Creativity flows from the ink in my pen; Inner feelings put on paper time and again; The hurt and pain that run so deep; Release the tears that I can't keep; The words express what I can't speak; Of deep heartache which makes me weak; They voice a strength that isn't there; Of love and loss and a life not fair; But what works best this I know; Is to write of the pain and let it go.
When does a poem begin And where does it end? Does it swoop down like a breeze To swirl around the ankles Of a pubescent girl With knock knees? Is it there the seed begins? Does it shiver In the pit of her groin At the whisper of him near?After months, just short of nine, Does it unsheathe its face And gasp for air As it cries out With the induced pain Of a man’s hand? How many words does it collect And discar...
Sitting here staring at this blank page,Wondering what to write. The ideas flow through me like Water flows through a riverbed after a rainstorm. Uninhibited, Free to flow and shape itself,Morph into any form it desires.Writing is my outlet, Words my tools. Why is it so hard to put it here where it matters?Someone once told me;“Write a poem, it is the differenceBetween watching the sun set and reading about a sunset.”Then...
