster, faster loss of control
like satan when smitten down
not enough time to get it all out
the next thought has come and gone.

Help me, Help me I can't find the words
like a distortian that clouds the mind
all I want to do is write a poem or two
but I can't seem to find my way.

 

[My Erotic Trail]

write a poem explaining the feeling of writing poetry, to somebody who has no idea what it is like for you.

Dear Will
by My Erotic Tail ©

Dear Will:

I dare not tell
the men of musket and rye
that a poem was written
much less claim
it was I

For their views of worth:
a hundred yard bull's eye
wrestling a bear
after a keg
of ale or rye

I drinketh not
and for that I am shunned
but they're impressed
with my handling
of Griz and a gun.

That's the way of the forest
where I reside
but by candle light
my words to paper fly
by day
they, I must hide

To be
or not to be
maybe a choice
but my mind is drawn
to script of a pen

I am no Romeo
I have no Juliet
Perhaps I am dull
But poetry grasps me
like Hamlet holds a skull

Life's tiny stage
you are known to rule
here you would be the fool
I feel you only know
how my pen is a tool

To remove my hand
would surely end my write
But that wouldn't stop
the words inside
my tongue would improvise

I write you now
cause I feel you know
the inner beast
that knaws at my prose
and scribbles in candle lite glows

Is there a cure
for my desires?
this need to write
an act or scene
or is it death or poetry?

My dear friend, Will
I suffer a madness
in my head's sphere
tonight's write
to William Shakespeare

 

[RhymeFairy]

My World ~


Musical touch
and feel of words.
Sliding and gliding
all thru our bodies.
Touching out hearts.
Kissing our souls.
Melting our minds.
Reaching...
Carrying us to another world.
Another time, and place.
Sensually loving
our whole body...

Grasping...
Clutching...
Holding our attention.
Never releasing till that last,
caressing word.
Wrapping us in it's warm
loving cocoon.
Freeing us from all we know.
Stepping beyond that moment.
Drinking it all in.
Tasting the world.
Consuming all.
The deep inner being.

Feeling it
sizzle through our veins.
Hot...
Simmering...
Pulsating wickedly as it goes...
Running away with the sun.
Sleeping and dreaming mountains up high.
Letting the words flow and glide...
Always the words...
Taking me away...
To another world.
My world.
Safe in my world of words...

~~~~~~

I had written this a while back under LilDarlin.
I see now, it needs a lotta work ... but
the feelings are still the same ~
I will try soon to write another.

 

[RhymeFairy]

writing ... feeds my soul

when I feel caged in
locked up
returned to sender
writing
is always there
to envelope me in
welcoming arms
hold me tight
whispering
alone in the dark
all
will be all right ...

 

[clutching_calliope]

Ka-Boom! The Theory Behind the Writing.

.....

 

[champagne1982]

Waxing Poetic

This waterfall of words
spills over the blank
wall and fills the air,
beneath the white shadow,
with misted contradiction
that I cannot turn, blind
and unawakened, from.

To ignore this clarity
of thought would deny
my nature. Mute poets
could, as well, be blind
impressionists. Our art
would be a dark canvas
that only the deaf
musician can understand.

Instead, let me swim free
in the pool of chaotic
current beneath that mystic
curtain of water. To drown
is the fate of the unwilling
to see, with blind eyes,
hear, with deaf ears
and speak, with muted voice.

 

[sandspike]

poetry

Life is often
lived without music,
one must feel
most of the time.
Poetry dances
from brain to page,
rhythm of life
free verse or rhyme.
To live is to create
a dance of life.
Poetry is motion,
unharnessed to fly.

 

[The_Fool]

A couple of old ones...


Passionate Colored Words
by The_Fool ©


What color pen
Hides the hurt
In a heart?
What style of writing
Shows that you care?
Does a typewritten message
Share the depth
Of your feeling?
How does clear cursive
Show grace and control?
Why does all caps
Shout your message
To the world?
Show me that you care.
Write for me.
Write to me.


Forgotten Words
by The_Fool ©


A fractured piece of glass
A stone
A leaf fresh-fallen from a tree
A vision of what I see
in the time
before I blink

Let me share with you
A thought
A moment in time
A glimpse
Of joy
Of pain

Words picked carefully
Or scattered carelessly
To entice
Excite
Incite
Another who comes behind me

Transient in my mind
Penned Permanent
in black ink
On white paper
With blue lines
Lest I forget

Already forgotten

 

[Last_Kiss]

write a poem explaining the feeling of writing poetry, to somebody who has no idea what it is like for you.

written words read and
misread that I put down in pen
maybe I should change to pencil
erase it all because
you accuse
everything is the truth
and can't seem to
get it through your head or believe
that I blow things out of proportion
like the time you found a poem
I had written sharing
another mans bed
laying close to him
doing the same as I do to you;
a wife with her husband
and it's not that you're bad
but I like my
wild imagination
and if you don't let me write
I might live out everything I do.




I'm sorry. I'm going to post this even though it's not completely the truth. I could probably do better and pick better word choice, but I'm just hanging out today because I'm bored.

 

[another realm]

Exactly. I feel the need to communicate the words in my mind.

Conjuring
another realm

I want to see you reading my words
on a bench in a sleepy station,
barely morning and quiet, a waiting place where eyes
meet, smile, look away, pleasantries pass,
connecting, until the iron horse thunders down the
rails and roars into your sleepy hamlet
to scatter you country folk to
the engine rooms of the economy.

I want to see you touching my words
early, in a muffled office wing
before everyone arrives for a
day's work, with whitening grey
flooding your windows, west-facing
but large, and the amber glow
of the mica lamp and the early
quiet before the bustle begins
and you, leaning back in your chair,
almost horizontal, one hand lying on your
chest, one hand clutching my words, and
your mouth curved up in a smile.

I want to see you tasting my words,
picking out the different flavors, guessing
what I mean by a certain turn of
phrase, because we come from
different cultures, different times,
different sexes, and then smiling at a
metaphor I knew would amuse you and I
want to know which words you get and
which words I still need to work on for you,
so you will know that I do not
practice fairy tales or
dabble in illusions.

I want to see you smelling my words
out in a garden, a moment's rest, on a
bench 'neath a tree, from pulling weeds
and fertilizing vegetable beds, your
prize string beans and tomatoes,
swollen and ripe, and
you slip your ungloved hand
into your shirt pocket, retrieve some pages,
worn, wrinkled, smudged, adjust your glasses
and sigh.

I want to see you hearing my words
in a room I can only conjure from my words and
my imagination, a spare bedroom in your
sprawling Victorian turned library-office,
lined with books and art, furnished with leather
and wood, and a glass of merlot now only
quarter full on the file cabinet next to
your easy chair, with the Tiffany lamp that
was your grandparents', and you listening
to the sound of my wonder filling
your ears.

I want to see you devouring my words,
still not filled,
looking for more.

 

[wildsweetone]

i have this piece of rubbish typed and sitting beside me... it's unfinished and really weird and it's going in the bottom of a drawer out of sight somewhere for a few years.

perhaps i'm just not meant to convey to others in writing what the feeling of writing is like. *shrugging*