|Deviant Login||Shop||Join deviantART for FREE||Take the Tour|
I'm Just A PoetI'm just a poet
Stringing together words
In a way that tries to force you to feel,
To understand what I feel.
I'm just a manipulator
Gaining recognition by
Warping what you understand
Trying to change your emotions
Till they fit my own.
I'm just an instigator
Using my words
To try and lead you along a path
That was created in anger
And fueling your passion to follow it
Until you can't even remember
Why you followed this way.
I'm just an interpreter
Translating your feelings into words
While ignoring the very fact
That in doing so
I'm ruining the very thing
That made these feelings so powerful
But I don't care
I'm just a recorder
Writing the pain of a person,
Of a entire nation
With a few measily words
While deluding myself
That this actually helps someone,
That writing the same pain
In a different way actually
Makes anything less painful.
Priding myself that my words
May one day move people
To change the world
When all they actually do
Is garner a few mo
Will you be my home?Will you be my home
My gentle security?
Will you lift me away
With the caress of your arms
Warm me wholly
With the slighest brush
Of your lips?
Will you be my shelter
Even from my own tears?
Will you let me take you for granted
Let me wrap you around me
And rock me to my dreams?
Will you hide me away
Be the place of my safety
Be my happiness
Sheilded from a world of sadness,
Will you be my home,
My gentle security
Silently filling my life with love?
Confession about me Silent StrengthI am strong, but please never confuse this strength with invulnerability.
I do hurt.
I do cry.
I do love.
I do feel.
I do get crushed.
I do regret.
But please never think that while I may never show these things in front of you, that I don’t feel them.
Because I do.
More than you could ever imagine.
I’m a hyper sensitive person, forced into a role of strength.
It is just a rare occasion when my reserve breaks and I show it in front of people.
And when this happens, I reach a state of such openness and vulnerability that I fear.
Because I can withstand a thousand blows, but just one word can cut me down. And at that moment, I fear what could be said to me.
I’m very sorry if anyone who see this thinks of me as cold, or heartless, or unfeeling.
It's just in my life, I have had people who rely on me to be the strong one who keeps a level head and calm emotions.
And so when I break in front of someone, I apologize profusely.
Because what if they were someone that needed me
How to Write the Best Poem Ever - Tutorial----- How to write an amazing poem -----
I always hate what happens when I search stuff like poem inspiration, or how to write a poem, or basically anything to do with poetry on the internet. All that comes up is generic, “find inspiration,” “write what you know,” or best of all, “Let it come to you.” Haha, yeah that’s really going to help when you have writer’s block… So here we go my solution! My own tips and tricks I’ve learned to writing great poems when I don’t have inspiration. I’m going to be doing this right along with you, so you can check my examples for each method I show you too. So let’s begin already~!
// What you will need //
Mandatory: Paper and pencil (Or computer)
Suggested: A rhyming dictionary, regular dictionary, thesaurus, and some good music (preferably instrumental so the words won’t get you distracted while writing)
// Before we start: What you should know about poetry writin
insomniac.night is when all of my monsters emerge.
not from under the bed
or in the closet -
though i still insist
on keeping the lamp on 'til i'm in bed
so something doesn't grab my legs
and keeping the closet door shut
so i'm not watched all night -
but from deep inside me,
that dark place where they hide
until the sun sets and i'm
the shadows are frightening
of the clock
seems like a timer
counting down the minutes until i explode,
a self-destructive time bomb.
sometimes the flickering flame of a candle
or the heavy fumes of incense
will calm me down and i'll
be just fine.
but other times i stare at the candle
and wonder why it isn't burning at both ends
like my life is.
and i watch the incense slowly die and think
how sad it is
to watch its ashes fall.
and i feel like that's
what i'm doing to myself -
lighting myself on fire and just
as i turn to ash.
and the night goes on and i
don't know what to do
because i'm so lonely and afraid and i ache
for the a
and i have tried to make it right.i.
let me tell you a story
using six words.
their names become parts of statistics.
let me tell you a story
using six words.
