Dear Writer

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

Author's Notes/Comments: 

I love writing, and got so excited when talking about writing that I felt the need to write a poem about it. Hope you enjoy.

Paper is the Land where I Sow the Words!

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!

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Hanging Love in the Air


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



finally open my eyes,

banish the spirits

and hang love in the air.

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Written 9/19/15

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Kill Your Darlings

"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.

Author's Notes/Comments: 



 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.


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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.  

Author's Notes/Comments: 

There was actually more to the poem, but I opted only to share the second half. Just a little something. At the time I was a rather interested in trees. Smile

What Kind of Poet am I?

Just a thought!

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



Author's Notes/Comments: 

"What kind of poet am I?"

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"What Was That?"

Just a thought!

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!"

Author's Notes/Comments: 

Just some humor....If you don't get it...."Too bad so sad"Tongue Out

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What to write about?

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!

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