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.
The job,
My life,
My muse.
It's all,
That I,
Would choose.
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Twitter: @Medders_Lozza. Instagram @LIKEUW0T
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.
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.
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.
It doesn't matter. What ranking I am. What matters the most. I've done the best that I can. I like writing my jibber. Creating new stuff. If you don't like them. I guess it is tough.
#movement. ambling along. writing a song. a poem or a line. feeling fine. no need to rush. or speed as such. just up with the birds. choosing my words. i'll take my time. when i write a rhyme.
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,.
If I do not keep on writing. Then the ink will seep within. Causing an inner struggle. Solved only by the pen. The notebook is my body. And the folds create my heart. But without my muse.
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.
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