“suicide is the easy way out.”
let me tell you a story
using six words
that will never be told.
pain is not a fucking
do you still pray,
knowing there will be no answer?
see, i cannot speak for those
who have no voice to give
but, sincerely, these are the six words
i respond with:
i wish i could save you.
we live our lives being told that
there is always a safety net -
that there are people designed to protect us.
i’m going to use six words because,
the saddest stories
take the fewest words to tell.
for them, there was never anyone.
blades can cut wrists but
here are six words:
blades can cut stories short, too.
i have approximately 250,000 words
to choose from
to try and describe to you what suicide is
but i don’t
Awareness.She writes such lovely poems
But nobody really cares
She hides them all the time
To avoid the judging stares
She wrote one yesterday
About a boy who said he loved her
But to her own dismay
She caught him with another
She wrote one about school
And the words painted on her locker
“No one likes you, stupid bitch.
You’re lucky I’m at soccer.”
She wrote about her parents
And how she wished they were together
But she knows that won’t ever happen
And forgetting’s probably better
Yes, she writes such lovely poems
But there’s so much more to this
See, her pencil is a razor
And the paper is her wrist.
Seeing never come true dreamSeeing "never come true" dreams.
Heart starts to ponder
Desire the hallucinated
Releasing the emotion
To live those moment,
To live that again,
Accepting the Reality,
Playing hide and seek
One is life, The other is the end
What is the life and what is the end,
Is the puzzle
Hiding the reality to seek the unreal.
A thin thread slowly disappear.
Let me be your poem.Let me melt the cold pain from your skin, transform into the sun and heat your hurt––so it evaporates into white clouds of hope that inspires the trees to sway.
Let me touch you like the first story I've ever read in brail, after deciding to go deaf before letting another sound replace your voice.
Let me shatter every tiny ounce of doubt from your being, using the weight of my love for you–– to demolish it's once relevant place in your thoughts.
Let me carve holes in to the night sky, so you can see how my universe revolves solely around you, making the moon shine bright with jealousy.
Let me fly you to the nearest nebula, so we can finally be as high as this love makes me feel.
Let me drive you crazy like a mirage in a desolate desert, making you crave it so much you imagine it in front of you, dying for a taste.
Let me be the sun to warm you and you can be the rain to cool us down, and we can make the sky blush a million different colours.
Let me be the baseli
It's Not Polite To Lie.Hush, sweetie,
Do not let their judgments define you.
Do not let their hatred construct you.
Do not let their words build you.
Do not let your sorrow swallow you.
Do not let your pain devour you.
Do not let your loneliness change you.
Stop telling yourself lies,
Stop screaming in a whisper that you're
Inside and out.
Stop telling yourself that you're
Stop telling yourself that you're
It's not polite to lie.
Under the Breaking SkyI fell under a red lightning,
and as I tumbled across the spiralling Earth,
I couldn't hear but the sounds of my panicked thoughts
pumping through my veins and across my flesh,
but still I wondered if anyone cared for my sudden fall.
Perhaps they did and I was wrong,
but for me the question that surrounds me day and night
was whether they cared for the slash of red
or the person who fell under its name.
It appears you don't have PDF support in this web browser. Download PDF
Her CatalystAs she walks through the maelstrom, the words trace upon the tips of her fingers and press into the stone. Every brick, every crack in the concrete, every crossed and angular stroke in reds and blacks and oranges. The drips of the gasoline pool around the base of her boots, slosh as she steps over the burst pipes and the rubble.
So much rubble. So little outcry. The silence of the city grates on her eardrums and the mantras she'd been forced to memorize. The Seers demanded they observe thirteen years of recitation before they attempt to weave their first World together.
But who other than the Seers can claim the incantations that knot the skeins they twist and pull on like reins hold fast? When have any of the Sisters recorded the visions they traced upon space-time and recited them, left them open for critique and discussion and debate?
Which is why she walks through the chalky soot of the smashed city around her. This all
Keep in Touch!
Bluefley has a gallery filled with artwork that whisks you off in to a Sci-fi daydream, and keeps you captivated for hours. Marc has been a member of our community for over a decade and has achieved nothing but success with his astounding commitment to interacting with the community, sharing a prolific amount of video tutorials and generally being an all round rockstar deviant. It is no joke that we are absolutely delighted to award the Deviousness Award for April 2014 to ... Read More