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Rhyme, metaphor, onomatopoeia, Similie, symbolism, personification. To all those tricky writing techniques, You deserve a standing ovation.
My pen is my sword The chapter my fight All I have to do to win Is put down my words and write. Word by word Blow by blow Writing everything I know.
Today I've realised something that makes me laugh. When i'm stuck with writers block, I'll take a bath. When i'm struggling and i'm lost without a clue.
Some days Mr Opuss feed is bleak and empty, Other days it's comments a plenty. Likes fill me up with a warm kind of glow. And as a writer allows me to grow.
I want to write a story. So I sit down with my phone. I'm trying my very hardest. But ideas just won't flow. I know that when I'm started. Ideas will come with ease. But 'till inspiration hits me.
Okay, so I just realised that I haven't really posted anything on Opuss for a while now, so I'm writing this as a sort of update to tell you what I have up my sleeve :) I'm currently half way through...
Pressed together In the closeness of virtual sheets Our heart beats Bathed in the sweat The toil of raw expression Such sweet aggression As our eyes press Into the curves of another's line Creative...
Opuss you are charged with a serious crime You are accused of causing insomnia this time When I should be fast asleep in my bed I am rhyme rhyme rhyming in my head No longer can I turn over when I...
I can't sleep now, no matter how much I try. So I sit and write an Opuss of surprise, no disguise, so much so, being awake can suffice.
I'm new to Opuss as you probably can tell. Keep pressing the wrong buttons and messaging myself. Haven't wrote poetry for a very long time. So I'm a bit rusty with my rhythm and rhyme.
The night is filled with starlight, The night is filled with moonbeams, The night is filled with dreams, Whether good or bad, But the night is filled with souls Pouring out their sorrows, So that a...
When I write on Opuss, I write to be heard, Not to become first... Or second... Or third. Yes, that's a challenge, But not a single aim, It ruins every prospect, Of the word-fuelled game.
I'm sat in my room staring at this blank bit of space on my phone. Wondering to myself deep in thought of how to make it my own. You see... When I write, i'm not in it for the glory.
How to overcome .
I sat inside my study, Awaiting words to come, I'd wait till they'd appear, Then put quill against my thumb.
Ok I wanted to write a blog but everytime I start to write one it turns into a poem. Just can't help myself.
As my story, Stan, begins to come to an end, it feels like something inside me is dying. For the past month I have enjoyed writing it, and reading the comments left.
Dear Opuss I have no time to stop and play, pesky deadlines - go away. I'm try my best to draft a line, It won't be great, it will be mine.
This pens run out of ink, But the ideas they still flow. I need to right them down, Before they escape and go. I won't remember them for long. If I can't write them, they'll go to waste.
I thought that I had writers block, But then I had an itch, It was underneath my sock, The annoying little bitch, So as I scratched and scratched away, My thoughts began to wander, And a lightbulb...
My poems are just doodlewords, They don't take long to write. I observe the world around me, By ear, by nose or sight. By then my brain has started, To note a line or two.
Every morning it's the same, I hear Opuss call my name, And so I march, like the soldier I am, Armed not with sword or battering ram, But armed with brain and thoughts and text, And once I've...
Ok so..
Ideas flicker in the dark of the mind, Brilliant, fleeting, and Gone. The candle stands, Just out of reach. Waiting for the match. For the spark. For the flame.