invisible strands of thought s t r e t c h i n g a c r o s s the page; spiderwords but oops I snap ped a strand and now I lost my traaaaaaaaain of hot steaming birch smoke.
When you're faced with something you don't understand, I think the most natural thing but also least interesting thing you can be is afraid.
What a bad poem I might write, I think, if I tried to combine one unfitting thing too many, altogether, with enjambments already running ahead of themselves in my mind, in my mind, in my mind.
What on earth's a poem that's both heartfelt and heartless, as I heartfeltly declare that I feel heartless? Will the words pouring out tripping over their own feet get to you? get to you? get to you?
But if I cannot seem to tell you what I mean, maybe I'll bring you a photo album that you might open up and understand one day then, one day then, one day then.
I keep trying to write a song on my notepad hoping that tumbling code notes become music notes but then it comes to me, like a demon - brain fog. brain fog. brain fog.
I keep trying to go with three-times refrains hoping that this Vocaloid-inspired ear worm will become a Muse-dragon, but no - brain fog. brain fog. brain fog.
I keep coming back to the Worst Poem thread because I'm too afraid of what my best poem could possibly be, tossing and turning in brain fog. brain fog. brain fog.
everytime i look into space wondering i see Orions Belt, and i just can't help but ponder why he tossed it aside like that. it's a shiny belt- a priceless belt a splendor to be beheld. why if i had a belt like that outerspace would be the last place i'd put it- even if it was already out of this world. So dear Orion wherever you are i hope you learn to count the stars- or perhaps just your blessings.
it's just a suggestion, y'know? that maybe just maybe, poets should stop trying to control the world through words, wild, wild, words -- that run helter-skelter like so many things that run helter-skelter. your grandmother's dandelion seeds, your father's stamp collection all blowing all flying in the wind, yes, words run wild, and only a child would try to catch them and bend them to their purpose. so don't break your fingers on words, don't make paper planes out of dictionaries, don't pass go and collect three hundred dollars and importantly, don't tell people what to do.
I'd love to write a metered poem, true, but ah, archaisms - I am afraid of you! Ambition is my middle name, and I wish I could reinvent your vibes anew.
im my dreams i see a man with no face i bring my paint set and draw in his features. in my dreams i met a freddy kruger a poorly painted face a background of horrer in my dreams (which are actually nightmares) i am a bad artist.
I was eleven years old and I'd lost my mother, and my soul. And the crucible gave me you.
Dear poet... I can’t help but know’it You can’t help but show’it That you’re not a poet You think you’re a know’it... (all) You think you can glow’it... (up) But you just explode’it The words that you show’it When you try to do poems.
she/her
woah i actually made a post pretty radical if you ask me
the ice is too cold metaphorically i mean that you can never drive further south once you've reached the ocean because cars can't swim
but let's stick with the ice metaphor for a moment cold is relative, there is no such thing as "too cold" except in comparison so I guess you could call it a figure of speech or a metaphor.
ice is too cold {metaphorically speaking} but it doesn't make sense to speak of it any other way, so we settle with words and drive straight into the ocean but leave the car-heat on because the water's too cold to swim and the ice-caps are melting and in the end words are futile {that's also a metaphor}.
you should know i am a time traveler & there is no season as achingly temporary as now
it's hard to stay sane when your brain is pain. i assume you say 'sane'? when there is no pain? it's hard to know sane! using words is a pain, when you want to speak sane, assuming things means pain. but how can i speak sane when harangued by pain in my brain? where my sane is located? my pain is your sane, my sane, your pain.
Now I realize that there is no righteous path, it’s just people trying to do their best in a world where it is far too easy to do your worst. — Castiel
