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September, October, November, I'll write you a letter, For every day, You are Gone. I'll keep them, A stack of hand-written Pages, Torn from notebooks, Sketch pads, My heart.
The pain was comfortably numbing, for he was a disciple of pain, but also a prophet of pleasure, he considered them one and the same. Some people thought he was crazy, some people had labelled him...
I can now see Before I was an observer, Trapped in a mortal shell Never truly seeing the world Now that I have you I can finally see The warm colors of summer The cold hues of winter The swirling...
Love, for me, is many things. The way the blackest blackbird sings. The freshest air the frosty dawn. The brightness of a sunny morn. Chasing shadows in the rain. Fantastic creatures in my brain.
Poetry is like a musical; Words upon a page, that Maybe an Actor would see, and reenact upon a stage.
Please concentrate on your beliefs and opinions and on what others are writing .this is no lottery game and let us keep the standard .
I'm wondering if there is anything other than writing which cures your cravings for creativity.... I'm a very creative person, I play guitar (and sing, on occasion), bass and drums.