Embrace insanity just long enough to catch the strings of thought, thread them through the needle of diligence, and stitch them into reality.
It's easy to become lost within the accuracy of perception and loose the essence. We live in a world of ambiguity haunted by facts.
Are we candle stick makers or are we writers to their light? Are we critics of critics, or authors of our own opinions?
Are we candle stick makers or are we writers to their light? Are we critics of critics, or authors of our own opinions? – Cheers MM
Is it obvious how I've changed? If poetry is a mirror for mind, I say yes. I've found structure within my chaos. Inevitable perhaps... Inevitably human.
Is it obvious how I’ve changed? If poetry is a mirror for mind, I say yes. I’ve found structure within my chaos Inevitable perhaps… Inevitably human.
Notes falling daffidly failing with moments of udder bliss, A mixed concerto of rediscovery, failures and sucess
It just sits there, in the corner. Huntched… curled into a shadow. In a black coffin. In a insane stupor, he cradled it Pieced it back to gather again Its golden body in his arms, Only to let it sing...
Wet dirt from a summer hose wafts by in a gust of air, The burst of a cold strawbery, the solid cold grasping teath Desert lips moist citrus sting soothing...
Savoring ideas My finger runs across the splinter grained wood, Wet dirt from a summer hose wafts by in a gust of air, The burst of a cold strawbery, the solid cold grasping teath Desert lips moist citrus sting soothing…...
I don’t want to be remembered in ten foot tall print. I wish to be whispered about, passed secretly under desks, To live in smirks, and winks, and secret handshakes, Not in spirit, or blood, But in life, humanity itself.
A steady trickle of courage leaks from an infinite dam, Moving through the dry heaving cracks of this nation, Saturating the minds of children and aspiring world leaders, Nourishing intellect, community, and self expression.Could we be so brave? Could we...
We did drawings in class, of real objects... I would ask people to switch seats with me so I could get the perspective that showed the most depth. I was in fourth grade. I got scared and then I quit. I didn't draw realism again for eight years.
I wonder when I will stop dreaming. I think I’ve got it. I have it. Now. I love the appearance of compounding sentences. They read like a mantra. Very Soothing. Sweet. I wish that this blasted text box was created...
Write me a poem with images so visceral I feel as you did while you wrote it.
Congratulations. Despite the ambiguity of meaning within the stanzas, as a whole your poem makes sense. It’s a powerful collection of concepts. It’s a good start. Now write me a poem with images so visceral I feel as you did...
Maybe I'm that little bit of truth in the abstract.
Must a critic be themselves criticized in order to be respected? Poetry is like a drawing. You can spend hours making it perfect, like a photograph. There are people who do this. Realists. I’m a realist. Poems can be like abstract art...