It's all just words,
And it's all just ink.
But it's really much more,
A lot more come to think.
It's letters and sentences,
It really is my heart.
Writing is my future,
My end and my start.
Words are a jumble,
A biography full to the brim.
Being without writing,
Is being without a limb.
That little thrush of energy,
When bringing poem to life,
As soft as a harp,
As cutting as a knife.
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A man once said "it's only words". But that is strictly for the birds. For words are good words are great. Words spread love and nurture hate. They help us thru our darkest hour.
My poems are thoughts. That come from my mind. Some of them dirty. Some can be kind. I can write fiction. Or even the truth. My sexual poems. Go through the roof. Sometimes you won't like.
All I see is anger Writhing in my head Burning, churning Hot, bright red You wanted Poetry. Come along You may just see I'll show you Everything I've got Will you take it. Maybe not.
Poets are descriptive-ish in their poems. They try to make you feel as if you're experiancing what they write.
I don't think in music. I don't think in lines. I don't think in canvases. No. I think in rhymes. I don't speak in eloquence. I don't speak in prose. I don't speak in coloured tongue.
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.
I don't know how to put my words down with ink and script. It's like my pen has all run dry, it's suddenly tight-lipped. I try to make me literate, to tell you how I feel.
It's late at night. But I had an urge to write. Sometimes I get these itches. Ripping me like broken stitches. So I make a rhyme. To past the time. Or because words start to flow.
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