When is the poem
More form than thought?
Complicated rules
To dictate the way that
Words are written on the page.
The poet’s soul
Should not be limited
By the meter and the rhyme.
Writing poetry is
Freely bleeding on the page,
And choosing rules
Part of the time.
Tears of ink
In poetry form,
Cried until the poet
No longer has tears left
With which to write.
Then what should the poet do?
Pluck out the heart and
Serve it dry?
Writing poetry is
Just another art
Pick up the pen
And bleed the
Colors of your heart.
Your soul will be
Painted in your verse,
Clear and consise
In flowing words.
If writing poetry
Was all that I could do
Perhaps I would find
That I would find
Moments of bliss
Written in the verse.
Achieving happiness is often
So much of a wishful thinking
That when we stop to try
We often forget to do
What is needed to be done.
I think that for me
Writing verse
Might be the way
To find the happiness
I seek.
Putting the words
To the page
In an eye pleasing way
Is not all that poetry is,
Sometimes it is more
About ripping up
Your soul and placing
The pieces whole
In a way that tells
The story properly.
The poetry that doesn’t
Move poet nor reader
Was not written well.
In putting the pen
To the paper
I may be committing
The darkest of sins,
For bleeding poetry
Is acknowledging
That the world
Yet can be used
To hurt the soul again.
It is not about the words,
The rhythm, or the verse,
It is merely about the truth
That only poetry can be
Made to let loose.
verse to ease a mind in chaos
written down in rhythm rehearsed.
poetic bent strengthened by
the age old desire to live eternal
as the moment lives.
so up goes the pen
to write the verse,
poetry makes sense…
for where else could
eternity possibly exist?
Though lifting the pen
To bleed on the page
Seems like a gift,
A talent given,
I would argue that
There are days
When writing poetry
Feels like madness leaking
Outward from my head.
Rhythm and rhyme
Pulsing in time
To how broken
My heart is.
Pattimouse 