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My book of words, That mean so much. Unravel my thoughts, That I so closely clutch. Of love, Of hate. My poetry book, Holds future and fate. A figure to think, A friend to confide.
My time is my time, nobody else's. You know, sometimes I feel like I'm left in the dark about some things, but then again maybe it's for the best.
They say to write a poem you must always use your mind. So why do words just come to me when my mind is left behind. I go to sleep, or so I think, and then they rush inside my head.
The silent. Blue. Streets. My pounding heart. My dancing feet. The glitter. Cascading. Twirling. My arms outstretched. My head whirling. Raining down. From. The sky. Sparkling like stars.
#acorn (that I've tweaked a bit) Dance is encoded in my DNA Inside the music is where I want to stay It's my passion a big part of my life It's not a hobby and more than a vice.
Writing and dance, my only expressions I can't do art, I've tried I can draw, but my drawings are flat They don't convey What I feel inside Just a girl with balloons They don't show how she cried How...
If I were to put an ink stain,. On an A4 page all nice and plain,. On one half all my words,. Beautiful things like rainbows and birds,. Positive words and phrases,.
So apparently I need to learn to rhyme, So what if I can't it's not a crime, Maybe I need to go back to school, Then over lyrical perfection I can drool, Or maybe I just write what I feel, That way...
A picture's worth a thousand words Or so I've heard them say, But I've never seen a picture do what words can anyway.
I am a closet writer No one knows my ways, No one seems to notice When I'm in my closet for days. Only one knows my location One knows I like to write, I hide in here in the day And again at night.
I've reached100 followers. Some may not think that's much, But I am very grateful- Serious I'm touched.
I have a twisted mind, body and soul, I don't dress the same, Or look the same as you, But at least I'm unique, Unlike you, A flock of sheep, All the same. Never changing.
I'd break the rules. Again and again. I'd do it all. Just the same. All the trouble. Was well worth it. I'd break the rules. It's fun to do it. Being naughty. Breaking rules. It's not a crime.
I cry poetry When I'm hurt by the words you spit out I cry poetry When 'I'm in a mood for it' but to you I'm putting up a 'Clown show' I cry poetry When my heart's not strong enough to handle its...
I'm limp and quiet. Every thing you don't want me to be. But I'm who I wanna be. You want me to be active and giddy. Just because you don't like who I am. I'm me. I have life. And jokes.
I Let down my hair and let my thoughts unwind. Shook my booty with a bit of bump and grind. The music pumped as my body played out its tune. Lost in the beat the rhythm my cocoon.
A quick way to knock one out. For the urge & the need to write. When finding time is causing strife. No time to give your work undivided attention.
When did it all start. my slight obsessional creativity phase, wanting to get branded, going along with the craze. Something discreet and it's only there for me.
look at her jeans and all the rips and holes in them, do you think she asked for that. no, time did that to her jeans.
I have to say I love it, But I think that it's got powers, I put it on and snuggle in, And I could write for hours.
I want to thank everyone who liked/commented on my last opuss. It really means a lot, and to know other people feel the same is also good.
The brush, The canvas, Me. It's all, I want it, To be. The paint, The design, And I. The strokes, All perfect, To my eye. The pallet, The easel, The painter. The work, Getting darker; Getting fainter.
Dancing round the kitchen. Yes, that's me. Singing along to the music. I don't care if I'm not in tune. Give a little jig. Too happy to give a damn. Just let the music take me over.
I found this place called Opuss, Where I can write my thoughts. I can put down all the good and bad And everything else of course. No one seems to mind it. No one tells me to shut up.