Write and write, then write some more
Oh how some have said “It’s a bore.”
What do they know? They don’t see
The magic of these words on trees
Tiny strips of once grand woods
Hold whole worlds, even in death
The tree is gone, but life is there
And it grows with every breath
To create such things as worlds and lives
To build them up and rip apart
The power, the emotions, oh dear writer
Here is a portal to your heart
Look at how each person changes
Look at how your worlds expand
Do you see lives rearranging
And all within your master plan
Oh, the excitement! Oh, the joy!
Beauty is here, beauty and life!
In the quiet of humble homes
A universe hides inside
Some poor souls won’t understand
They’ll never see what you have done
Don’t live for them, don’t mold your worlds
To show the cruelty they’ve become
Take a breath, then get to work
Go live within what you create
Be surprised, feel admiration
Feel love, joy, jealousy, and hate
Don’t be afraid to stray away
And wander down an unknown path
Surprise and awe aren’t just for readers
Not everything will need a plan
Just let the life grow on its own
Let the people all be free
And in their freedom, you will find
A world where you may wish to be
Life isn’t set in stone, my friends
And your writing is the same
Your words are alive, so just relax
And walk within your stories
Always remember, your world is living
It’s not just scribbles on a page
And always know, it’s your creation
Be proud, and please, keep writing
I sow the words in the paper,
Almost everyday,
I know that like the real tree,
The words shall bear fruits later!
Maybe shortly, maybe thousands of years after that,
If history does evoke my ardour,
If history does bestow me with special nobility,
In the next world, celestial peace my soul shall get.
Extremely beholden I am to my brain as well,
Without which I could hardly write and tell!
Eyes staring through me,
humans with strange hearts
Love hangs in the air,
filling balloons on a string
Doors locked shut,
a hallway of tears,
I’m drowning and running
and getting nowhere
Spirits fill one half of me,
half dead,
eyes half closed
and humans with strange hearts
haunt my sleep
My heart is full
but my fingers are stiff from
going too long without
holding a pen
Words
finally open my eyes,
banish the spirits
and hang love in the air.
"Kill your darlings." I read in a book
Behind my glowing keypad, I shook.
Kill my darlings, you say?
Just pick up a rag and wipe it away?
Backspace, backspace, backspace, I press.
Making my paragraph noticeably less.
But I don't think I'm fooling anyone, I guess,
I really must start fresh.
To me,
Writing is a therapy,
It does reduce strain,
Like a tablet lessening pain.
Written pieces are like assets,
As soon as each writing gets,
Visible on the paper,
As a celestial gift the sense of joy does appear.
I want to spread the alphabets on the paper,
The way seeds are spread by the farmer.
Do you -- do you know the reason they moan?
Like abled creatures and beings,
or the pullings tides,
our watchful trees with too to move.
They wish to enjoy the harvest, to dance in their fallen leaves.
They long to sway and sing with the times of change,
and to see the miracles of seed.
But their roots are buried deep,
and to be removed is defeat.
So they sing their lonely songs
with weathered bark and
branches that reach for more.
These are the reasons they moan.
The things we write, some good some bad.
Depends on the day, whether happy or sad..
Some things we write are misunderstood,
The critiques weigh in, if it's bad or good.
I wear Snoopy bandaids to lighten the blow..
From pretentious poets who think they know.
I bounce words that rhyme from one to the other,
Most having meaning the synapse will cover.
I write for grins to help pass my day,
In hopes a smile will come your way.
Not everyone comments , so, I may never know it...
I guess in the end, I'm just a rubber poet'
by Barry Anderson
People are people, they either write like they know everything...or know nothing..
Depends what you read at the time... In the end, all words run on and disappear...
Pages and thoughts stuck together, Titles smeared from coffee rings and time.
Your mind stained from perceived notions or useless banter. Trying to forage
a useable thought... Head shakes, jaws flap, trying to eliminate brain overload...
I need a "System Restore button!"
Sometimes appears like the cloud a doubt,
If must I write, what to write about?
At times certain first-rate topics spring up,
As the smoke from the coffee-cup.
At times think I to write about anything,
Irrespective of something vital or trifling,
Writing on and on should matter,
Writing on and on is the motto ‘my dear’.
Now I know what to write about,
Now I know how not to give in to any doubt!