I don’t know poetry as i claim
That means i don’t know poetry & that’s a shame
That i let you call me poet
When i can’t defend the title yet.
They say it starts from a little…
Until little litters the place.
We throw words at people
They end up catching at the base.
When definition is a lie
To memorize a couplet takes an extra try.
Writing becomes a trouble
When your muse forgets to call.
We hide behind the licenses
When we can’t control the wheel
And we try to heal the future wounds
When the past still wears a stitch.
We write, we confuse it
We try to keep up, so we abuse it.
It makes sense to us so the reader shouldn’t know
Then we wonder why we plant the words but the seeds in the people never grow. -Leon
I don’t know things like i ought to
Grinding hard to see that i spew
Words that will register in minds
Like cuffs on wrist binds
But all i see in the poet’s tree
Is a way to set my spirit free
I like to pen my thoughts on paper
Those that graze it like a scrapper
In the end i love the feeling
There’s nothing that much thrilling.
How can i write what i don’t know?
From where do these words flow?
I constantly feel the turbulence rise
Higher it goes, touching the skies
Only to return gentle and calm
Nature’s soothing balm
My treasure is my wealth
In sickness or in health
I always manage a line
Sometimes finer than fine
Poetry of mine.- Vera
Sometimes I wonder why
I am frazzled
By this so called art
That doesn’t don’t dazzle the minds
Let me sit and pretend like a Juliet
Poetry really isn’t a testified piece
Until it’s hinged on walls in gallery fees
Simile smiles like a retarded radio
Banging and hitting till clear signal comes on
Tanka tyburn tercet made tears
Syllables counting written blindly
How can poetry possibly play pun in this society filled with parables, paradoxical patriarchs.
Am I ‘hyperbolising?’ It’s a rhetorical question
Rum-words, sonnet, quatrain to seat in the house of Shakespeare
Have you heard of an ode.
Sure it praised it’s metal strings to your ‘synaesthesic’ sarcasm
Oi Oi Oi onomatopoeia is my loving figures I speech.
Diary of a drunk poet who can’t write poems I read. – Rachel Charles
These are musky waters
Shall i dive into watery words?
Or float on seas of ironies and speech?
i may never navigate these,
Ripples and depths of words unending.
On Shakespearean tides i drift
Where intricate yet thick words ruled
My muse yet again aroused
By odes and bards
Written from Avon…
Adrift to my age
Simplicity weaved with depth
Words of no weight,
Of no depth some cry
Yet they pierce the thoughts
Curious! I ask the machine god
Answers of million scrolls appear
The art of words from near and far
Forms from different clans of earth
Alas my eyes have not seen it all…-Omolola
I know you well
the curves, the many edges
the curse, the reckless miracles
Seraphim by nightfall!
Dawn and the showers of gold dust!
you come, you go,
You taunt you lure…
I know you, giver and taker!
You grind my soul
beneath metal boots
you cast my bones in slabs of concrete!
I swear, I do not know what you want from me!
What you will of me!
I know her only by her fragrance!
By her desperate need and ceaseless whispers.
I never said i do!
Never dreamed to know of anything more…
Poetry Falling in place like pottery
Moulding evolving thoughts
My mind is in mockery
Falling like a haze of rain during drought
Is it so much in bits
A dead rhyme I can’t hit
With my recitations still stacked up in my Teeth
Let me lay and say something gibberish
Still my ink in this page
My metaphors taste like am Irish
Different metaphorical thoughts in my age
My thoughts so shallow
Yet to others so halo
Am so sleepy in this poems hollow
Great men speak
A little girl like me, all I do is pick
Switching between you like diapers
If I was a poet
I’d make more sense in my sayings
But just like am shady in my doings
I may have fallen
Not the greatest in my time
But a trail I left to be taken. Hypermind