(no subject)
Writing poetry is fun
Holding a pen in my hand, I try in vain to gather my thoughts,
Words pour out onto the paper, jumbled, confusing, messy.
So many things I need to share, but no idea how.
Writer’s block; we’ve all had it, at one point or another.
Our words are stuck inside our minds
Struggling to get out, but only existing in broken fragments
That can only exist in poetry.
Nonsense stanzas, strung together in rhythmic lines
All trying to convey a message only half understood,
By even myself.
So much wanting to be explained, but the words are falling over themselves.
Struggling to be the ones put onto paper,
Fighting with each other, causing only more confusion.
Staring at a blank paper, willing it to write itself.
You weren’t given a direction,
No particular place to go,
And so you’re lost.
Writer’s block.
We’ve all had it.
At one point.
Or another.
You’re not alone.
There are some moments you need to write.
Moments where if you can’t get it out, your mind will explode.
Collapse in upon itself, though unchanged to the outside world.
That’s me, right now.
Everything is wrong, and everything is right
All at the same time,
And all I need is some organization,
But it seems impossible.
I just want to write it down,
Have that feeling that I’m giving it to someone else.
Once I write it down, the paper takes over.
Consumes my problems,
And takes my burdens onto its own willowy shoulders.
The paper becomes my mentor.
But it doesn’t judge me, or give me its opinion.
And in the future it doesn’t use my secrets as its personal weapon.
I can confide my thoughts into the lines,
and the words soak in.
Staining the blue lines with ink and tears.
There are some moments you need to write.
Holding a pen in my hand, I try in vain to gather my thoughts,
Words pour out onto the paper, jumbled, confusing, messy.
So many things I need to share, but no idea how.
Writer’s block; we’ve all had it, at one point or another.
Our words are stuck inside our minds
Struggling to get out, but only existing in broken fragments
That can only exist in poetry.
Nonsense stanzas, strung together in rhythmic lines
All trying to convey a message only half understood,
By even myself.
So much wanting to be explained, but the words are falling over themselves.
Struggling to be the ones put onto paper,
Fighting with each other, causing only more confusion.
Staring at a blank paper, willing it to write itself.
You weren’t given a direction,
No particular place to go,
And so you’re lost.
Writer’s block.
We’ve all had it.
At one point.
Or another.
You’re not alone.
There are some moments you need to write.
Moments where if you can’t get it out, your mind will explode.
Collapse in upon itself, though unchanged to the outside world.
That’s me, right now.
Everything is wrong, and everything is right
All at the same time,
And all I need is some organization,
But it seems impossible.
I just want to write it down,
Have that feeling that I’m giving it to someone else.
Once I write it down, the paper takes over.
Consumes my problems,
And takes my burdens onto its own willowy shoulders.
The paper becomes my mentor.
But it doesn’t judge me, or give me its opinion.
And in the future it doesn’t use my secrets as its personal weapon.
I can confide my thoughts into the lines,
and the words soak in.
Staining the blue lines with ink and tears.
There are some moments you need to write.