There's a poem in my heart
And a poem from my skin
My bones make poems
And I write for my kin
The sky has its own poetry
As does the sea
The clouds hold the words
As the waves do me
Poetry is in movement
Within every saving grace
There's a poem in a smile
And everyone's little mistakes
Nature holds the poems
In it everything is free
The winds in the trees whisper softly
Poetry is in all there can be
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Yo. Me? I'm a professional Metaphor Creator - aka taking two things and sticking them together with determination and lots of glue to make a sandwich. (That's pretty much how I write, too. But hey, sandwiches are great, aren't they? Even if you have to look at the base idea of it.) Also known as a Thinker, Dreamer, Sleeper, and/or TalksTooMucher.
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.
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.
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.
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.
M usic, a huge part of my life. U niversal language for all. S ounds that help, calm or ignite. I t's magic never fails to pull. C omfort from pain, always something to gain.
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.
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.
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.
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