#poemception

Poetry is a conversation.

Between me and you?

No, between a poet and everyone.

But not everyone reads poetry.

It still affects them.

Our conversation could be a poem.

There’s no rhymes here.

Not all poetry rhymes.

Is there a deeper meaning then?

Maybe, it could be that we

Should all have conversations,

With strangers and build friendships.

Poetry is a conversation starter,

And it allows us to sympathise,

What god gave me you?

You cannot give

someone like me

Something like this.

I will choke

like a starving man on food.

It must have been you

Who asked me, pre mortally

To find you here.

Had anyone else asked

I would have said

"It will hurt too badly

To hold so much love

In a human body."

But I am so glad

That I would do anything

You ask of me.

Because I got to meet you

As if we were strangers

I got to fall in love again.

I got to spend

an extra lifetime

The first line is where you make your statement.

It's the most important part- you don't draw people in with a poorly written introduction.

Only punctuate if necessary

or, if you really want to.

After that, it's easier to just

let the words flow out until you have something

that vaguely resembles a stream of consciousness

and you end up talking about that thing you saw last week

or that guy you saw at the dollar store

until you decide to break your tangent and

Quick cut to the real purpose of the poem.

Short

sweet

to the point

sometimes, repetition works

sometimes, repetition doesn't.

You're the author, you decide.

You ask the questions, or answer them.

End it wherever you like. 

Even here.

Or here.

Or here.

You can enunciate, use rhythm

to draw

out your 

poem or prose

oryoucantypelikethis

or  even  give  yourself  some  space.

The last bit usually ties in to the beginning-

make a statement, and make it loud. 

endings have to be eye catching, or striking, or interesting

but most importantly, they have to end.

sometimes i wonder

if words hide beneath my skin

and snake through my veins

breathing light into my fingertips

and exhaling something real onto the page

i often write on paper

before i type my poems up 

so i can feel them 

instead of watching letters pop onto the screen

it feels more real to move my wrist across a new page

and let ink stain my palms

until i have something new

something that no one has ever seen before 

something that's special that i can hold onto

and the more i read the more i see

that the words i write are a part of me

and every word somebody reads 

is a little piece of me that they can view

a look into my life, my fears, my dreams, my worries

and it strikes me that it's funny

because though i'd never say these words in person

or out loud even when i'm on my own

that i can speak them to a mass of people

who i may not know at all

and breathe my story into theirs

and that my life could be a part of someone else's

i didn't wake one day and know that i could write 

it crept upon me like the shadows of the evening

and i felt like a flood of everything i never knew how to say

came to life 

i always feared that i would be alone and misunderstood

but in these words i have hope

that somewhere someone takes joy

in the gift i try to give you all

that is my fingers' pride 

I have no money to donate, no paintings to show

I only have the words from my head

i write because i am, and i am what i write

and words are stronger than the loudest silence

so as long as i can form thought

and weave stories from threads of sentences

“It is time to write,” she says I open a new Word Document. A blank sheet. My mind does not want to write an essay. I write in verse and chopped lines not straight paragraphs that drone on and on about William Faulkner and his acceptance speech. My mind, it drifts off and thinks in flowery words, much too flowery for an essay. My fingers start typing and words appear on the screen. Enter. Type, type, type. Enter. Type, type, type. Enter. My thoughts appear in verse and William Faulkner goes unnoticed. How many times have I written about the whirlwind of a storm inside my mind instead of whether or not cohabitation is a good thing or speeches about equal access and the themes in Harper Lee’s To Kill a Mockingbird? How many times have I given into my urge to write and relieve my brain of the pressure that gets built up instead of writing things that will earn me a grade? The answer is often.

The grade, Just a number The conceptions? Just words What I write in procrastination? Everything that bleeds from my heart. The low grade I received on my speech because I couldn’t be bothered to write about horrid subjects when my soul yearned for something greater? Worth it. 

kyozumii

you message to me

for a poem

so here goes one

that is about

giving you a poem

Is there anything more frightening Than seeing yourself fall?  That fear you feel  When your foot slips on a stair Or a bike pedal?

Yes

Seeing yourself fall For someone else's smile And an internal switch goes from "Wow, this kid is a sweetheart," to "Ass over teakettle for

This boy"

It's in the little things Sharing a pot of tea Watching old movies Hanging on to every hug and smile Each one

Makes me happy